A Keeper's Truth (18 page)

“At a café
downtown, the new one next door to that fancy spa.” Reluctance overthrows my
attempt at disclosure and I stop, picking at a button on my coat. Do I really
want to publicize my insanity? I take a deep breath. “He was leaning on a stool
by the front window.”

“What did
he look like? Had you seen him before?”

“No. I’ve
seen many things but nothing quite like him.”

Bryce’s
eyes push for more.

“Well, he
was a big guy. Muscular I mean. Dark skinned, strange tattoos covering most of
his body.” I hesitate, waiting for them to notice I’ve mentioned physical
details without alluding to clothing. “His hair was black, shoulder length, and
curly. I didn’t see much of his face at first. He was making out with—”

“There was
a woman with him!” Bryce roars, losing all composure.

Thomas’s
hands fly to his head again, his feet pacing in nervous circles that throw snow
into mini drifts.

“I don’t
understand why you guys are freaking out. It was a figment of my imagination. A
daydream. A vision. I was the only one to see them, and Karen was standing
right beside me!”

Thomas
speaks through clenched teeth. “Did he see you?”

“No . . .
yes . . . maybe. I don’t know!” My head is spinning. “He just
looked at me and snarled.”

Thomas:
“Fuck.”

Bryce: “What
did you do?”

“When I
looked back he was gone, my daydream was over. There was a guy who looked like
him, sort of, but he walked out and down the street. So I left the café with
Karen.”

“And the
woman? The one with him,” Bryce urges.

“They were
both gone.”

“What
makes you think he was a vampire?”

“I don’t.
Or didn’t. I don’t know. He didn’t have two pointy teeth like you see in
movies. His set was needle thin and sharp. He didn’t have red eyes or white
skin and there wasn’t any blood. I’m not sure why a vampire came to mind. You
can’t possibly think that what I saw that day was real, can you?”

“Don’t you
dare, Bryce,” warns Thomas.

Bryce
looks at me, his expression professional, calculated. “Remember what I told you
on Halloween? Vampires are not the creatures embellished by generations of
storytellers. In fact, most vampire stories are birthed from mermaid mythology.
Current day vampire and mermaid tales stem from ancient folklore describing
demons that siphoned souls, robbing the living of their energy, aura, or chi.
Over the years, blood was dubbed one’s lifeline, one’s essence, spurring the
notion that these demons sucked blood. Nothing could be further from the truth.
They are people, humans, souls of a different time, an ancient era. They are
old souls who have forgotten their purpose, lost their grip on humanity.”

I’m lost
and this charade is getting more ludicrous by the minute.

“You think
he was a mermaid?”

“A lost
soul. His tattoos, did they depict water?”

“Yeah. But
he had legs.”

“Myths,
Tess. Fairies, vampires, witches, mermaids, they are all but tidbits of facts
from a time long before the written word. Witches are just people capable of
tapping into natural psychic abilities. Mermaids were human beings who adapted
to aquatic life when the alternative was death. And vampires are nothing but
manifestations of ancient folklore retold in a gothic age. All are human beings
with old souls. Lost souls.”

“Fuck,
Bryce, no more,” Thomas yells from across the yard. “You’re gonna scare the
shit out of her!”

“She needs
to learn, Thomas, you know that. You of all people know that.”

My whole
body starts to tremble.

“He was
real?” I gag on the word, “Alive?”

“Nothing
dead walks,” says Bryce. “But real isn’t the right way to put it. Lost souls
are just people, alive and real as you and me. Only their souls are tainted,
marred, angry. And you can see the soul within.”

“No more!”
barks Thomas. His long legs make quick strides across the lawn.

A wave of
nausea crashes over me and I shake my head, trying to dislodge images from the
café. That man, that thing, was someone’s soul? How is that possible? What does
that mean? And why is my body reacting this way? Why am I not laughing like
this is all a big joke? Why do I feel, deep in my marrow, that this is a truth
I’ve known all along? My forehead rolls against the rough stone of the house
while voices argue around me. I’ve had too much to drink, that’s it. Stress
combined with alcohol has pushed my imagination into overdrive. I need to go
home. When I wake this will have been a weird dream, an evening of comical
admissions said on an alcoholic high and quickly forgotten.

“I think
I’m gonna hurl.”

“You’ll be
all right,” whispers Bryce.

Thomas
reaches for me. “She will if you leave her alone!”

The door
flies open, almost hitting me, and a large man in a navy suit steps out. “The
party is inside, people!” he bellows, spitting a cloud of stale booze and
cigarettes. More people file out and Bryce adopts a protective front as the
group links arms for the icy trip down the walkway. They’re drunk, stumbling,
and obviously couples, the last stopping every few steps to kiss.

