by L. L. Muir
“Too good for it? Snobs or cowards? Make up your mind. You can't have it both ways.” She folded her arms, ignoring the coffee dripping everywhere. “Don't much like the sound of it, though, do you? Coward. Does it leave a bad taste in your mouth?”
“Don't.” Jamison looked at his granddad's door and grabbed Skye's arm, dragging her down the hall and into a consultation room.
“Tell me, Mr. Shaw.” She tore her arm free and backed away. “What happened back in Texas that makes your nose turn up like that? Is it because you can smell yellow?”
He took a quick step and she scurried around a chair, to put it between them.
“Did you sit by and let someone drag a friend away? Did you try to save him? Or did you hide on top of a tree house and keep your mouth shut?”
The verbal slap shocked him, left him swaying from the impact. He leaned a knee against a table.
She thought he was a coward? After all they'd been through in the last week, hadn't he proven he wasn't one? He'd tried to make up for that night, for letting them take his friends away. He'd done everything he could think of to find out what had happened, to stand up to the Somerleds and call them murderers when he didn't know what might happen to him, whether or not the sheriff would pat him on the head and walk away. He'd made the tape, in case something happened to him. He'd committed all kinds of crimes taking Skye hostage to get the truth. He'd taken her to the other Ranch, stood up to whatever they had in store in order to get her away from there.
But maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe he'd never be able to put Texas behind. Maybe the blood on his hands would never wash away. He knew there were unforgiveable sins. Maybe cowardice was one of them.
A cold tear dripped down his cheek and leapt off. Then another.
The angel knew him for what he was. Hopefully she wouldn't say anything to his granddad. If the man could just remember him as a good boy who once gave him a nice afternoon ride in a pickup truck, he'd settle for that.
“Skye, please.” He reached out to her, and when she frowned at his hand, he dropped it. “Please don't say anything to my granddad about Texas. I never told him anything and I don't want him to worry now. He shouldn’t waste his strength on pointless crap, you know?”
“Just tell me Jamison. Let me help you get through this before I have to leave for good. I've still got time to help you, if you'll just tell me what happened.”
He wanted to sit with her, on the couch, lay his head on her lap and tell her all of it. But she’d changed. She was no longer the girl who’d comforted him that night in her car. She wasn’t the girl he’d kissed. She was only a spirit.
A spirit.
Would telling her what had happened hurt anything? Writing it down, in the essay for Mr. Evans, had made him feel a little better. Maybe saying it out loud would be better still.
He wanted to get out of there, to go where she couldn’t look at him. But he wanted to get it out, so there was nothing left unsaid between them.
He’d just tell her quickly and go.
“Not much happened that you haven't already guessed, I'm afraid. A kid was shot. No, not just a kid...he was my friend. Brody.” He hadn’t said the name for years. “We were just playing basketball at the park. It was still light enough to see the hoop, but barely. We should have just gone home.”
Skye walked around the chair and sat down in it. He couldn’t sit. He needed to be close to the door, just in case.
“We heard a shot. I saw Brody start to go down in front of me. I was hoping he just collapsed ‘cause he was scared, you know? Like he was ducking. But then blood started seeping out of his back and onto my jeans.”
He remembered the stain, wondering how he’d get it out before his mom saw.
“It just kept coming. I couldn't do anything to stop it.” He looked at Skye. “Who knew you couldn't live without blood? It's like a glass isn't a glass if it's empty, you know? Why is that? Why do we stop being just because we've spilled?”
He turned his back on her, checked the distance to the door again. There was nothing blocking his way. He’d never said the rest out loud and he had to keep the exit clear, in case he needed it. The room was teeny. What had he been thinking?
He faced Skye again and sat on the edge of the table where he could see both her and the door. She was the danger now. He was handing her a knife she might decide to put through his heart. But he forced himself to keep going—to test her, and himself.
“Brody shook, before he died, like he was cold. I couldn’t make him warm. I wasn't paying attention to anything else, see? Then there were three guys standing there. I knew them, too. The one with the gun raised it, like he was going to shoot me, but another one said, “Don't bother with The Ghost, man. He ain't worth no bullet. He won't squeal, neither. I know his momma, and he knows what I'll do with her if he talks. Ain't that right, Ghost?”
It was if the kid’s voice had come out of him, and he wanted to throw up until the taste and feel of it was gone.
“And you didn't talk.”
“I didn't talk. Even when Brody’s mother looked into my eyes and asked me who killed her son, I told her I didn't know. I told the cops I didn't know. I told my mom...I was very convincing for a thirteen year old.”
“Why did he call you Ghost?”
“When we moved there, I didn't want to make friends. I was just killing time, waiting to move home again. I tried to blend in and not be noticed. Some idiot called me a ghost once, and it stuck.”
“Could have been worse, I guess.”
“Yeah. Granddad went to school with a kid named Stinky Cunningham. After a while no one remembered what his real name was.”
“So you didn't tell anyone.” She brought him back to the subject.
His eyes felt puffy, dry. He blinked a lot.
“No, I didn't tell anyone. Fear and hide, that's me.”
