Eternal Soul

by Amy Henwood

  I was not done washing my hair when I was startled by a knock on the bathroom door.

  “Jack—” I had not finished the rest of his two-syllable name before the door opened.

  “As your guardian, I’m ensuring you are okay and have not slipped,” he said.

  “Did you hear a thump?” I pestered.

  “Well, no, but I wanted to be sure.”

  I poked my head out from behind the curtain, leaving the rest of me hidden. “Or were you hoping to catch a glimpse of me lathering myself?”

  “You’re quick.”

  “No, just smart. I figured since you have known me for twenty-two years times two, I can be sly with your witty ways.”

  “Well played,” he said, approaching the shower.

  “Now, if you and your pink housecoat are done, you can take your dried clothes out of here and get dressed.”

  “A possibility, yes, but the likelihood is no.”

  He dropped the housecoat and joined me in the shower, wrapping himself around my wet body, kissing my neck. His hands slid down my hips, tickling me.

  “I am here to shower,” I said, laughing. “Not to play.”

  “Nothing has changed. Always out to ruin my fun.”

  I pivoted to face him. Water beaded down the length of his firm bare body, arousing me. His slippery skin made for easy work in feeling him, his responsiveness showing.

  “Is my personality really the same as my first life?”

  “You are exactly how I remember: beautiful, caring, smart and odd.”

  “Excuse me?” I propelled back. “Odd? I’m not the one walking into the bathroom proudly displaying a pink housecoat, strutting my stuff. ‘Look at me and my cool fluffy pink housecoat.’” I mimicked catwalk movements with my upper body.

  “And point proven,” he howled.

  “Now, if you don't mind, I would like to continue with my body lathering.”

  “By all means.” He reached across me and took a bottle off the built-in shower ledge.

  “You might be stranger than me,” I pointed out.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you are the first person I know that uses conditioner before shampoo.”

  * * *

  Maggie’s was a small, quaint restaurant located on the outskirts of town on a less than busy road. Looking at it from the outside, I was sure I would never stop and venture in. It was one of those joints that was a hidden secret to locals only. I had lived in the city for four continuous school years and had never heard of it. On this particular morning, we had to wait some time before securing one of the red vinyl booths along the front window overlooking a packed parking lot. The line surpassed the entrance doors and had spilled outside of the building onto the walkway.

  The carpet was worn from years of foot traffic, and the light brown walls were lined with pictures displaying the transformation of Maggie’s over the years, and a framed edition of their first menu. A cup of coffee was fifteen cents according to the menu dated 1967, with ownership staying within the family since opening day. An impressive feat for any company, especially when ma and pa businesses were always under the looming threat of large box stores and chain restaurants. The customers didn't care about the outdated decor or the worn-out tables—they were there for the food.

  The menu boasted an all-day breakfast selection, dedicating page one to classic bacon and egg options with the following pages hosting an array of crepes, waffles and sandwiches with every different topping combination possible.

  “Good morning, guys. My name is Nancy and I will be your server today. Can I start you two off with some drinks?” She sped through her opening line, one she had likely used countless times before, automatically saying the words without processing them.

  She was in her late thirties, with her blonde, mid-length hair pulled into a tight, face-lifting ponytail that swung with each step. Visible veins were predominantly raised from her wrinkle-forming hands.

  “Tea, please,” I said, responding to her inquiry.

  She moved her attention to Jackson and gave him a good look. She slowly wrote down his order of orange juice, dragging out the process. No experienced waitress needed to write down two drink orders. I could remember at least five non-complicated beverage orders at work before needing a pen and paper, but if a single customer began adding in sophisticated froths and multiple flavour shots, there was no denying my trusty pen and notepad would be making an appearance.

  “I will grab these and come back to take your order,” she said to Jackson, flatly ignoring me. I thought I had another superpower: invisibility.

  “What a cougar,” I said once she left our table.

  “She seems nice,” he said.

  “You are naive. She would jump in your pants in half a heartbeat if you gave her the time and place.”

  “You think?”

  “One hundred percent. I might not be able to read the minds of humans, but I can read minimal body language. The smile. Discreetly biting her lower lip.” I lowered my voice. “She was totally eye-fucking you.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course not. If what you tell me is true, and I was able to sweep you off your feet thirty-something years ago and did it again, I am convinced I can steal you away from any girl that attempts to lay a single touch on you.”

  “Touché.”

  I focused my thought process on my history with Jackson, but with the crowded room and having to speak at an above-normal volume, I didn't want to have that conversation with listening ears around.

  I pointed at my temple and then pointed at him, hoping he would understand the idea that I wanted him and me to speak telepathically. Normally I would be concerned with what would happen in a cramped setting, overfilled by people. Letting down my barrier would present me with a head full of spirits waiting to burden me with their requests to talk to their loved ones, but Jackson was able to bypass my barrier. He was able to communicate with me while I was still able to keep the others out.

  How old were we when we died? I asked.

