The Last Echo

by Kimberly Derting

  “Do you know how to reach his parents?” Violet asked hopefully, following right on Sara’s heels. Maybe now they could finally get some answers.

  Sara spoke in a clipped voice over her shoulder. “Violet, you’ll have to wait out here.” And then she dropped her driver’s license on the counter in front of the desk clerk. “I need to speak to someone about a patient who was brought in.” Violet wondered why she didn’t flash a badge or something . . . anything to try to get some information out of the unsmiling woman. And then Sara spoke again, no longer paying attention to Violet. “His name is Rafe Priest,” she said. “He’s my brother.”

  Violet was still letting everything sink in, feeling more than a little blindsided by what Sara had told the admissions lady about being Rafe’s sister. Low voices around her buzzed of car accidents and heart attacks and sick children and broken limbs. She tried her best to tune out their words—along with everything else she could sense.

  And then there was that other thing . . . Sara was Rafe’s sister? How was that possible? How had she not known that? But it all made sense now. Why they seemed to understand each other so well.

  Violet couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or him.

  She’d settled back into her spot in the corner, leaning her head back and drawing her knees up to her chest, doing her best to get comfortable. She didn’t look up until she heard a familiar voice. Unfriendly and cold, but familiar nonetheless.

  “Great,” the girl muttered venomously as Violet jerked her head up. “Figures you’d be here.”

  Unlike Sara, who’d walked in looking harried and rumpled, Gemma dazzled beneath the glare of the emergency room lights, right down to her shimmery silver top and matching handbag. Violet glanced down at her own small purse with its pink bejeweled skull and crossbones. She’d never really cared before that it was outdated, even when her friends had made fun of it. Her grandmother had given it to her, one of the last gifts she’d given Violet before she died. The skull and crossbones were an inside joke about their shared ability.

  Gemma quickly closed the distance between them, the heels of her ankle-length boots clicking on the white tiles in clipped, angry bursts. She perched delicately on the edge of one of the few open seats in the waiting room, next to Violet.

  “How did you know we were here?” Violet asked, mystified by the other girl’s presence.

  Impatiently Gemma stared at her. “Sara told me. So?” She scowled at Violet, her voice razor-sharp. “What happened?”

  The vehemence in her voice made Violet wince, as if she’d just been slapped. Whatever she’d done to Gemma, the other girl had no intention of forgiving her anytime soon. But that so wasn’t the point, Violet thought, her own anger starting to simmer now. Here they were, sitting in the emergency room with no idea how Rafe was. She still had no word from Sara or the doctors who’d been working on him, and the longer they were gone, the more worried Violet became. “I don’t know what your problem is, Gemma, or what I ever did to you, but if you have something to say to me, then spit it out.”

  Gemma glowered at Violet for a long, hate-filled moment; then finally, she shrugged. “It’s not really you,” she said at last, but her voice was no less caustic. She sighed as she crossed her long legs, cocking her head as her eyes narrowed to dark, perfectly lined slits. “I mean, technically it is, I suppose, but I doubt it’s your fault, really.”

  “What is that supposed to mean, Gemma?”

  Lowering her voice, Gemma’s lips curled into something between a snarl and a smile. “In case you didn’t know, I’m empathic,” she explained, her tone haughty, practically demeaning. And even though Violet wasn’t sure what the other girl was getting at, her hackles were up now. “Which means I can sense things from other people.”

  Violet tried to mimic Gemma’s glare as she narrowed her eyes. “And your point is . . . ?”

  “It means I absorb what others around me are feeling. And because of that, more than anyone else I’ve ever met, it’s hard to be around you.” She wrinkled her perky little nose, and Violet wanted to punch her in it, right then and there. “To put it frankly, Violet, you reek of death . . . and it’s revolting.”

  Violet had no idea what to make of that. She’d been called a lot of things, been teased as a little girl for having curly hair and gangly legs, but she’d never thought about the implications of her own ability tainting her in that way. She was still gaping when Gemma suddenly jumped up from her seat and shot across the waiting room. At first Violet didn’t even realize what was happening; she thought she was the one who’d chased the other girl away. Her and her creepy ability.

