by Emily Reed
He cocked his head, and I thought he might ask me more questions, but he just turned back to the screen.
"What is the disease this time?" I asked looking down at my shoes.
"Leukemia, so a harvest,” he answered, turning back to me. "Are you up for it?"
I snapped my gaze to his. "Yes," I said. "I'll be fine."
He pushed off with one of his long legs and rolled the stool to where a blood pressure cuff hung. I offered my arm, and he wrapped the band around my bicep. He pushed a button, and the band began to expand. My pulse beat against my skin.
Dr. Tor held his stethoscope up to his mouth and breathed on it. When the metal touched my skin it was warm; his fingers did not brush me, but I wanted them to. It was as if a war always brewed in me, battling between an intense need to be left alone and a hunger for touch.
He pulled out his earbuds and returned the stethoscope to his neck. “Good.” The many textured sound of the Velcro ripping loose rasped against my skin sending a delicious shudder through me.
The doctor sat back down in front of his computer and typed some more. It was one of those keyboards with the tall keys, and each stroke clacked.
"I'm hoping we can do this early next week; we've got all your paperwork, everything is matching up." He nodded at the computer, smiling, pleased with what he saw on the screen.
"Good," I said.
"Same address?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Phone number?"
"Yup."
"Emergency contact here is Megan Quick. Is her number still the same?"
I gripped the edge of the table, my hands pressing hard into the padding. "She's gone," I said.
"Moved?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen. "We've got her as the same address as you, but I can change that." He clacked some more.
"Disappeared," I squeezed the word from between my lips, trying to keep the truth out of the air I breathed.
He looked over from the computer, his eyebrows raised in question.
"She was a patient here," I said.
His expression shifted from confused to embarrassed, his cheeks flushing and eyes lowering. "I'm sorry," he said. "For your loss."
"It's fine," I said. "I'll just get a cab home after."
He looked up at me, his skin still flushed but eyes intent. "We don't recommend that."
"I know the recommendations," I said through gritted teeth. "I know all about your recommendations." I bit down on my lip to stop the anger bubbling out of me. Megan and I followed them all, and she still wasted away.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath then blew it out through slightly parted lips, letting my jaw relax. "I'm sorry," I said. "Can we just finish up here? I've got to go."
"Of course," he turned back to his computer. "You're not on any medications?" I shook my head. He read something off the screen. "You used to be on antipsychotics, though?"
"Not for a long time. Is that in the records there?" I had not taken any medication regularly since moving to Crescent City. It made little sense that Mercy Hospital would have my records from before I moved here.
"Our system was recently upgraded," Dr. Tor said. "It links to any other facility records with a matching name and ID number."
"Oh," I said. "I haven’t taken anything like that in a long time. Would it matter if I did?”
Dr. Tor shrugged. "It's not a problem either way."
"I had a messed-up childhood," I blurted out. Dr. Tor nodded and raised his eyebrows, encouraging me to continue. "They said I had false memories." I couldn't believe I was telling him this, but the words seemed to spill out of my mouth. "I have not hallucinated in a long time."
"What did you hallucinate?" He asked, leaning slightly forward on his stool, the metal creaking beneath him.
"I–" A knock on the door interrupted me. Dr. Tor frowned. Harriet walked in, holding a file. I felt myself blushing, the color sneaking up my chest and running over my throat to my cheeks. I couldn't believe I had been about to tell him about my delusions.
Harriet passed the file to Dr. Tor. He gave her a weak smile and placed it on the desk next to his keyboard. I glanced at my phone; it was later than I thought. As Harriet walked away I stood up, the paper on the table crinkling from my movement.
"I have to go," I said.
Harriet closed the door behind her even as I reached for it. Dr. Tor stood quickly. "Please, Darling, I just need a few more minutes."
"I'm sorry, but I'll be late for band practice. I have to go."
"But you'll come back? For the surgery, I mean.”
"Of course." I let my eyes land on his for just a moment too long. His breath stopped, and his pupils dilated. I turned, yanked open the door, and left.
