The Vestige

by Caroline George

  “There are restricted waters ahead,” Jon says when he emerges from the cabin with his Marine Corps baseball cap twisted backward. He plops down next to me and offers a can of orange soda.

  “Restricted waters?”

  “Yeah, Feds are stationed out there twenty-four-seven. Don’t know why.” He gulps his drink and gestures to the endless stretch of ocean. “What do you think of your surprise?”

  “It’s perfect. You’re like … the best brother ever.”

  “Yep. In all of history.” He squirts me with sunscreen and laughs when I punch his arm. “Sorry I didn’t call you last week. My superiors confiscated my squad’s communication privileges.”

  “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” I lie on my stomach and open the can of soda. It fizzes—sweet, citrus, and ice cold. “Did you rent this boat?”

  “I bought it.”

  “You what? Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. I named her Jule of the Sea, after you.”

  “That’s incredible … a tad cheesy, but incredible. Thanks.”

  “You know how to sail. If I’m gone and you want to get on the water, you can.” He grabs my hand and squeezes it tight. “Okay. Time for a big bro lesson. Listen close. We are where we are. What matters is where we go next. Take my advice. Move forward. It’ll save you a lot of trouble.”

  “Jon, what in the…?”

  “Shush. I’m not done.” He drapes an arm over my shoulders. His voice heaves with laughter, but his eyes are dead serious. “Life is a constant battle, an unceasing war that sometimes keeps us alive and sometimes threatens to destroy us. Don’t give up, no matter what happens.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “There’s no need to worry. You’re safe.” He chugs what remains of his soda. “Enjoy the time you have here. Your life doesn’t suck.”

  “Has the sun fried your brain? What do you mean?”

  “We are like boats against the current, struggling to sail forward. If we never recognize the downstream, will we recognize the current? Or will we continue to struggle without knowledge of the struggle? Ignorance is only bliss for a short amount of time. Sooner or later, our stupidity will kill us.” He’s messing with me. Why else would he be so random?

  “Shut up, Jon.” I laugh and climb to my feet. “I’ll get more drinks.”

  A huge wave crashes against portside when I enter the boat’s cabin. Spinning. Falling. Head hits the linoleum floor. Vision blurs. I slide into the set of bunk beds. Ropes tumble from the rafters above and slam onto my stomach. Pain, lots of it, pulses through my body. Ouch.

  “Jules, are you all right?” Jon’s voice emerges from the ringing.

  “Yeah.” Not really. “I might be paralyzed.”

  “Okay. I’ll push you around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from your mouth.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I drag myself to where his backpack lies, in the room’s center. Its contents are spilled and scattered. Sunscreen, granola bar, an extra pair of shorts—I stuff the items into the bag. Then, something cold brushes against my hand. Concealed within a striped towel is a military-issued, G30S Glock. Why is Jon toting a gun while he’s on leave?

  Wrinkled maps of the United States are also in the towel. They’re different from those I studied in school. The country has been colored black with markers, streaked with unexplainable lines and severed by various mathematical equations and coordinates. A large, red circle encompasses Georgia, South Carolina, parts of North Carolina and Tennessee. The word Severance is written at the top of each page, scribbled neatly in Jon’s handwriting. Maybe this is the vestige of a past assignment, a secret operation.

  Maybe nothing is wrong.

  I place his backpack on the table and hurry out of the cabin. Endless ocean, blazing sunlight, a cloudless sky—the world isn’t complicated.

  Everything is okay.

  Jon lowers the sails and tosses an anchor over the rail. “We’ve reached a sandbar, Jules. The water is so clear.” He tilts his head and grins. “You’re looking at me weird. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m good.”

  “There are a ton of seashells. Come look.”

  Sand dollars litter the ocean floor. Silver fish swim past them, oblivious to the treasure. In many ways, the scene is a metaphor. We dart through life without noticing the beauty that surrounds us.

  “Who’s ready for a swim?” Jon tosses me over his shoulder, ignoring my squeals, and throws me off the sailboat, into the sea. Waves drag me down, sting my eyes. I kick and claw toward the water’s surface. Sharks. Lots of teeth. Lovers of flailing limbs. Jon threw me to my death, didn’t he?