  You were twenty-one and I was twenty-three.

  I tested my math skills. My current age of twenty-two plus five years between my death and reincarnation plus my current twenty-one years equaled forty-eight. My original birthday was forty-eight years ago.

  Your math skills are correct today.

  Oh right, I forgot you were here. I chuckled.

  That made me almost half a century old. I was suddenly disgusted by the fact—a fifty-year-old in a twenty-two-year-old body. If I hadn’t died, I would be trying to prevent my aging body from gaining wrinkles, dealing with joints that were slowly stiffening and dyeing the increasing number of grey hairs.

  Still here. Jackson reminded me that my thoughts were no longer safe.

  Our server returned with our drinks.

  “Ready to order?” she asked, distinctly staring at Jackson.

  “We require a few more minutes,” he told her.

  Forgetting that we had come here to eat a proper meal, Jackson opened his menu for the first time, and I looked at mine, which was open to the crepe and waffle selections.

  Our waitress arrived several minutes later, hoping we had decided. As much as she was enjoying the eye candy, the long line meant a long line of incoming tips on the shitty servers’ base wage. I felt sorry for her. My biggest annoyance at Cinnamons was having a customer at the counter who had already been waiting in line for several minutes to stand there, stroking their chin, humming and hawing at the menu board. If I didn't have to pose sensational customer service skills, I would look around them to help the customer behind.

  I had not decided but I didn't want to hold up the awaiting hungry customers and her pocket book, so I read off the first item my eyes landed on.

  “Berry mountain waffles,” I said.

  She turned to Jackson.

  “Two pieces of toast and a side of bacon,” he ordered.

  She wrote down the orders and slid the
paper and pen into the pocket of her apron. She pushed our orders into the point of sale system at the drink station, never once looking at the paper she wrote our orders on. I caught her glancing in our direction, once again ogling Jackson.

  I ignored her and turned to Jackson. Now having the knowledge that food and sleep had no value on the daily functioning of angels, it was strange that he would be consuming food that did nothing for him. The few bites I had watched him eat were now irrelevant. None of the articles I read on the internet had recited those facts.

  All those articles are made from folklore and stories passed through centuries of being retold.

  I was once again forgetting he was listening to my ramblings.

  What did you learn in your readings? he asked.

  That as a guardian you cannot be injured, but dark angels can. I recalled the bloody nose he delivered to Chase.

  That is correct.

  So even if Chase managed to get a connecting swing at you, nothing would have happened?

  I might have lost my footing from the impact, but that would be about it.

  Does he know that?

  Yes, but he probably forgot.

  Then how did you get the scar on your forearm?

  I told you, I fell biking.

  Now I am confused. You just said you cannot be harmed.

  It’s from my first life, when I had been stupidly trying to impress a girl.

  I pointed to myself and he nodded.

  You showed off and failed, shattered your arm and I still wanted to date you?

  I’m cute and you felt sorry for me.

  Our food arrived and my stomach tensed at the smell of the berry sauce with large pieces of strawberries, blueberries and raspberries between the sauce and homemade waffles. It was a mountain compared to Jackson’s toast and bacon. The waitress lingered again, but finally left when she realized we didn’t need anything else. I watched her slowly walk away.

  “What are you watching so intently, Scarlett?” he asked.

  I looked up at him. “Wondering what is going through the mind of our waitress.”

  “That’s an easy one,” he said. “She wants to ask for my number but is unsure if we are a couple. I guess I have not been wise enough to make any display of public affection.”

  “Number one, how do you know she wants your number, and number two, we are not a couple.” Frustration brewed at him making a core assumption about us.

  “Answer number one, I can read more than your mind. The guy in the red sweater is wondering if he will get the promotion he has been working incredibly hard at. All the overtime and hours spent away from his wife and kids needs to pay off.” He focused on someone else. “The lady in the purple blouse is worrying about her husband and her ever-growing suspicion of his affair.”

  “All true?”

  “Truth.” He reached around the plates and took hold of my hand. “As for number two, I was hoping we could pick up where we left off twenty-seven years ago.”

  I couldn’t pull away fast enough from his grasp, tucking them away under my legs, away from him.

  “You can’t be serious? How are we supposed to just pick up where we left off when I don’t know where we were before the accident? I might know of you, but I definitely do not know you.” My speech level rose above the murmurs of the other customers.

  “What about last night?” he cut in quietly, hoping it would bring my volume down. “It was perfect; that is where we left off.”

  “This shows how little you actually know about me and my new life. I was—am,” I corrected myself, “quite happy with it before you and your dick intercepted.”

  I didn't care how loud I was or how Jerry-Springer it sounded to the innocent by-standing customer. If only they were aware of the non-human creature lurking around them, living in the same neighbourhood, eating the same meal. If only they knew what I knew.

  “You wouldn't dare tell a soul,” he said under his breath.

  “I told you to stay out of my fucking thoughts.” Time for a guest appearance on Maury.

