Authors: Dee Willson
A Keeper's Truth
Dee
Willson
is a born
storyteller. Her worlds are freshly invented, meticulously considered, and
richly told. With GOT she’s created a remarkably original world that looks like
ours but isn't ours at all; while A Keeper's Truth dazzles us with an entirely human
protagonist and a love interest who is anything but. In all her work she
manages to offer what we all want: surprise and delight and laughter, a
remarkable achievement.
—Catherine
Luttinger
,
Agent,
Darhansoff
&
Verrill
,
New York
There are two standouts in the novel. Tess is a
highly credible and original lead character and I felt bonded to her throughout
the book. A great lead character alone, though, is not enough to make a book a
stand out but when that combines with a surprising portrait of ancient lore
that reaches far beyond recorded human history, the novel really comes alive.
—D. J. McIntosh, Author of
The Witch of Babylon
Dee
Willson’s
characters cast shadows sharp enough to
make even the most jaded reader uneasy. She juxtaposes comfort with peril and
the beautiful with the grotesque until the simplest gestures are disquieting
and the only way out is forward.
—Rob Brunet, Author of
Stinking Rich
I love finding books that don't go the obvious
path... books that keep you guessing.
—Jennifer
Foxcroft
, Author of
Sanguine Mountain
A Keeper’s Truth
Copyrigh
t © 2015
Dee
Willson
First Edition March 2016
Published in Australia
Digital ISBN:
978-1-925296-17-4
Also available in print:
Hardcover ISBN:
978-1-925296-16-7
Paperback ISBN:
978-1-925296-18-1
Driven Press
Cover Illustration by Vera
Lluch
© 2015
www.veralluch.com
[email protected]
Cover Layout by
Mumson
Designs
©
2015
Cover content used for illustrative purposes only.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental
.
The following story is set in Canada and the usage
reflects that. The spelling is US English.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except
where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries,
contact Driven Press by email:
[email protected]
Tess
Bryce
For my mother,
who taught me a great many things,
like dream big.
It is now a recognised principle of
philosophy, that no religious belief however crude, nor any historical
tradition, however absurd, can be held by the majority of a people for any
considerable time as true, without having in the beginning some foundation in
fact. . . . We may be sure that there never was a myth without a
meaning; that mythology is not a bundle of ridiculous fancies invented for
vulgar amusement; that there is not one of those stories, no matter how silly
or absurd, which was not founded in fact, which did not once hold a
significance.
—
H.
H. Bancroft
Late-Nineteenth-Century
American Anthropologist
I
t takes
thirty seconds to die this way.
Two
seconds to register the sound of exploding rubber. One second to grip the wheel
with enough force to fracture bones. Skidding sideways across four lanes with
nothing but the blur of passing cars and a transport truck consumes six
seconds. The screech of metal on metal seems to go on forever but in reality
lasts only five seconds. Five more for the metal to fold, glass to shatter,
plastic to snap into bits.
Soaring
through the air can be measured in six harrowing heartbeats. People don’t fly.
For three
seconds the physical pain is numbing, surreal. It takes the brain two seconds
to make out the thick iridescent line only an inch away. But 124,000 pounds
crushing bone and vital organs into asphalt is instantaneous.
Time’s up.
Or is it?
Sure,
everything that happens afterwards—the chaos, the heartbreak—is
beyond the deceased. Only twelve know what really lies ahead, what happens to a
soul, where it goes and why it returns. Twelve men know
everything
, have
since the dawn of time, a place buried deep in our subconscious. Yet no one is
listening.
As for the
dead, they leave devastation in their wake: wives, husbands, mothers, fathers,
sons, daughters—souls with a stake in this half-minute in time, scarred
for eternity. What happens when loss attacks like beasts? How do you survive
without the one you love?
You just
do.
All things
considered, there are worse ways to lose your life. You could be beaten, raped
of your soul, left cold and alone to die. Slowly.
Old souls
know this. Tess Morgan should know this.