  I cough and suck in air. “You’re horrible.”

  Jon laughs. “Lighten up. You’re not going to be eaten.” He pulls off his t-shirt and cannonballs, splashing me. Together, we tread slow and steady. Gulls soar past. Waves rock us back and forth, handling our bodies as if they’re moored boats.

  “Promise me you’ll always come back.” Water ripples against my skin, warm, silk-soft and alive.

  “I can’t do that, Jules.” He slips underwater and comes up with his ginger hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re not made of porcelain. If life treats you bad, you won’t break.”

  “But I might crack a little.” He has to come back. I don’t know who I am without him. “Why do you think Dad felt the need to drink so much after Sybil died?”

  “All the stuff people do to themselves: drinking, cutting, drugs … it’s all the same thing, you know? Just a way to kill your memories without having to kill yourself. Dad murdered his pain with alcohol. Mom, with seclusion. It’s how they coped. Don’t follow in their footsteps. When you’re in pain, feel it. Accepting your lot is the only way you can heal.”

  “Okay, Mr. Wise Guy.” I splash him. “We’re stopping all morbid conversations, got it?”

  For the next hour, we swim laps around the sailboat and search the sandbar for seashells. The sun sets, transforming the sky into a neon display of pink and purple hues. Federal vessels dot the horizon along with something else. Like a mirage, there is a faint glimmer rising from the restricted waters. It resembles a wall of glass and flickers when it catches the sun’s final rays. Meteor shower. Gun in Jon’s backpack. Stack of maps—coordinates, ink blots, Severance. Life may be good, but it isn’t perfect.

  This world will never be perfect.

  Chapter Five

  “Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.”

  Winston S. Churchill

  It’s Saturday, the box I’ve had marked red in my planner for weeks, circled, crossed out, and labeled D-Day because I couldn’t decide on a single way to alert myself of the catastrophic, momentous battle I’d have to face at this moment. I sit on the curb outside of my house. Missy tugs at the wooden beads around her neck, silent. If I could, I’d reach through the veil of reality, grab her by the arm and drag her into the world I want for myself where she and Jack are small infinities I can sit back and admire. But goodbye can’t be stopped. It is a knife to my throat.

  Even the atmosphere seems to be holding its breath in wait of a tearful conclusion. The air is dense and sticks to us like mud. Mosquitoes hiss before sinking their needles into our supple flesh.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says. “My stuff is already in Columbia. It shouldn’t take me long to unpack. Once I’m settled, we can video-chat or something.”

  “Sure.” Snot drips from my nose like a leak in an old pipe. I clog it with a tissue, but then my eyes start watering, and I give up. No one is pretty when they cry.

  “We’ll see each other soon.” Missy embraces me. Alzheimer’s is killing her mom but it’s taking all of us. Why has God given us both a painful lot? Can’t we have one good thing for more than a few years? Loss—we’ll get used to it eventually, that familiar empty feeling, the starving yawn of something that can’t be salvaged. “It’s time for me to leave.”<
br />
  “Yeah. See you soon.”

  She moves toward her awaiting car but stops midstride. “Don’t forget. I am your go-to person, not that Sexpot guy. Understand?” When I nod, she slides into the driver’s seat and cranks the ignition. See you soon is worse than goodbye because my gut tells me she won’t be the same when I see her again. I’m going to lose a friend in someone else’s grave.

  Pain stirs within my chest, an agonizing ache, like being hit by a baseball bat. A few pills of ibuprofen or morphine won’t get rid of the discomfort. What can I do? Cry? Bury myself in bed and watch reruns of nineties sitcoms? Jon. He’ll fix me. He knows how to numb my hurt.

  “Jon, are you home?” I shout from the foyer. “Is anyone home?”

  Mom kicks open the door of her studio and smiles. Her curly, unkempt hair explodes from her tie-dyed bandana like a bushel of Spanish moss. “He went to the grocery store with your dad, sweetie. They’ll be back soon. Anything wrong?”