  I stared him down with my best look of death, not because I was angry, but because I was confused. I didn’t know anymore how to act or feel. I didn’t know what to say. All I knew at that exact moment in time was that I had to get out of the restaurant. My seamlessly uncomplicated life had turned out not so simple, and I did not want this supernatural factor in my life anymore. I truly wished I didn’t know any of this and never wished harder for my life to be normal—like the rest of my friends.

  I looked around, planning my escape route of tables to weave around and unoccupied pathways to dash down.

  Please don't leave me. His voice filled my mind.

  “Stop it!” I yelled. “Get out of my head!” And here comes Dr. Phil.

  “If you want to leave,” he spoke, “let me drive you home.”

  “No.”

  “I will call a taxi then.”

  “Walking is better than any more pity assistance from you.” I leaned back and folded my arms high across my chest.

  “I am just trying to understand what I said to make you upset with me.”

  “Jackson, you cannot expect me to start where we left off when I have zero memory of where we were.”

  “You have to understand that this isn’t any easier for me,” he said.

  “At least you have a memory.” I thought deeper into it. “How do I even know that what you have told me is the truth? For all I know, this could be one large scheme between you, Chase, and everyone else around me, and I’m on some inhumane reality show.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I promise,” he said, trying to convince me.

  “Your word means nothing.”

  I didn’t know who or what to believe, or how to determine what was truth or lies.

  If this was all a hoax, then explain how you can hear my thoughts?

  His tone saturated my head.

  Sure, a valid point, but I no longer wanted to entertain the notion that my conspiracy theory was far from the truth. I wanted an angel-free, spirit-muted life, and this was all just a horrific nightmare. Yet, if it wasn’t a nightmare, maybe I was crazy…what if the voices in my head were not actually spirits, but my own mind making it all up?

  I stood up from the booth, no longer sure of what I wanted.

  “Scarlett. Stop.” He brought on only words without actions.

  My hands loudly connected with the tabletop causing the plate to jump and my palms to sting. “Maybe I have been waiting a long time to do this.” I left the table. “And don’t think about following me.”

  I weaved through the tables and found the nearest exit. I felt the presence of eyes following me, while others stared at Jackson.

  The air was stale from soggy, melting snow, but the outdoors presented a satisfying relief for my new-found freedom—freedom I hadn’t known I needed until now.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, bumping the shoulder of an entering customer.

  She didn’t speak or acknowledge my apology. Wearing a large hat and sunglasses, she appeared to only have one mission: getting inside.

  I scavenged my jacket pockets, searching for my cell, but I came up short. It was sitting on my bedside table. That would not help me. I questioned my common sense at again forgetting an item I would normally never leave behind.

  I could not go back into the restaurant to Jackson and pretend nothing happened. The customers would not let me forget either. Payphones were a dying breed and next to impossible to find. I would pose a better chance of flagging down a vehicle by hitchhiking than a phone booth. The best and only solution was to carry forward on foot and wish for the best.

  The knee pain increased with every step. The second stupid decision of the still early day was letting Jackson convince me that leaving home with no crutches would be good for the healing process. The uneven, partial-snow, partial-slush shoulder increased the difficulty of walking and furthered my discomfort, limping each small step forward. Maggie’s faded
in the distance, with only a few vehicles passing on the road.

  I briefly leaned against a hydro pole to relieve some pressure. Yesterday I hated hydro poles as I discovered they were a prime factor in my death, but today its stability was welcomed.

  Jackson’s car had not passed, but I wouldn’t get into it, willingly anyway. I told him to stay away, but he, in guardian style, was physically incapable of accomplishing that demand. He would be there soon.

  Once, maybe we were meant for each other, but not in this life. I was an aging human and he was an immortal supernatural creature. My heart tore the more I thought, the more I realized that no matter how bad I wanted him, how much I had a need for him, there was no possible way for him and me to be together. The short time with him was more cruel than a striptease, luring me in for a deeper, knife-slashing heartache. The desire for him would never disappear, even when I was at my most irritated moments.

  I had to pull my unstable emotions together and continue my journey home. My pace slowed and I pushed through the pain with bogus breathing techniques. Stoplight, I repeated, stoplight. I broke my journey into short segments, fooling my mind into thinking that was as far as I had to go.

  A car ripped around the corner of the approaching intersection, heading in my direction. I jumped from the shoulder onto the grass to keep out of the idiot's way. Another emergency trip to the hospital was not on my planned agenda today, even if it would provide me with a lift—it just wouldn’t bring me home.

  The vehicle raced at me, the tire contacting the faded grey road, leaving rubber behind. It performed a one-eighty and halted halfway off the road beside me. The driver side door forcefully swung open before I could process how I was almost crushed to death between a car and a pole—again.

  15

  “Chase,” I said, “what the hell!” I was shocked to see him, but in reality, I shouldn’t have been that surprised at him showing up.

  “Get in the car.” His complexion was turning red.

  I stood my ground, not shifting an inch.