Guardian

by Natasha Deen

  “When you’re alive, they call it repression.”

  My eyebrows rose. I glanced at him.

  “I’m not as stupid as you think.”

  “I’m getting that.”

  “So, is it the same with the dead?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the dead one. Do you think you’re repressing or do you think you’re still transitioning from one plane to the other?”

  He shrugged, frustrated. “I don’t know. The only reason I can think of for lingering is my mom, but if there’s no way to get her to leave him, why am I here?”

  It was a good question and I wished I had the answer.

  When we got home, Serge went upstairs and disappeared into the bedroom. I went into the kitchen and called the police station.

  “Sheriff Machio.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey kid.” The pleasure in her voice dimmed as she said, “You’re not in any trouble are you? Everything’s okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Are you calling to come clean about your fixation with Serge?”

  Eek. Silence stretched as I vainly tried to think of an explanation.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I heard the humour in her voice and relaxed. “I was wondering…do you have a file on Serge’s parents?”

  “A file?” The line hummed with curiosity and suspicion. “What kind of file?”

  “I think”—I dropped my voice in case Serge heard—“his parents were beating him.”

  “Oh.”

  The hair on my skin prickled at her tone. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “What?” I tapped my fingers against the crackled finish of our ancient mustard-yellow telephone. “We’re like sisters—how can you not tell me.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  I could almost see her rolling her eyes.

  “When did that happen? Us being like sisters?”

  “Ever since—”

  “Ever since you wanted to use me for information.”

  “I love your cannoli,” I said softly. “And I dream about your lasagne.”

  She chuckled. “Nice try, sweet face, but it won’t work.” She took a breath. “I trust you and you know I love you, but these are department regulations.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “If they fire me, I won’t have any money to make you pasta.”

  She had me there. “Okay,” I sighed. “It was worth a try.”

  “Why do you care, anyway? I thought you’d be dancing on that creep’s grave.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I fiddled with the twisted phone cord. My fingers picked at the tangled mass, uncurling and uncramping the line, but as soon as I let go, it tangled in on itself again. “I guess…I guess I just feel bad for him. What sucky kind of life did you lead when your parents are anxious to erase you from existence?”

  Nancy’s sigh was heavy with compassion and weighed down by pity.

  “I know.” She paused. The silence went on. Then she said, “Sorry, kiddo, I can’t help you on this.”

  “Yeah,” I said, a smile spreading across my face as I realized who could help me. “Too bad.”

  “Gotta go. Be good.”

  I hung up and dialled Nell. “We need to see your aunt.”

  She hesitated. “Which one?”

  “Don’t be a moron. Debbie-Anne—your only aunt.”

  “I’m the moron? You want to go into the den of the drunk woman and I’m the moron?”

  “Functioning alcoholic.”

  “Lunatic.”

  “You gonna help? We could go tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Serge.”

  The line went dead. Nothing like mentioning the drama with a dead guy to get Nell’s attention and co-operation.

  Nell phoned at 6 AM the next morning.

  “Seriously?” My voice came out groggy. “You think your aunt’s even awake?”

  “We’ll wake her up.”

  “You think alcoholics enjoy that kind of thing?”

  Silence.

  “Oh my—are you thinking of an answer? It’s no! No, because she’ll take a bottle to our heads. We’ll go this afternoon.” I hung up the phone.

  Six hours later, the doorbell rang. “It’s 12:01,” said Nell. “Technically, it’s afternoon. Let’s go.”

  I jogged up the stairs and found Serge on the bed, pressed in between Ebony and Buddha. The theme music for Miami Vice pounded through the television speakers.

  He looked up. “Why can I work the television?”

  “It’s electrical.”

  He didn’t blink. “I said I’m not dumb. I never said I was smart.”

  “Energy is electricity. You can work the TV because it’s electrical and so are you.”

  “Why can’t people see me?”

  “They don’t want to.”

  The skin on his face tightened.

  “Not you personally, though I wouldn’t mind never seeing you again. In general, we think death is the end. So no one sees you because no one expects to see you.”

  “And why don’t I sink through the floor?”

  I moved to the closet and tossed on a red hoodie. “I’d love to continue this discussion, but Nell’s coming to get me.”

  He shut off the TV and wriggled off the bed. The bed sheets scrunched together.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as he pulled on his sneakers.

  “You said we’re going out with Nell.”

  “No, I’m going out with Nell. You’re watching television.”

  His white and black sneaker dropped to the floor with a thunk. “Are you kidding? You’re going to leave me?”

  Darn straight. “Yeah, unless you want to come and talk to her aunt about her hysterectomy.”

  “Holy crap.” His face scrunched together. He kicked off his left sneaker. “No thanks.”

  I shrugged. “I figured.”

  He flipped back on the TV.

  I turned to leave.

  “Hey…Maggie.”

  “Yeah?” I looked at him from over my right shoulder.

  “Why don’t I get hungry? If energy is energy, doesn’t it need to be replenished?”

  “You don’t have a body.”

  He blinked fast. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “We’ll figure it all out.”