  I reek of death. Not exactly the words every girl dreamed of hearing.

  When she glanced in Gemma’s direction, she realized Sara was back, talking to Gemma. Violet stood on legs that felt far too unsteady and crossed the space between them. But she froze, her heart slamming against the walls of her chest, the moment she saw the stricken expression on Gemma’s face, and the streaks of mascara now tracing their way down her cheeks.

  Lead pulled at Violet’s feet, weighing them down and pinning her to the ground. “What—what happened?” Violet stammered. “Is he . . . ?” She struggled for the right words, her voice causing Gemma to look up at her. The other girl swiped at her eyes, her expression turning suddenly fierce as she smeared her makeup even more. “Is he worse?” Violet asked at last.

  Gemma shot Violet an angry look. “He’s fine.” The words sliced through the air. “He’s an asshole, but he’s fine.”

  Sara put her hand on Gemma’s shoulder, her expression pained. “Gemma,” she warned before turning to Violet. Her brow creased. “He’s okay,” she explained to Violet, her voice patient. “He’s beaten up pretty bad, and they’ve got him somewhat sedated, but he’s going to be fine. He’s asking for you.”

  Violet glanced uncomfortably at Gemma.

  “Happy?” Gemma snapped. “You’re still the only one he wants to see.”

  Sara headed toward the admissions desk, and Gemma reached for Violet’s arm, her fingers digging in viciously. “You’d better not hurt him,” she hissed under her breath. “I mean it. He doesn’t need anyone else hurting him.”

  Violet stared blankly at Gemma’s formidable expression as Gemma’s grip finally loosened. She wondered where, exactly, the threat had come from. She had no intention of hurting Rafe; why would Gemma even say something like that?

  She felt weird leaving the other girl behind as she followed Sara to the counter, where her ID was scanned and printed onto a sticker that she had to wear on her shirt.

  Sara led her in back, and they stopped outside a sliding glass door with a huge number 33 on it. Violet had expected they’d both be going inside, but Sara smiled feebly. “Go ahead. I get to take him home later; I’ll spend time with him then.” It was strange to be reminded that she was his sister. Then Sara touched Violet’s arm, her face screwed into a mask of . . . something. Apprehension. Concern. Both, maybe. “Don’t upset him, okay, Violet? He’s been through a lot today, and he’s worn out. Just let him say what he needs to say so he can get some rest.” In other words, Violet thought, don’t ask a lot of questions. Not yet, anyway.

  Violet just nodded and left Sara standing outside as she entered the darkened room.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected: tubes down his throat, wires attached to noisy machines, full-body traction with casts and splints. But it wasn’t like that.

  The room was quiet and the lights had been dimmed; there was just a small box light above his bed that cast a faint glow like an oversized night-light. Violet settled silently onto a rolling chair beside the metal-framed bed as she waited for Rafe to notice she was there.

  His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and even. She’d watched Jay sleep before, and he was always restless, his breathing irregular. Sometimes he muttered in his sleep, sometimes he twitched, but always he looked disheveled, messy.

  Not Rafe, though. Rafe looked peacefu
l. His hand lay across his chest, and Violet could see the tubes from his IV protruding from the back of it. Two clear bags of fluid hung from the tall silver stand looming beside his bed.

  She jumped when a machine at her side beeped softly and the blood pressure cuff strapped around his upper arm inflated automatically, registering his vital signs. She wondered if there were nurses watching from monitors at their station.

  “You came.” Rafe’s voice was gravelly and sluggish. There was a quality buried within it that Violet had never heard before from Rafe. Something raw and hopeful. He smiled lethargically, as if his facial muscles were heavy, leaden. Violet watched as he lifted his hand—the one with the IV tubes sticking into it—and his bleary eyes struggled to maintain focus on her face. His hand only made it halfway to her face before dropping back to the crisp white sheets again as if the effort had been too much for him. “I was hoping I’d see you again, Sophie.”

  The slur of his words was almost charming, in a drunken sort of way, but Violet frowned over the last word he’d spoken, the name he’d called her. She leaned forward, afraid to touch him or even to jostle his bed as she carefully leaned her elbows against the firm hospital mattress. “Who’s Sophie, Rafe?”