Chapter Two
I had to hurry to make it to band practice on time. If you don't have talent, at least you can cultivate punctuality. Michael, our lead singer, nodded when I walked into the space and checked his watch.
We'd been working together since Megan got really sick—a few months before she disappeared. I didn't want to play with anyone else, but we had bills to pay. It wasn't hard to find someone who would take me. Like a good moon, I reflected the light of my sun beautifully.
The practice space belonged to our bassist, Emmanuel, who never showed up on time. He saw Megan and me play a couple of times and invited me to join Higgs and The Bosons. I had a feeling he was regretting it. It was clear from the look on Michael's face he did.
Our drummer, Andrew, who everyone called Dre, nodded to me as he walked in. A tall, lanky guy who looked good in a worn T-shirt, he had floppy hair that danced around his head when he played.
I tuned my violin, listening to the instrument, asking it to speak to me. We used to make magic—Megan, my fiddle, and me. Now I just practiced. Nothing special ever seemed to come through me. I didn’t know how to live without Megan. A part of me didn’t even want to try.
I put the instrument down and leaned against the wall, trying not to lose it. Megan always stressed how important it was to have faith. But continuing to have faith that I'd ever see Megan again, dead or alive, was dangerously illogical. A searing anger ran through me suddenly. My cheeks flushed, and I felt the beat of my heart banging. How could she leave me!
"You okay?" Emmanuel leaned against the wall next to me, his stance casual. I nodded and swallowed, looking up at him. His black curls, untrimmed and wild, floated around him like a crown. Hazel eyes that flashed mahogany and amethyst with sparkles of green watched me with an intensity that brought fresh color to my cheeks. I dropped my gaze to his perfectly formed pink lips. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I turned away. Hunger and exhaustion warred for dominance. Blood rushed in my ears. "Everyone's here, so let's get started," Michael announced.
"Just a minute." Emmanuel stepped closer, his breath warm on my shoulder. "You will be okay, Darling." My name in his voice settled me—like a solid, comforting hand on my back. I peeked at him through my hair, keeping a black veil between us. He smiled gently, more with his eyes than mouth.
"You ready to play?" Michael asked, an edge in his voice.
Emmanuel nodded, and I felt my head moving with his. He stepped back, those smiling eyes holding mine for a beat before he picked up his bass and hung the strap across his broad shoulders.
My gaze fell to his forearms, the muscles sharpening as he held the instrument. I licked my lips, hunger winning the war, exhaustion retreating at the sight of Emmanuel’s long elegant fingers pressing and strumming the strings.
"Darling?" Michael said. "Uh, can we have the pleasure of your company today?"
"Sure," I said, barely above a whisper.
"Let's start with 'Drawn to You'," Michael suggested.
Dre counted off a ”one, two, three,” clacking his sticks together. Emmanuel laid down the bass while Dre thumped out the beat. The beginning of the song was sorrowful, the story of a man drawn toward the thing that hurts him most. I pulled my b
ow against the strings, eyes closed, trying to invoke the music that belonged there. The notes came, but without the feeling, it sounded drab and flat.
That was how practice went. All the boys played with their hearts, and I struggled not to miss anything. We practiced our whole set several times, paying particular attention to the single we planned to open with at our next gig. Our manager promised a couple of important people were coming to see us. The scent of a record contract floated in the air.
As the last song ended, Michael glared at me, his eyes slits of anger. "What the fuck?" he asked.
"Hey!" Emmanuel tensed.
Michael turned on him. "She's fucking it up, Emmanuel."
Emmanuel, his bass still hanging from his shoulders, stepped in front of Michael, blocking my view of him. "Lay off her." His voice was a quiet threat.
"It was your idea to invite her; you fix her.” Anger wafted off him. I sucked, and it pissed him off. I kept my eyes down, concentrating on the grain of my indigo jeans. He snorted before stomping to the door. It slammed shut behind him.