“I'm sorry about what I said, about you hiding on the tree house. I wanted to push you, see if you could get Texas out in the open. I didn’t touch your memories, I promise.”
“Is that what you were doing? I thought you just wanted to remind me that I'm a coward and I've ruined your...life.”
“You're not, and you haven't ruined anything. You didn't fear and hide in Texas; you feared and protected. There is a big difference. Lost Horizon is not the only book ever written on the subject, you know. The only thing you were wrong about, besides thinking we were murderers, was thinking we are all either hiders or fighters.”
***
With his mom still at the hospital there was only one place Jamison could stand to go. The tree house.
And when he got up inside, he didn't think about anything that had happened up there since he'd moved back to Flat Springs. He went inside his head, opened up what was left of the box he kept his treasures and secrets in, and sifted through the days when his granddad had helped him make the tree house his own.
There had been so few gray hairs then. The famous T-shirt was new and legible—”God answers a Scotsman's prayers, the rest of ye are on ye're own.” He and Grandma had giggled over that for days. She'd had it made along with two others that read, “A Scotsman has God’s ear, so don’t piss me off,” and “Gaelic is spoken in Heaven, English in Hell.”
Jamison rolled himself up in the Indian blanket, closed his eyes, and took that last ride with his granddad, over and over again. They’d talked about Grandma and the scones they would never taste again, the things Jamison’s mom did just like her.
Granddad had lived a good life, except for the lonely years at the end. He’d loved a good woman and she’d loved him back. Even now, in the coma he’d slipped into before Jamison and Skye had left the hospital, he was probably dreaming of a walk in some misty Scottish glen with his sweetheart.
Dreaming. Wishing. Praying.
He’d forgotten to ask Skye what his granddad had prayed for. Maybe he was ready to handle it now, whatever it was. First thing in the morning, he was going to ask her. Then he’d go to the hospital and tell
Granddad it was all right if he stopped fighting, that he shouldn’t suffer any longer just for a selfish grandson.
Wind combed steadily through the branches and rocked him to sleep, and he dreamt of plaid wool blankets and sweet warm scones. Like music in the background of his dreams he heard the rustling of dry cornstalks...
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Skye donned her ceremonial garb, then looked at the clock on the wall. 2:45. Almost time.
Kenneth Jamison would never wake from his coma. He had the peace he’d prayed for. Her assignment was finished and she needed to get out of Flat Springs in the fastest bandaid-ripping mode available.
She’d made her choice. She’d stick to The Agreement. After all, if she couldn’t have a life with Jamison, no other life could tempt her to reach for the golden ring Lanny insisted was waiting for her. And she couldn’t very well face him again; not because she might be tempted to change her mind, but because she’d just proven to him that he’d never been the coward he’d believed himself to be. How could she possibly look him in the eye when, of her own free will, she was choosing the cowardly way out?
Coming home from the hospital she’d been happy to see the weight of so many guilty years lift from his shoulders as he forgave the thirteen-year-old he’d once been. He would also forgive his mother because he’d promised his granddad, and Jamison Shaw kept promises. He and Lori could help each other now.
Kenneth would be gone soon and young Jamison would need a real shoulder to cry on, not hers.
“Are you ready, Skye?” Jonathan poked his dark messy head around her bedroom door then walked in and closed it behind him. “It’s nearly three, but I wanted to speak to you just a moment.”
Skye smiled. She’d miss Jonathan, miss his quick readings of her thoughts. They could work side by side for hours and never need to speak. He was a comfortable soul to have about, unless you were trying to hide something. But she was done with all that.
Or was she? The look on her friend’s face told her otherwise.
“What is it, Skye? What happened that makes you hurry to leave here?” Jonathan took her shoulders in hand and made her face him.
“It’s been a difficult assignment, that’s all.”
“Wasn’t difficult until the boy moved in.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me about it.”
“It’s over, isn’t it? You can’t interfere with the past, correct?” He let her go.
“Correct. To answer your question, I don’t know what happened. I suppose I fell in love with him. And I suppose you already knew it.”
“I did. Surprising, isn’t it? That you were able to do so?”
“Yes. Surprising.”
“And it pains you now to leave him.”
“Yes. But loving someone makes it easy to do what is best for them.” She folded her white scarf and laid it aside.
“You hope so. You are not so sure.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“What other alternative is there?”
Her smile faltered for only a second.
“Have you ever heard of a Somerled called Lanny?”
“I have. She is not far. We deal with a man named Buchanan from her ranch. One day I’d like to see it. He told us it is magnificent.”
“It is.”
Jonathan looked genuinely surprised.
“And yet you returned. I’ve been warned that many do not, though I’ve not been told why.”
“She is a Primary. She knows things I’d never been told.”
“A Primary. Interesting.”
“You should go there, Jonathan. When your duty is finished, of course. Go. Before you have your farewell. Everyone should. Her Place of Perfection is a sight to see.”
She hugged him before he could ask her any more, then she left her room for the final time.
One foot in front of the other. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.