  Rafe startled then, his muscles tensing and the endearing smile melting from his lips, giving way to a perplexed scowl as his eyes swam into focus. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was still laced with fatigue. “What are you talking about?”

  “You called me Sophie.”

  Rafe shook his head, wincing as he did. “No, I didn’t,” he groaned. “You must have misheard.”

  Had she? She was pretty sure she didn’t. But what difference did it make what he’d called her? She was relieved to see him awake. Alive, for that matter.

  “I was so worried about you. I’m so sorry about what happened, Rafe.”

  His expression softened, his brows drawing together. “It wasn’t your fault. Sara said it was the other driver—” He scowled again, but this time he seemed to be struggling to remember.

  “It was,” Violet assured him. “She was making an illegal turn, and . . .” She hesitated. “She didn’t see you.”

  Rafe nodded, and Violet wondered how much of the accident he recalled, if anything. She hoped he’d conveniently stricken it from his memory.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said at last, a pained frown making its way over her face.

  “Pshh.” He tried to wave his hand to dismiss her concerns, but it fell again before he could make any real statement. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’ve never been better.”

  Violet studied him—scrutinized every inch she could see. Scrapes covered his hands, his cheek, and his chin—at least where she could see them around the bandages. Even his elbows had been wrapped up, from where the asphalt had ripped through his leather jacket, she assumed. Bruises were forming too, even ones that she could see through the transparent IV tape across his knuckles. She didn’t think she wanted to know what might be hidden beneath the covers. “Yeah, you look great,” she quipped. “Seriously, how bad is it?”

  “I got some stitches,” he said, pointing at the gauze on his forehead. “And some bruised ribs, but it must not be too bad; they’re just waiting for the doc to sign off and then I get to go. Besides—” He grinned, tapping the place where the IV tube disappeared beneath his skin. “I gotta say, if you’re gonna get hurt, this is the place to be. The drugs here aren’t half-bad.” His head sagged heavily against the pillow.

  Violet got to her feet, worried over the weariness she saw on his face and recalling the warning from Sara about letting him rest. “You look tired.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. Don’t go. Stay.” But his words were slower now. “Just a little longer.”

  Violet hesitated, then settled down again. She looked at her hand, so close to his on the sheet. She imagined closing the distance, running her fingertips across the top of his battered knuckles, covering his hand with hers.

  She could; it wouldn’t mean anything. They were just friends, she and Rafe, and she was worried for him. Friends could touch each other. Friends could hold hands.

  Her heart hammered at the thought as she considered doing that very thing. And then she drew her hand away, dropping it into her lap, and balled her fingers into a determined fist.

  She glanced at his face, watching as his eyelids drooped. He blinked, struggling against their weight and finally succumbing to it. She waited until she thought he was probably sleeping again, and wondered how long she should sit there. How long until it was weird that she was staring at him while he slept.

  His eyes didn’t even flutter when the nurse paced soundlessly to the other side of the bed, lifting his wrist and deftly finding his pulse as her gaze dropped to her watch. Violet turned in her seat, surprised that she hadn’t even heard the ninjalike nurse come in. She ignored Violet as she counted, and Violet watched her, wondering if she felt the same thing Violet did when she touched him. If she felt that spark, that prickly connection, whenever their skin met. But watching her, Violet doubted that was the case. She was sure the nurse felt nothing except for the flickering of his pulse when she touched him.

  When she set his hand down, the nurse scribbled on his chart and shoved her pen into the front pocket of her lollipop- emblazoned scrubs. She punched a couple of buttons on the IV pump, checked each of the fluid-filled sacks hanging from the metal stand, and crept silently from the room again, leaving Violet alone with Rafe in the dark.

  Violet got up now, slowly, quietly.

  Rafe didn’t open his eyes, but she heard his voice, whisper-soft. “Will you come visit me tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know where you live,” Violet answered just as softly.

  “My sis—” He stopped himself, but not in time, and it was all the confirmation Violet needed. “Sara will tell you,” he managed at last, reforming the words over his thick tongue before collapsing into sleep.