I returned my fiddle to her case and closed the clasps—so upset I couldn’t even enjoy the clicking sound they made. As I stood, Emmanuel approached me, his hands in his pockets, his bass left in its stand. "You ever been to the Villa Relma Cemetery?" he asked.
Huh? “I’ve passed it. Why?”
Villa Relma was one of the city's more popular cemeteries. Tourists flocked there to see the graves of some of the area’s most notorious residents. It wasn't big, but within the crumbling walls laid three mayors, a famous priestess, and one of the biggest movie stars of the last century.
"You want to go? With me? Now?" he asked, his eyes cast down, hiding under his dark lashes…letting me admire his high cheekbones and strong jaw, the shape of his mouth... masculine and yet his lips look so soft. “It's a place I've always found comforting."
I didn't have time to look away before his eyes locked onto mine. I was drawn toward him, sinking into his eyes. "So what do you say? Want to go?"
"Okay," I took a tentative step toward him. He broke eye contact and, reaching down, grabbed my violin case before turning to the exit. I followed him, tripping over myself a little. I should really eat something.
We were not the only people visiting Villa Relma Cemetery as darkness fell. It was one of the last cool sunsets before the summer crept up on us, filling the air with heat and moisture. Already the days were becoming uncomfortable; soon the evenings would join them.
Emmanuel knew his way around, and I followed him between the rows of mausoleums and crypts. Some were crumbling to the ground. The metal fences around them had collapsed under fallen chunks of the structures they were meant to protect. Spurts of growth, green and ragged, shot from between the bricks, reaching toward the sun, making life work where it could.
As we passed a simple crypt, the headstone impossible to read after so many rains, I stopped, placing my hands for a moment on the crooked fence surrounding it. The peeling black paint crackled under my touch.
"Everything okay?" Emmanuel asked.
"Sure," I said not taking my eyes off the sarcophagus, its lid tilted to the side. "What do you think happened?"
Emmanuel stepped up behind me—he was tall enough to look over my head. "What do you mean?" he asked. I felt his breath against my hair.
"What would make it buckle like that? Why would the lid be askew?"
"Storms, tree roots, construction, all sorts of stuff shifts the earth."
I stared deeply into the dark space that the cockeyed lid exposed. Emmanuel touched my elbow, and an electric spark shocked us both. I jumped away from him. "Sorry," he said, his hand hanging in the air where my elbow had just been.
"It's okay." I rubbed at the places his finger pads had touched. I looked down at them, half expecting burns.
"Come on," he said with a smile. I followed him to a small, unfenced, squat mausoleum. Black dirt clung to the texture of the cement facade and gathered in the cracks. The entire thing was covered in question marks. They were written in groups of three—???—some small and tight, others scrawled. The structure was a bit taller than me. Candles, beaded necklaces, and mini bottles of liquor covered the roof's edge and lined the base. Envelopes and folded scraps of paper leaned against the worn, unreadable, marble plaque where it met the cemetery path.
I watched Emmanuel's shoulders move underneath his thin T-shirt as he placed my violin case on the ground. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of pennies and two sugar packets. He held them out in his palm toward me.
His head was bent down, looking at me, and his dark curls fell around his face, making me almost feel like we were in a fort together, that no one could see us. He smiled at me. I kept my eyes on his lips. "Go ahead," he said. "Take a penny and a sugar packet and offer it to her."
"Who?"
"Suki, Darling. She is a powerful spirit. I think she can help you."
I looked over at the shrine. "You really believe in this kind of stuff?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Can't hurt." He shrugged again. "I guess it's—I don't know." I glanced at him. He was looking at the mausoleum, the sun behind him backlighting his profile and turning his hair into a halo.
"You ever get anything out of it?" I asked.
"She's helped me find peace," he answered, not looking at me.
My fingers grazed his palm when I took the sugar packet, sending sparks of electricity through me. "Now close your eyes," Emmanuel said, his voice smooth and quiet. A child laughed nearby, and a mother shushed her. "Ask your question.”