Only she
doesn’t.
Early September
M
y name is
Tess. I’m the daughter of a liar. And unhinged.
Tess is
the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it
says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read:
Oh, I’m sorry
.
Or the extended version:
Oh my God, I’m so sorry
. I’m greeted with pouty
lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be
reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen
hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than
the first.
I’m
standing in my daughter’s classroom, waiting for my turn to meet her
kindergarten teacher, Ms. Bubbly. Actually, her name is Ms. Rainer, but since
she wears no sticker herself, I’ve taken the liberty to provide her with an
appropriate title, one with more verve. I hover in the back corner, pretending
to be enthralled with drawings of horses stapled to the bulletin board. Well, I
think they’re horses, or ponies, or some sort of animal with four legs; they
really aren’t all that easy to decipher. I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m
a shell, a remnant, a shadow of my former self.
I catch a
glimpse of affection, a naturally intimate gesture between lovers. His hand on
her waist, her leaning into his shoulder while whispering in his ear. I draw a
mouthful of air, the word widow encasing me like a tomb, and scan the crowd
again, hoping to see Thomas. He’s the only other single parent I know of. He’s
not here.
It must be
my turn to speak to Ms. Bubbly. She reaches out and with a strained voice says,
“So sorry to learn about your loss.”
Great,
just what I wanted to hear. I look at my nametag and tighten my arms into their
usual position, holding my insides, inside. I realize my lack of finesse a
moment too late, and Ms. Bubbly drops her hand.
“So . . .
Abby . . .” I can’t think of anything more to say. My mind is
mush.
Ms. Bubbly
briefs me on her first weeks with my daughter, nothing I don’t already know.
Abby is quiet. Abby’s working on her printing skills, her b’s and d’s are
backwards. Abby likes to play with Thomas’s daughter, Sofia, her best friend
from junior kindergarten. Ms. Bubbly ends with, “Abby seems to be coping,” and
I stare at my shoes, the word coping caught in my throat. “Yes, under the
circumstances, Abby is doing well,” Mrs. Bubbly says, her animation dwindling.
I realize
she’s striving for sincerity, but I can’t help but wonder which circumstance
she’s referring to: Abby being fatherless or my inability to raise her alone.
“Good,” I
say, because it’s Tuesday, opposite day according to the blackboard.
Ms.
Bubbly’s attention wanders, and I consider revoking her title as I mumble
goodbye, head for the door, and tear the name tag from my shirt. Head down, I
smack my forehead into something solid, then recoil, instinct requiring an
assessment of the battle wound.
It hurts
already. Life just won’t toss me a break.
“My
apologies, Tess,” says an unfamiliar voice. A rich, masculine voice.
My eyes
follow the six feet four inches of triple-threat black—boots, jeans,
leather jacket—to land on two-day stubble and a large hand rubbing the
contours of a chiseled chin. Apparently life can get worse. I’ve collided with
Adonis, the kind that stops your heart from beating just long enough to make
you forget all the ones who came before, offering nothing but hollow promises
and seasoned moves. Been there, done that, burned the shirt.
It dawns
on me he said my name, no condolences.
“Do I know
you?” I ask, my gaze rising from his chin to his eyes.
Wow. His
gray eyes and dark lashes are . . . mesmerizing.
“I doubt
we’ve met. Tess, it’s the name on your sticker,” he says, pointing to the name
tag now on the floor. His hair, dark and cropped, is windblown and off kilter.
I grab the
closest chair, attempting to overcome the strangest sensation, like I’m a
feather, floating.
“You all
right?” His European accent has an almost liquid quality, at odds with his
rugged appearance. “Allow me.”
Relocating
his motorcycle helmet from one hip to the other and balancing it under his
forearm, he bends to collect my sticker from the floor. Something shimmers, my
vision suddenly malfunctioning, and for a split second he’s draped in a
luxurious white fur, a blanket of sorts, reaching for a bright colored scarf at
his feet, big and bare. His movements are gentle and deliberate, but fast, as
if I am watching in fast-forward. With the conclusion of one blink he’s back to
normal, leather clad arm outstretched toward me.