  Violet squinted as she stood in front of the strip mall. It wasn’t exactly what she’d expected; more like the kind of place you’d find greeting cards than tarot cards. Even the neon sign—The Crystal Palace—made Violet think of those prisms that people dangled from their rearview mirrors, the ones that sent out dappled rays of multicolored lights whenever the sunlight hit them just so.

  Inside the store, however, was an entirely different story.

  The first thing Violet noticed was the burning smell of incense—clove-scented and nearly cloying—and the soft sounds of a sitar stirring lyrically in the background. She reached out to part the curtain of brightly colored plastic beads that was suspended just beyond the doorway. The beads were fashioned after multifaceted jewels in varying sizes, and they clattered together as she slipped between them.

  “Violet? What are you doing here?” She glanced up to see Krystal sitting behind an old wooden cash register that looked as if it belonged in an antique store. Krystal came around to the front of the counter, vivid strips of blue hair sticking out from the spiky knot on her head, her expression switching from surprise to worry in a heartbeat. “I heard what happened to Rafe. Gemma said his bike’s totaled.”

  Violet wanted to disagree with Krystal’s blunt assessment, to say that it wasn’t that bad. But she couldn’t manage it. The truth was, his bike probably was totaled. “Yeah, I guess so. He’s gonna be okay, though. He gets to go home tonight.” She held up the business card, the one she’d taken from Krystal’s car. “I hope it’s okay that I just showed up like this. I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything.”

  “Yeah, we’re super busy today,” Krystal drawled sarcastically, glancing around at the empty store.

  Violet looked around too, taking in shelf upon shelf filled with bottles of lotions and candles and incense, the odd assortment of books and tarot cards, and the miscellaneous jewelry displays strung with all manner of stones and crystals and feathers. In one corner, there were silk cushions scattered about on an intricately woven rug surrounding
a short, round table.

  “That’s where we do readings,” Krystal said, her gaze following Violet’s.

  “Do you do them?” Violet asked. “The readings, I mean? I thought you just talked to ghosts.”

  “I do.” She grinned, reaching for a stack of cards on the counter behind her. The deck looked old, its edges worn, but the intricate designs on the backs of the cards looked hand-painted, each bearing the depiction of a woman draped in a diaphanous white gown and wearing a butterfly crown. There were swans at her feet. “Anyone can learn to read the cards, Violet. Sometimes my readings are just a little more . . . accurate. You wanna give it a shot?”

  Violet thought about that and shook her head. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’m not sure I wanna know what happens next. I think I’d rather be surprised.”

  “Suit yourself.” Krystal set the cards back down. “So what did you come for?”

  Violet shrugged. “I don’t know.” She wandered to a shelf of pretty brown bottles, each with matching labels from a company called Organic Alchemy. She picked up a jar of patchouli oil with a black rubber stopper and uncorked it, taking a sniff. “I guess I wanted to make sure you knew. About Rafe.” And then she realized what a lame excuse that was, knowing she could just as easily have called to give Krystal the news. “I guess . . .” Her voice trailed off, trying to decide. “I guess I wasn’t really ready to go home yet. Can I ask you a question?”

  Krystal wandered over to the pile of pillows and dropped down, crossing her legs in front of her. She leaned back on her arms, staring up at Violet. “Shoot.”

  Violet sat too, so that she was across the table from the other girl, staring at her wide, dark eyes, envying the way Krystal looked so open, so willing to share her innermost thoughts and feelings. “Do they scare you? The ghosts? When they talk to you, are you ever afraid?”

  “Afraid? Nah.” Krystal’s lips curled downward as she shook her head. “They’ve been coming to visit me since I was a baby. My mom talked to them, and probably her mom too. I never knew it was weird to have real imaginary friends, to have conversations with people no one else could see. It wasn’t until Missy Bigsby made fun of me in kindergarten, calling me Crazy Krystal, that I realized I was the only one doing it. Everyone else thought I was just . . . talking to myself.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Missy can suck it, if you know what I mean. Some girls deserve to end up divorced and alone at twenty-one.”