  “No.” Yes. “I think I’ll go for a run. Jon will probably be home when I get back.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Mom can’t handle more conflict. Once she knows about my problems, they become hers, too. It’s easier to pretend everything is okay because recognizing the flaws will only contaminate the false sense of security she’s built around herself.

  I change clothes and jog to the riverfront.

  Charleston Harbor reflects the sky’s monochrome hues. Squelching, humid heat consumes the coastal city like an invisible tsunami wave. I run along the Battery. Legs move. Ponytail swishes. Muscles burn. The more I sweat, the less I cry—maybe Missy’s departure will turn me into an athlete.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you.” Jack runs at my side, shirtless and soaked. His skin is tan from the sun and glistens with perspiration. “Nice day, huh?” Position him against a palmetto with his arms flexed, pants lowered to show the rim of his underwear, and he could be a model for Calvin Klein. Not fair. He’s flawlessly fit, and I’m red-faced and panting. Why are we friends? Pretty people like him were once on my avoid at all costs list.

  “You’re everywhere,” I huff.

  “I’m staying at an apartment a few blocks from here, remember?” Jack grins. “I run every day at this time.” He moves at my speed, refusing to let me gain distance.

  “Are you against wearing t-shirts?”

  “It’s freaking hot out here, Julie.” He laughs. His eyes ignite with a perusing spark. “I think you’re prettier without makeup. It’s the honest truth. I’m not flirting, I swear.”

  “Go away, Jack.”

  “What’s the matter?” He grabs my shoulder and forces me to stop. “Spill it, Stryker.”

  “Missy left this morning.” I articulate each syllable because a rift will betray my true feelings, but the words create a suffocating weight. I lean against my thighs and gasp for air. Tears spill. Sobs seize. I need to move. I need to sweat before I cry myself to death.

  Wet skin wraps around me like a blanket, followed by the musty, potent scent of body odor. Heat absorbs into my pores. His heat. His body, half bare, pressed against mine, hugging my waist. His hand strokes the back of my neck, timid as if I’m a museum statue with a do not touch sign. He holds my face in the crease of his chest, lips separated from his heart by flesh and bone. At any other moment, being this close to him would terrify me, but now it returns the ability to breathe. I squeeze him tight and cough on a sob when his cheek stubble scratches my left ear. Dangerous—I like touching his back, gliding my fingers across his shoulder blades, down his spine. Wrongful—I kiss his chest so lightly he probably doesn’t notice. Crossed line—is Jack as capable of fixing me as Jon?

  “I’m acting stupid, I know. Missy isn’t dead. We’ll see each other again. It’s just … you and Jon are leaving in a few days and without her here, I’m going to be alone. You have to understand. Middle school was awkward for me. I had a hobby that was different from everyone else’s. I spent my weekends writing instead of going to sleepovers. Braces, overweight, a fashion statement that consisted of zebra-print sneakers and Jon’s holey t-shirts—I was the epitome of awkward. Then, when I was in high school, I cried in the bathroom every day after lunch because of what people said about me. Missy was the first person who actually wanted to be my friend…”

  “Stop. You’re not an unwanted charity case. There are people who love you, Julie. Understand? You’re not alone. You will never be alone. Stop seeing yourself as the past and look at who you are now.” He releases his grip and creates space between us. “I’ve had my share of rejection, believe me, but we don’t have to be like everyone else. In fact, I don’t think we should. Rebel against society’s programmed, cookie-cutter crap. They all look the same and think the same. They’re freaking dead, but we’re not. We’re the Living, remember? In a world of zombies, we are alive and surviving.”

  “Crazy as it sounds, your speech makes sense.”

  “Yes, I’m a brilliant communicator.” He snickers and wipes the sweat from his eyes. Those vibrant, understanding, cobalt eyes. Even the inclination of losing them sends a chill through my chest. Jack reflects the person I wish to be, maybe who I am, and that person fits perfectly with him, the coffeehouse ex-sergeant from who-knows-where. How can I let go of the man who’s found a way to reach deep into my heart and change it for the better? Jon said I wouldn’t know what love is until I find it—I think this is love but found it at a horribly wrong time.