I stand
stock-still, holding the chair for support, trying to bring my eyes into focus.
“You
okay?” He thrusts the sticker at me a second time, I think.
I survey
body parts, grateful gravity has kept me intact.
“I’ve been
better.” I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to recall what I’d seen, but it’s
gone, as if wiped from memory, leaving just a weird sense of déjà vu. Man, I’ve
fallen apart since Meyer’s been gone.
“You
have,” he says, and my eyes pop open to stare. He’s smiling, amused. “Too much
caffeine maybe.”
Have I met
this guy before? He doesn’t look like anyone I know, but there is something
about him, something familiar. It’s not a good feeling.
“Right,
caffeine,” I say, lying. I gave up caffeine when I was pregnant with Abby and
never looked back.
He grins
like a hyena. “Your eyes playing tricks?”
My mother,
in one of her moods, would’ve wiped that smirk away with a kiss. And he’d have
let her, stranger or not. She was intoxicating. But I’m not my mother, and my
brief lapse in sanity doesn’t require justification. I’m a twenty-six-year-old
widow with no idea how to pull it together, so I ignore his question and settle
for diversion.
“Are you a
teacher here?”
“Not
here,” he says. “I promised my niece I’d stop by to meet hers.” He takes my
hand. “Bryce, Bryce Waters,” he says, planting a soft kiss on the back of my
fingers.
Stunned, I
search his face for the slightest hint of perversion, a reason to club him, but
I see nothing but a gentleman in wolf’s clothing. Still, I pull my hand away.
“I’m not the
teacher.”
He tilts
his head. “You’re Tess.” My name drips from his lips like melted butter and
warning bells sound in my head, loud and clear. “You’ll need ice for that
bruise.” He points to my head. “Take care of yourself.”
A gritty
moan vibrates my teeth when I touch my forehead and discover a bump the size of
Mount St. Helens. It throbs, making me take note of the headache creeping in.
Somewhere under the surface I’m mortified I plowed into this guy without an
apology or concern for his chin. I can’t bring myself to grasp the emotion, so
I draw a deep breath and say, “Always do,” as I shuffle past and without
another word, walk straight out the door.
Luckily, I
live
close, and within minutes I’m home. Other than the
entryway lamp, the lights are all out and the place is quiet. A glass of water
sits on the bottom stair. Grams greets me at the door, sighing, her gaze aimed
at my damaged forehead. Its days like today it hurts to look at her. Meyer’s
eyes. His lips. She’s uncharacteristically mute as she pats the gift she’d
given me earlier, along with a lecture, setting it beside the cup on the bottom
stair. The lecture, I suppose, was necessary. Apparently there is no such thing
as a woman’s sexual prime, and it’s important to recognize the body has needs
at all ages, under any circumstance. Grams would know, she spent thirty-six
years as a leading sex therapist and a decade specializing in women’s sexual
health. BOB is the gift tucked neatly in an unassuming tote bag, ready for
travel, which is ironic considering he’ll never leave my night table drawer.
BOB stands for Battery Operated Boyfriend, and is, hands down, the most unusual
gift anyone has ever received from their dead husband’s grandmother.
But who am
I to say: I never had a grandmother of my own.
Grams
leans in and up onto her toes to kiss my forehead. “Good night.” She takes hold
of her loud flower-power purse and gently closes the door, leaving me alone
with BOB and the weight of the world. There was a time the quiet soothed me
like a hug. I was born Tess
Reit
, daughter of Celeste
Reit
, father unknown, and my mother suffered from
severe depression and was bipolar, an endless roller coaster of maxed-out
credit card highs and Titanic-worthy lows. When my mother would lock herself in
her bedroom, lights out, begging for silence, I gave her what she needed. I’d
have given her anything in those moments, those days, and the quiet did as much
for me as it did for her. Maybe more.