She stepped out onto the back porch and looked up toward Kenneth’s windbreak. Jamison was in the tree house. Asleep. It was a lovely gift to have him so close, and just as nice to have him unaware.
Heel, toe. Heel, toe.
The air caressed her face and played with her hair, catching it on the cornstalks, tugging, teasing, reminded her of the sensations she’d recently wished for.
Moments away. Only moments now. Home.
Surely there would be someone there who would comfort her before she was expected to go on. Surely she would be allowed to rest, to remember, to understand.
Only steps away from Home.
The circle was none so wide as it had been for Marcus. The community was large of course, but Somerleds had come from great distances for their former leader. Seven or eight years at one leadership post was standard and in that time he’d worked among many.
The circle was only half so big, but it was full of smiling souls who had been her friends—none so close as Jonathan and Lucas, who had lived with her in the big house more than three years—but they squeezed her hands and wished her Godspeed.
Jonathan was last. He hugged her and lifted her easily into the air where he swung her in circle after circle.
She laughed. Of course he would miss her and watch for her—if he still remembered—hoping their paths would cross again, but he needn’t say so. It was all in his laughing eyes, lit by unworldly lights.
He put her down and opened his arms wide toward the center.
Step. Step. Step.
“Be happy, Jamison,” she whispered. Facing the tree house, instead of Jonathan, she took her place and held out her arms.
She winced when the voices started.
***
Jamison’s happy dream was invaded by the sound of Skye’s laughter. That first day, in the school parking lot, that button he’d wished for, to make her laugh again—someone was pushing it! He sat up, suddenly alert, and wondered at the time he’d wasted harassing her instead of making her laugh.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again. With every bit of time he had left with her, he’d make her laugh; hopefully those moments would make the less pleasant ones fade. They’d go to the hospital and make Granddad laugh as much as he could stand.
With every bit of time left.
When Granddad dies, she’ll be leaving!
No matter how hard he tried to look at both tragedies as separate, they smeared together into one giant ball of dread. And after being crammed into his strongbox, over and over again, those thoughts had wiggled out of their cramped quarters and now danced in his head like mimes, warning him to wake up and pay attention.
He was awake, fully awake, and his attention was drawn to the smelly wood covering the window. It couldn’t be morning, but there were lights winking between the slats. And someone was singing, badly!
They were having one of their Exploding-Man Ceremonies he’d talked about on the recording, about the night that had been wiped from his memory! And if they were sending someone off—
“Skye!”
He stood and banged against the wood. He’d done too good a job nailing it down. No use.
What had he said on the tape? It was all over, right after the singing?!
Too dark to see anything inside, he lunged for the drop door and fumbled with the latch. Thank goodness he hadn’t felt the need to use the bolt.
No time!
He dropped onto the fork in the trunk and nearly lost his balance, but caught himself.
There, in the field, a crop circle like he’d expected. A figure stood in the center, but with his eyes still blurred with sleep, he couldn’t tell who it was.
The singing improved. What did that mean?
The figure in the center began to move. No, it was rising. In the air!
“Noooo!” His voice broke. “Noooo!” he screamed again. “Stop! I’m coming down!” He didn’t dare wait to see if they’d heard him. He had to get to the field, had to get the hell out of that tree.
He had to be in time. He had to!
Please, God, don’t let them blow her up! Don’t take her! Please!
He remembered what she’d thought the other night when he’d brought out the ropes. She thought they were going to swing over the fence.
He’d use the rope and pulley to get up in the tree hours ago, with the weighted pallet as a counter-balance. Now, with the pallet on the ground and the end of the rope in his hand, he jumped back off the branch. The pallet’s weight jarred the rope, but it lifted off the ground.
Jamison swung like Bloody-freaking-Tarzan over the fence, and as if it were a tire swing over a familiar swimming hole, he let go of the rope at just the right moment and went sailing out over the corn. Too bad his legs didn’t stay under him.
He landed on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. His spine might have been broken but he didn’t stop to check. He just rolled to his side and kept moving while he waited for his lungs to inflate.
Where were the lights?
He looked back to the tree house to guess the direction and veered to the right. Air came back with a vengeance and he felt like he was swallowing a giant, painful bubble of it. Still, there was no time to recover.
“Skye!” Shouting helped a bit. In. Out. In, again. “Skye! Please, God, help me!” In, again. Stop and breathe. No! Don’t stop!
“Young Jamison, you surprise me. Again.” Lucas stood next to him in a gap between rows, his displeasure visible from the light emanating from the ground beneath him. “Seems you and I have stood in this field together once before. Do you remember?”
Was that a threat in his voice, or just curiosity?
He didn’t care.
“What have you done with Skye?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You continually accuse us of losing people. It’s getting tiresome.” Lucas grabbed Jamison’s arm and hauled him to the left.
“Where is she?” Jamison softened his voice and clung to the big man’s white sleeve. “Please, Lucas. Help me. She can’t be gone. She can’t!”
“I’m not allowed to interfere.”
“Just point me in the right direction.”
Lucas tilted his head back and Jamison’s heart stopped mid-beat. No! Not up!