  “I should get home before Mom starts worrying.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I forget you’re still a kid.” He gives me a high-five and jogs ahead.

  Huh? A kid? Was he serious?

  Air-conditioned temperature washes the heat from my skin when I step into the entryway. Jon’s voice echoes from the kitchen. He sits at the antique table with our parents. Dad talks in a hushed tone. Mom covers her mouth with a napkin and sobs. What’s happening? Why wasn’t I involved?

  The floorboards creak as I tiptoe to the staircase. Conversation ceases. Jon turns in his chair and looks at me with bloodshot eyes.

  “Hey, Jules.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re talking about my deployment. I’ll tell you everything later.” He musters a smile and gives me an affirming nod. “Go upstairs and take a shower. You don’t want to be late for your shift.”

  Subtle way of getting rid of me, Jon.

  I bathe and change into a clean sundress, and then roll my bicycle out of the ivy-curtained alleyway and peddle in the direction of The Grindery.

  “Julie, we need to talk to you.” Dax and Philip confront me as I clean the grounds out of the portafilters. “We’d like to promote you to manager.”

  “Manager? Really?”

  “You’re the nicest barista we’ve ever hired. Don’t be timid when managing the other employees. They’ll walk over you if given the chance,” Philip says.

  “Other employees?”

  “Yes, we hired a few teenagers to replace Missy.”

  A spare tire stored in the back of Dax and Philip’s car, used whenever the better one rolls away—that’s what I am now, the spare manager. Missy was gone for a moment, replaced in an instant. Change is here. It’s as if the coffeehouse walls peel into oblivion, and my nostalgic snow globe shatters on the floor of time. Stop. Bring it all back. Rewind and let me repeat, relive.

  “Hi, I’d like a triple-shot of espresso to go. It’s been a long day, if you know what I mean.” Jack slumps against the counter, t-shirt pulled halfway down his chest, and grins.

  “Congratulations. You’ve officially earned stalker status.”

  “I can’t get enough of you, Julie. If you don’t have coffee with me soon, I might resort to waiting outside your house at night with a bouquet of flowers and singing ballads.”

  “Very funny.” That he’d sing to a kid.

  “This is for you.” Jack hands me a daffodil. “It’s a … make your day better gift.”

  “Did you steal this from my neig
hbor’s yard?”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t find anything I liked at the florist and … your neighbor has nice flowerbeds … and your dress had daffodils printed on the fabric the night you let me walk you home.” When the customers behind him complain, he steps out of line and peers over the espresso machine’s rim to watch me work. “You should tuck the flower behind your ear.”

  I slide the daffodil into my hair. “Happy?”

  “Very.” He laughs. It’s goofy and honest, the iconic type that turns people’s hearts to mush. I’ve heard it before, but it seems different now—he leans closer, tilts his head back further—as if this certain laugh is meant only for me. “You might find this funny. So I grabbed a to-go coffee before my run this morning and the kid barista asked for my name. Of course, I told him it’s Jack.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yeah. And he wrote the name Steve on my cup. No joke. He really thought my name was Steve. Now everyone here calls me Steve. That’s not even close to Jack, like, what the heck?”

  “I’ll talk to the newbies about clarifying customers’ names.” I hand him an espresso. His fingers brush mine. When will he stop shocking me? “You’re coming over for dinner, right, Steve?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He winks before strolling to his table by the window.

  In all friendships, there comes a time when each person debates whether or not they’re attracted to the other because secretly, everyone wants to fall in love with their best friend. I’m in the debate stage. Jack isn’t a love. He is a crush. Okay, good. Once the emotions fade, we’ll be besties launching origami trash airplanes and arguing about espresso roasts, attraction-free.

  “Hey, Julie Stryker, I like you more than coffee and Steve!”

  At least, I sure hope that’s the case with us.

  ****

  White towers peer over the treetops. Structures emerge—massive, meticulous fortresses constructed among pristine lawns. Another home. Another sameness. I peddle across the Citadel’s campus to the School of Humanities & Social Sciences and move through the maze of hallways to Dad’s office. Voices echo from within the room. Is he in a meeting? There’s one way to find out.