“It’s
midnight folks,” the man in the overcoat sings. “Another year has arrived!”

About
time. I really need a new year. The last one sucked. And frankly, this is a
crappy start to a new one.

I watch
the couples stumble toward the taxi and realize a moment too late that I just
missed a ride.

“We can’t
talk about this here,” Bryce mumbles in my ear.

“I’ve had
too much to drink.” I swear my words are slurred. They must be slurred.

“How many
martinis did I have? I think I had three or four. Maybe five. Over the course
of hours. That’s enough to feel tipsy but not so loaded that
I . . . I’m drugged! Oh my God, that’s it! Someone slipped
something in my drink!”

Bryce shakes
his head. “The martinis aren’t helping, but you are not drugged.”

“Maybe you
are,” says Thomas, “and you’ll wake recalling nothing but a foggy
hallucination.”

“Thomas,”
grumbles Bryce.

“Don’t
Thomas me. She can ignore all this shit.”

“How’s
that working for you?”

Thomas
leers. “She can go back to the way things were.”

“She can’t
and you know it.”

“Bullshit.”

Bryce taps
his thigh with his knuckles. “You are not helping.”

“Didn’t
say I would, Brother. I don’t want you teaching her anything. Leave her alone.”

“She is
stronger than you—”

“Enough,”
I cry out. “If I have to spend one more second in this cold, I’m going to pass
out. I’m going home.”

I wobble
down the stairs, my equilibrium and heels working against me.

Bryce
takes my arm. “I’ll drive you,” he says. “Get some sleep and we’ll talk
tomorrow.”

“I don’t
want you telling her
anything
,” yells Thomas, following us down the
walkway.

“Too bad.
He’s seen her.”

“He got
what he wanted and left. There is no reason for him to stick around.”

Bryce
pauses, supporting my weight while he turns to Thomas. “Call a cab, walk,
drive, but go home. There is nothing we can do or say in the middle of the
night that will make a difference. We’ll deal with this later.”

At least a
foot of crisp night air separates our bodies as we amble down the path.

Thomas
swears under his breath and stomps up the steps, slamming the front door.

I shudder.

Bryce
sighs.

Think of
the devastation caused by the bombing of Hiroshima, 2004’s Indian Ocean
tsunami, and Cyclone
Nargis
. Now imagine bombs the
size of Texas, tsunamis bigger than Mount Everest, and volcanic ash that has
the entire planet in darkness, all happening at the same time, on every
continent. Total annihilation. If this really happened at any point in Earth’s
history it would be clear why mankind’s past is shrouded in mystery. And yet it
has. We know it has.

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

T
hese are
really quite comical.

The plane
hits a turbulence pocket, almost knocking my cell from my grasp. “Look at this
one,” I say, “you have spit coming out the side of your mouth.” I laugh and
Abby giggles.

“I didn’t
like that ride. The spinning made my tummy hurt.”

“Well,
those ones can do that to you,” I say. “The loud music didn’t help. The pizza,
candy apple, and ice-cream probably didn’t help either.” Abby squirms as I yank
a pigtail. “Check out Gramps’s chair, it looks like it should tip with all
those bags hanging off the back.”

Abby
huddles close, inspecting the photo on my cell. “That one is funny. Grams has
her hat on backwards.” She leaves tiny fingerprints on the screen.

Abby
adjusts her blanket, long limbs dangling awkwardly in the cramped space. Her
eyes grow heavy, reflecting the sunset and cotton candy clouds. Someone close
has a serious case of body odor. I adjust the air knob above Abby’s head and
breathe through my mouth.

I skim
through countless pictures of our day at Animal Kingdom, Magic Kingdom, and
Grams and Gramps’s place, pulling the camera closer to examine Gramps. I’m
shocked to spot the differences between my mind’s perception of him and the
real-life man everyone else sees, the man the camera reveals. Where is the
pride in his posture? Why are those piercing blue eyes sunken, surrounded by
wrinkles I haven’t seen before?

Tears
well, blurring the view.

Our time
here, our very existence, is so limited. A lifetime is nothing but the tiniest
of blips in mankind’s storyline. For all our endeavors, all our
accomplishments, what will be remembered? What do we know about Mesopotamian
lovers, Sumerian geniuses, or Minoan trailblazers? History is a fickle beast,
mutating with changes in culture, politics, and religion. What’s it all for?
Why do we exist? What is our purpose, and do we even have one?