  His shoulders went up and down. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  I stepped out. Looking back, I saw him rubbing Buddha’s head, his gaze unfocused, his expression lost.

  Nell and I headed to Debbie-Anne’s trailer. We pulled up the driveway, and Nell cut the engine.

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “Because,” I said, “I figure S—his parents beat him.”

  She glanced from the dark sky to me, the question in her eyes.

  “I think when I call his name it acts as a homing beacon and brings him to me.”

  “And you don’t want him to know what you’re doing.”

  I thought about the bright light and the semi, and shuddered as the memory pressed its cold lips against the back of my neck. “No, I really don’t.”

  “So…why crazy Aunt Debbie-Anne?”

  “Because Nancy will be fired if she gives out confidential information. Whereas—”

  “Debbie-Anne already lost her job and she’s a drunk, so it doesn’t really matter what she says.” Nell sighed and nodded.

  “You can stay in the car, if you want.”

  Shadows cast by the trees and lamplight rippled across the upholstery and dashboard. “No, it’s fine.” She glanced my way and gave me
a humourless smile. “Family’s family.”

  I squeezed her hand.

  “Lunatic,” she muttered. She yanked the key out of the ignition and hauled herself out of the car.

  I followed her up the crumbling steps of the porch to the doublewide.

  Nell took a deep breath, curled her fingers into a fist, and knocked on the door.

  Nothing.

  She tried again, louder.

  From inside, we heard the muffled sounds of Debbie-Anne careening down the hallway, thumping as she banged into the walls. A moment later, the door opened and she was staring at me.

  She blinked red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and said, “Eh? Maggie? Whaddya want?”

  “To talk.” I smiled and pushed past her.

  Nell followed. The strands of her hair swayed as she shook her head.

  “’Bout what?”

  “The Popovs.”

  Debbie-Anne’s lip curled back. “Poor bastard. Best thing that coulda happened to him was death.”

  Nell flinched.

  “I’m not saying it was good the way he died,” Debbie-Anne rasped, her voice ravaged from years of alcohol and cigarettes. “But that kid didn’t stand a chance.”

  My heart contracted and in a blink, Serge was in front of me.

  Oh, man.

  His head rotated in a slow semi-circle. “What am I doing here?”

  Debbie-Anne shuffled down the hallway, her ragged pink slippers sanded the dirt-crusted linoleum floor.

  Nell pulled me close. “Let’s get this done. The house smells like laundry left in the washer for too long.”

  I nodded.

  She let go and went to her aunt.

  I waited until both women were farther down. “Go home,” I whispered.

  “What am I doing here?”

  “Annoying me.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Obviously, I accidentally called you.”

  “Why?”

  Because pity is instinctive. “Who cares? Just go.”

  He shrugged. “Fine—”

  Debbie-Anne turned and yelled, “Whaddya want to know about the Popovs?”

  Red blotches obliterated the freckles from Serge’s face.

  Oh, boy.

  “This is what you’re doing here?” The words came quiet, venomous.

  I ignored him and went into the cramped living room. “You were a nurse at the hospital—did he ever come in as a kid?”

  She snorted and reached for a beer bottle, its amber glass slick with condensation. “When didn’t he come in?” She took a long pull of her drink and eyed me through the limp strands of hair that covered her eyes. “No kid’s that accident prone.”

  In my peripheral vision, small, bright flashes of light began to spark from Serge’s body. Thin and wispy, the purple, green, and pink tendrils shot skyward and burnt out, mid-flight. I moved away, putting the ripped green and brown striped couch between me and him, and asked, “What kind of injuries?”

  Her fingers played with the opening of the bottle. Then Debbie-Anne grasped it by the neck and swung the beer in a lazy circle. “The usual injuries: broken arm, broken leg—” She glanced at her lap. Her gaze swung up and impaled me. “Fingermarks on his right arm.”

  A fuzzy, red aura outlined Serge. His body began to hum, buzz.

  Trying to look casual, I edged into the corner.

  Nell frowned and cocked her head.

  I glanced at the hallway, then at Nell, and finally at the window she stood beside.

  Her frown deepened. She turned, eyed the window, then focused on the hallway. The lines on her forehead faded and she moved away from the glass.

  “He used to be a sweet kid.” Debbie-Anne sucked in her lower lip. Her eyelids fluttered.

  The smoky wisps of colour sparking off Serge’s body grew solid and took on the consistency of yarn. Their speed slowed, their trajectory smoothed until he looked like a sun, surrounded by the ever-changing colours of its rays.

  “Bubbly, bright.” Her watery eyes grew unfocused, her fingers stilled. “Then it all changed. He became sullen. Angry.” Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “Who could blame him?”

  The rays of colours retreated and melted into Serge’s red aura.

  “I did what I could—reported my concerns, tried to talk to the police.” Her lips curled back into a sneer. “But that was years ago—Dead Falls was so small we didn’t even have a town cop, just an RCMP guy who’d drive through.” Light returned to her eyes, barren and dim as a rocky moor. “You do what you can and when that fails”—her gaze lingered on the bottle in her hand—“you do what’s necessary. He didn’t come in after he turned ten. I tell myself that’s cause the bastard stopped using him as a punching bag.”