I saw Megan's face, when she was well, the look she'd give me across a crowded room to let me know that I was special—that really, out of everyone there, all those people fawning over her, I was her special person. I squeezed the sugar packet between my fingers so that I felt the individual grains. A burning desire roared in my gut to see her again, to see her eyes flash at me, a shared secret, a shared past. I wanted Megan back.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I opened my eyes. I went to wipe away the tears. “Wait,” Emmanuel said. He took the sugar packet from me and caught the tear as it fell off my chin. He moved the packet up and dabbed at my eyes, the paper wet against my skin. I closed my eyes and felt his breath on my cheek. "She'll like that," he said, handing me back the sugar packet.
"She likes tears?"
"Anything authentic," he answered. "Go ahead, put it on the crypt."
Reaching onto my tiptoes, I placed the packet between a bottle of rum and a piece of chewing gum on the roof's edge. Would asking Suki do me any more good than asking God ever had?
I recognized the desire burning me—this deep need to see someone again. After my Dad died, I spent every moment in my foster father's church, begging for his return; I wanted it and believed that God would deliver it with every ounce of my young being. Everyone told me to pray, and I did.
I learned prayer didn't work—it didn't bring people back, or cool the raging desire. Megan helped me quench that first fire. How could I do it again without her?
I thought about my father, then.
We'd lived together in a wooden house deep in an evergreen forest. The trees grew so thick that even on sunny days it was dark. Our closest neighbors were a day's hike away.
It was just the two of us, and I don't remember him ever leaving me alone. By the time I was eight, I could kill with a bow. We were hunting when he died. It was a pack of wolves. They had green eyes, frothing mouths, and bloody wounds. Father put me on our mare, Honey, and slapped her rump. When I looked back over my shoulder, I saw a wolf leap, latch onto his shoulder, and drag him to the ground.
I screamed, which made Honey run faster. But then she slid to a stop, and I flopped over her neck, my balance off, my mind a mess. Honey reeled up, and I fell back, landing in the snow, my hood flopping over my eyes. I scrambled to my feet and pushed back my coat to discover a wolf, hackles raised, part of its muzzle looked like it had been gnawed off, standing
right in front of me. The wolf's eyes glowed phosphorescent green.
Honey’s muscles shook with fear. I'd never seen her like that before, frozen in place; it wasn't natural. The flight instinct should have taken over.
The wolf started forward, its mangled nose pulsing at the air. I went to pull my bow around to the front of my body. It leaped at me. I blocked it with my bow, the creature's jaws snapping inches from my face. Blood and saliva spat out of its mouth, landing cold and wet on my cheeks.
My biceps shook, the yellow and cracked teeth inching closer until my arms gave out, and the wolf fell upon my shoulder, the broken teeth ripping through my coat and digging into my flesh. I screamed as much from fear as pain.
An arrow pierced its eye, and it collapsed, all of the animal’s weight lying on top of me. I struggled out from under the body, crying and hyperventilating. My father stood twenty feet away, swaying. His left arm hung loose in its socket. His forearm and hand looked like tattered clothing. Blood dripped off them, staining the white snow.
In his right hand he held his bow. Two wolves ran behind him. I screamed, pointing, and my father turned, almost falling. I brought my bow in front of me and, tears blurring my vision, fired at the approaching beasts. My arrow found its mark—one wolf fell into the deep snow.
The second wolf leaped onto him. I ran up, firing arrow after arrow into the creature's back, but it kept up its assault on my father's neck. Out of arrows, my father convulsing under the beast, I picked up a fallen branch and swung, putting all of my small weight behind the strike—knocking the wolf off and splintering the branch.
The wolf turned on me.
I held the sharp shard of wood in my hand. It launched itself at me, and I held up the stake. Both of us fell to the ground, and the wood drove through the creature's throat, into its brain, killing it.
Pinned under the wolf's weight, my teeth chattered with fear. I pushed the corpse off and crawled to my father. He lay in the snow, his eyes fluttering, blood caught in his beard and dappling his cheeks. I put my gloved hands over the wound at his neck.