A steward
hovers to my left, smiling. Her twisted skirt and stained blouse confess to
hours of doting on the impatient and nauseated. “Miss, you and your daughter
will need to raise your seats. We’ll be landing soon.”

Life, this
is why we don’t know and don’t care about our history, our purpose. We are
swallowed by the mere effort it takes to get through everyday tasks, to
survive. We breathe, eat, work, sleep, who has time to contemplate why?

I unfurl
Abby’s blanket and dab her chin with my shirtsleeve.

“Abby,
baby, we’re home.”

Abby
approaches consciousness gradually, reassembling body parts from disjointed
positions.

The
landing is uneventful, and before long we’re stretching in front of a circular
baggage belt. My simple black case marked by a bright orange ribbon tumbles
down the chute followed by Abby’s Barbie suitcase. We extend the handles,
steady the wheels, and take off in search of a cab heading west. We’re
following taxi icons through a maze of hallways, bodies, and luggage, when I
navigate to the left and behold a different kind of sign.

I stop
short.

“Thought
you might need a lift,” says Bryce, thrusting his fists into jean pockets. His
coat is on the floor, propped against the wall, and his hair is slightly
disheveled. Something foreign lingers in his eyes, something that worries me
immensely.

“We were
about to catch a cab.”

“Well, now
you don’t have to.” His gaze pans to Abby.

Something
is wrong and whatever it is, it’s not for Abby’s ears.

“All
right,” I say, my reluctance visible. “Thanks.”

Bryce
takes our suitcases and leads the way to the underground parking garage. He is
a catalog of tense body parts, so I follow a few steps behind holding tight to
Abby’s hand. In my head I rekindle thoughts that have plagued me for days.

New Year’s
Eve, after crawling into bed exhausted, I lay staring at the ceiling. I should
have felt anxious, confused, maybe even afraid, but I didn’t feel any of those
things. In fact, every inch of me was overwhelmed with a sense of relief.
Everything was clear, as if I’d discovered a reclusive part of myself, a
knowledge I’d always known existed but didn’t accept or understand. My whole
life I’ve seen unusual things. More so since Meyer’s death. I’ve always pushed
these things from rational thought. To do that, to ignore reality, was a lot of
work. Discovering that my visions might have substance, that I’m not
delusional, that I am not my mother, took a huge weight from my shoulders, and
I slept like the dead.

The
following morning was a whole different story. The full night of rest gave my
common sense a chance to recoup. I recalled Bryce’s words: myths, ancient
souls, lost souls. But what are these things exactly? And this man, or soul, or
whatever I saw—was he dangerous? And if he was, what was he doing to that
woman? Was that woman Sonia? Why could I see them when others, obviously, could
not? And why wasn’t I scared? Or was I?

By
breakfast, pandemonium overwhelmed logic, igniting an innate need to bolt. Abby
and I were in Florida by noon.

“Are you
getting in?” Bryce says, pulling me from my head.

I stand,
lost in a stare of total appreciation while Bryce holds the door to a Porsche
Panamera
, a stunning four-door turbo with glowing aluminum
rims and sleek headlights that scream,
get the hell out of my way.
If
this is the car Bryce drove on New Year’s Eve, I was either too drunk or too
shocked to notice. I climb in.

This car
doesn’t drive; it soars.

The
velvety texture of the leather seat and console distracts me while we ease onto
the highway, but the allure dies when I’m hit with Bryce’s tension, suffocating
me like an avalanche.

“Are you
okay?”

New Year’s
Day it was liberating to have someone know the inner rumblings of my psyche and
not think I need medical care, but I fret about Bryce’s sanity. How does he
know these things? What more could he possibly tell me, and should I believe
him? All the unusual things I’ve noticed about Bryce have filtered through my
brain, fostering more questions. If those weren’t optical illusions and mental
lapses generated by my overstressed wits, what does that make him? Not normal,
that’s for sure. And should I trust him? My heart tugs from the inside out,
insisting I should, but my head says run like hell.

“I didn’t
know you were leaving for Florida,” says Bryce.

“Yet you
managed to meet us at the airport, just as our flight landed.”

I lower
the window in spite of the brisk January bite, and the remainder of the
thirty-minute drive is conducted in a charged silence.

At a fork
in the road, just before the Carlisle Corner Store, Bryce turns left instead of
right. Before I get the chance to protest he addresses Abby in the back seat.
“Hey, kiddo, what do you say about a sleepover at my place with Sofia?”

Abby
tosses the books aside, thrilled with the idea.

I’m livid.