  The band of light that outlined Serge’s body began to turn in a clockwise rotation. The humming increased, a million angry wasps looking for a body to sting.

  My teeth began to vibrate. The hair on my skin rose. Oxygen rushed out of my lungs, leaving my muscles tight. “We should go, thanks.”

  “But I haven’t even told you about—”

  I glanced at Serge.

  He wasn’t there—mentally. His eyes had retreated leaving black holes. The empty sockets glistened like oil. His fingers, tightened into fists, hung straight and rigid at his side.

  I reached over, grabbed Nell’s hand. “That’s okay. We can talk later.” I took a breath and made my way to the front door.

  Nell kept pace, but I pushed her behind me. “Just in case, keep a few feet back,” I said quietly.

  “Maggie, oh my God.”

  I frowned and looked back, wondering why Nell’s voice seemed so far away.

  Light from Serge spread in a flashlight’s beam, wrapping her in a pale-white circle and casting a grey shadow that convulsed on the nicotine-stained walls. Her head twitched from side to side, her breath came out in rapid, shallow panting. Her hand lifted, slow, smooth, and she pointed…at me.

  Spreading my arms wide, I checked my body. My clothing rippled along my torso. The shirt twisted, turned, the cotton puffed as though a snake slithered underneath.

  Nell’s gaze lifted from my clothing and raised itself to my face.

  I ran my hands along my skin, feeling the heat radiating off my flesh. My hair felt as coarse as straw. I glanced at the wall and saw the shadow I cast. Strands of hair stuck out, slowly rippling in an invisible breeze.

  “Go back,” I told Nell, dropping my hands. “Get Debbie-Anne and get out through the other door.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Nell!”

  She gasped and stumbled back.

  Air blasted me from behind. Hot and rotting, it seared my back.

  “Maggie.”

  “Stop watching and go!”

  Her throat bobbed up, down. She swallowed, pivoted on her right heel and ran down the hall.

  Looking down, I saw the blisters on my skin. My blood felt hot, like it was turning solid in my veins. My skin pulled and tightened as the flesh bubbled. I turned back to Serge. Taking a step and hissing at the exquisite pain, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  He said nothing. He saw nothing. His aura continued to spin and rotate like a neon sign advertising “eat here!” or “nude girls! live!” In this case, the sign flashing above Serge would have warned, “Abandon hope.” He closed his eyes.

  “Serge.” I moved closer, ignoring the furnace heat, pretending the blisters on my skin didn’t hurt. “We need to know. You can’t cross over if the truth doesn’t come out.”

  At the mention of “truth” his head cocked to the right, then twisted left as though he was stretching his muscles in preparation for…something.

  “Serge—don’t you want to leave? Don’t you want to be gone from here? Don’t you want to be…free?”

 
; His eyelids snapped open.

  Though his eyes were gone and nothing but darkness remained in the sockets, the sensation that he stared at me, stared through me was as certain as the ground beneath my feet.

  His aura stopped rotating.

  Air pulled away from me, rushed toward Serge. For a moment, the world stopped. Reality and action hung in silent suspension.

  The smell of fire—charred tinder and ashes—singed my nose. I pivoted, turned my back on the ghost, and ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The air roared, loud as a lion’s bellow and just as terrifying. I raced for the open patio door, sensing rather than seeing the shock wave of red energy rolling toward me. My feet slipped on a stray magazine, my sneaker slid on the glossy snapshot of the model, twisted on her digitally heightened smile, and sent me pirouetting toward the ripped armchair.

  My hip slammed into the armrest, bone rammed wood and steel. I spun in a crooked arc and fell to the ground. My knee smashed into the floor. Shockwaves of pain made my teeth rattle. Struggling to my feet, I raced for the door; the breath of destruction belched its hot air down my neck.

  I stumbled through the patio exit and banged my shoulder on the frame. Nell and Debbie-Anne stood close to a propane barbeque.

  Too close.

  I grabbed them and shoved them down the path. “Serge won’t listen.”

  The explosion rocked the trailer and lit the sky with orange-red flames. It pushed us forward and down. Shattered glass rained down, the tinkling sound mixed with the boom of the propane tank rupturing. The furnace rocketed into the dark sky then hurtled earthward. Black smoke plumed into the air and the heat from the fire roasted my skin.

  Nell, stomach on the grass, raised her head and rolled onto her butt. “Jesus.” The word came out as a prayer, not a curse.

  “Yeah.” I turned to Debbie-Anne. “You okay?”

  She also lay face down on the ground.

  Nell shook her. “Debbie-Anne?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Tell me again. What happened?” Nancy stood by the driver’s side door of her Sheriff’s SUV. Yellow police tape separated us from the curious gawkers. Even the cold bite of the falling night didn’t deter the inquisitive. They huddled together in clumps, curlers in their hair, thick robes wrapped around their stout bodies, and whispered their theories.