Minutes
wear on while I gather the energy to drag myself up the stairs.
As I
approach Abby’s room, I pause to listen to her incoherent chatter. I ease the
door open and meander in to contemplate the sliver of light from between the
curtains as it illuminates her face, an angel in slumber. I feel my way through
the peppering of toys and books to tuck the blanket around her tiny form. While
relishing her sweet smell, I catch a stray tear tickling my chin. I can’t help
but think of all the moments, all the momentous occasions this little girl will
experience without a father.
Just like
me.
This
wasn’t the plan. Other than being knocked-up and twenty, the reason I married
Meyer was because he was stable, reliable, here. He was five years older than
me and knew what he wanted, a family. He’d be the father I’d never known. Hell,
he’d be the mother I never had. For five years he was all that and more to
Abby.
“She takes
my breath away,” he used to whisper, watching her sleep. He’d rest his hand on
her belly to feel her breathing, and she’d smile the content smile of a newborn
while I watched in awe.
Tears
gather as I try to collect myself from this all-consuming hallucination: my
world before the car accident.
“Mama,”
slips from Abby’s pink lips, and I panic to think she’s caught me lingering,
crying, again. It’s a fleeting worry, stifled by her rousing grumble and
diminished when she rolls over, kicking the covers, mumbling, “Push me higher,
Mama.”
I will, I
swear I will.
Taking the
cue, I blindly make my way through the onslaught of toys, shuffling out and
into my bedroom to tug on baggy flannels. Hiding BOB in a drawer along with
unwanted thoughts of Adonis, I pick another stray hair off my shoulder. I used
to have beautiful hair, rich chocolate brown, long, thick, and bone straight.
Shortly after the funeral the luster disappeared and my clothes and hairbrush
were covered in hairs jumping ship. Doc said stress can do many things to our
bodies, and my hair took a beating. I wash my face and lean over the sink to
get a closer look at my head. The collision at the teacher open house has left
a plum-size purple bruise above my right eye, and between the bruise and the
hair, I look about as good as I feel.
Get a grip
, says the
woman in the mirror. She’s someone unrecognizable.
An unruly
laugh escapes me. I laugh again, intentionally this time, trying to mimic the
noise, but it sounds fabricated, so I give up the charade. Popping a Tylenol, I
turn off the light and shimmy into bed, determined to start afresh in the
morning, no more tears.
I need to
accept Meyer’s gone, that I’m alone, again. I need to move on with my life. For
my sanity. For Abby. I suck in a deep breath. I can do this. I’ve survived on
my own my whole life, through some pretty bad shit. What’s another twenty years
of motherhood?
I drift
into sleep, in search of thoughts vastly dislocated from my current life.
Who
am I fooling
is my last conscious thought.
“Meyer,
slow down
.” Buildings are flying by, colors blurring.
“You’re gonna hit something.”
Meyer
flashes me an as-if grin. His sandy-blond hair blows in the wind. His face, usually
clean shaven, shows signs of his mad-dash to the office for some forgotten
report that couldn’t wait until Monday. He’s in a rush, on an adrenaline high.
Today is Abby’s birthday party, her fifth, and he’s late.
My stomach
does somersaults. “Slow down, please . . .”
My voice
fades into the distance, and the car seems to dissolve. Suddenly I’m cold and
the view from the window has come to a complete halt.
“Lady,
shut it and drive.” The voice is rough, male, not Meyer’s.
Heavy
breathing pounds my right ear. My head is pinned against the headrest, and if I
move, the knife against my throat will surely hurt me, so I look straight
ahead, watching the rain hit pavement then pounce into the night air. My heart
skips time with the idling of the engine. A lack of oxygen distorts the view.
“Drive,”
he says.
I open my
mouth to scream but nothing comes out. I’m far from home, I think. My
headlights are the only fragments of light, the only sign of life. I catch a
glimpse of a rain-blackened sign through the half open window, and a fresh wave
of panic overtakes me. Nothing good happens in a junkyard at this hour.