“Excuse
me, but I don’t think you—”

“Please
trust me,” Bryce says softly. “Abby will have fun with Sofia and Nanna, and
I’ve asked Clause to stay so they’re not alone. You can collect Abby whenever
you wish, but you need to believe me when I say she is better off at my house
tonight.”

Something
about his expression scares me.

“Where is
Thomas?”

“Out.”

I look at
my daughter, a restless ball of anticipation bouncing around the back seat.

“Okay,” I
say, and Abby squeals.

I trust
Bryce. For some deeply embedded reason I can’t peg, my entire being believes he
has Abby’s best interest in mind.

Bryce
pulls Abby’s suitcase from the trunk while I walk her to the front door. Nanna
introduces herself, obviously expecting our arrival, and Sofia locks arms with
Abby, brimming with excitement. Nanna is older than I expected, almost
Grams’s
age. She speaks with a heavy accent layered in
obscure adjectives but her smile is infectious and she hugs me smelling of
apple pie and cinnamon. I love her in an instant.

I plant a
wet kiss on Abby’s cheek. “I’ll be back to get you first thing in the morning.”

Abby tugs
Sofia into the house before I can change my mind, and Nanna assures me my
daughter is in good hands. Of this I have no doubt.

“I waited
at the airport over six hours yesterday and five hours today.” These are the
first words out of Bryce’s mouth when I sink back into the leather seat of his
Porsche.

“Why?” My
heart drums so loud it echoes in my ears.

“I didn’t
know when your flight came in. I didn’t know this because I had no clue you’d
left. I only found out when I dropped by your house to talk and discovered you
were gone.” His grip tightens around the steering wheel. “Karen said you took
Abby to visit Meyer’s grandparents, so I stalked every flight returning from
Florida.”

“Why would
you do that? And why are you acting so strange?”

The car
stops in my driveway and Bryce kills the engine before turning to speak to me,
his stare aimed everywhere but my face. “I called you the morning after the
party. I hoped you were able to get a reasonable night’s sleep and would want
to speak with me. You didn’t return my calls.”

“I didn’t
get the travel package on my cell.”

He ignores
me. “I stopped by your house to make sure you were okay. You weren’t home. I
knew this because the front door was ajar, and worried about your safety, I
went inside.”

“Why would
the door be open? I locked it and Karen—”

“Someone
has broken into your house, Tess. It’s quite a mess. And there’s something
else . . .”

It takes
four heartbeats to process his words. I leap from the car taking the walkway at
a full run and skid to a halt at the front steps. Bryce is already there.

“How the
hell did you—”

“I’m
sorry,” he mumbles, opening the door.

I gasp,
dizzy, and step inside.

My living
room couch is flipped onto its side and the coffee table is broken into several
pieces, some strewn about the stairs. The Christmas tree Abby and I
painstakingly decorated with precious ornaments lies flush with the floor, most
of the decorations broken and scattered around the perimeter.

I’m numb
from head to toe. The scene before me is incomprehensible, surreal. My body
gravitates to the tree and I drop, groping for pieces of my life. The top half
of my purple ballerina is crushed.

“Who would
do this?” I mutter.

I stand in
the center of my living room, turning in circles. Decorative pillows have been
torn open. White feathers float on every surface, making the entire setting a
demented outdoor wonderland. Plants are tipped over, dark soil offering a
drastic contrast to the pristine down, and chips of pottery jut at odd angles.
Pictures have been thrown about the room leaving broken glass in their wake and
every wall naked. A cold breeze whips past. The window to my left is broken, a
small puddle of melted snow curdling a semicircle of hardwood flooring and
window trim.

I peer
into the adjacent room. Food, dishes, and appliances have been pulled out of
every cupboard, smashed, and abandoned across the floor. Chairs are toppled
over and several have streaks of what looks like mustard and salsa across them.
There is no odor. It’s too cold.

Bryce
stands a few feet away, hunched. His every feature screams sorrow and concern
as he watches me take in the destruction.

It is
difficult to find the words to say or a train of thought to hold on to. I’m
angry. I feel violated. I feel as if someone has ripped open my insides leaving
me exposed and raw.

“What the
hell happened here? It doesn’t even look like anything was stolen. Who would do
this? And where’s Maxi?” I inhale sharply. The door to the mudroom hangs by a
top hinge.

The
mudroom. Where Maxi sleeps.

“Tess.”
Bryce stops me mid-lunge.

After a
moment’s hesitation, I rest a quivering hand in his, and he leads me through
the chaos, toward the stairs. A glimpse of gold fur peeks out from behind the
loveseat. My knees buckle and I sidestep until I hit the stairway and fall,
clutching the railing with both hands.