Ashes of Another Life (2 page)

Sometimes, unbidden, a vision of the chapel would enter her mind, its white brick steeple shining like a beacon of salvation atop the hill overlooking Sweet Springs. Gazing up at the tall arched windows used to fill her with warmth, as if God himself were inside the church looking out upon his chosen people.

Now, she was an outsider. Even worse, she was an outsider to the outsiders. She hadn’t heard any of the music the other kids listened to, or seen the movies they watched. She’d never owned a CD or played a video game. Even the things they learned in school were different from what she’d been taught. There were huge gaps in her education, especially where Science and History were concerned, and she was trying to fill them all at once.

Fighting back tears every minute of the day had left her with a constant, dull headache and a loneliness that made her
want
to talk to somebody. Yet, she couldn’t tell Ms. Martinez what had been bothering her.

Could I?

“It’s just that…” She stopped twiddling her thumbs and bit down on her lip, too hard. She winced as a dull copper flavor filled her mouth.

“Yes, honey, what is it? You can tell me.”

She sighed. “It’s been a year since the—” She gulped. “Since the—”

“The fire,” Ms. Martinez said in a soft and comforting tone. The word itself was anything but comforting, but Tara Jane was relieved to avoid saying it, if only for a few more seconds.

The school counselor’s deep, brown eyes urged the young girl to continue, head nodding.

“Yes… it’s been a year since the, you know,
the fire
.” Tara Jane forced herself to say it. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself to keep from trembling. “And suddenly…. I can
feel
them. Everywhere I go, all around me. Sometimes I see them, but only for a second.”

Ms. Martinez sat with her fingers locked together. Her stylish black hair was tucked behind her ears, and Tara Jane realized with fascination that they were
pierced
ears. Her eyes lingered on the golden studs as they glimmered in the overhead light. She was still adjusting to the idea of women decorating their bodies. It was a beautiful and frightening thing.

“What do you mean you can ‘see’ them? You can ‘feel’ them? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Tara Jane bit her lip again. It was sore so she let go and gnawed the soft inner tissue instead. How could she explain it so that Ms. Martinez would understand? The
feel
of her family—it was something a person had to experience in order to comprehend.

She had lived, not as an individual, but as an organ in a much larger structure—
her family.
Each family member had done his or her part without question, the spinning gears of a greater mechanism, a biological machine. The mothers cranked out baby after baby to ensure their machine was powerful, well-oiled. A baby factory—that’s what it felt like.

As a child, she’d dreamed of running away, but deep down she’d always known—no distance would be great enough. She belonged to them. They’d find her.

An unwelcome thought formed in her mind.
The arms of death cannot keep them at bay.
She gulped and hugged herself tighter. She tried to smooth her goose-pimpled skin with a gentle rub of her hands, but it only made the bumps raise up higher.

“I can’t really explain it,” she said. “I just… I
feel
them. It’s been happening for a few days, but it’s getting stronger.” She frowned.

I must sound crazy.

The counselor only nodded as if it made perfect sense.

“And then there’s the nightmares…”

“Nightmares?” Tiny crinkles formed in the center of Ms. Martinez’s perfectly arched eyebrows. She shook her head. “That’s why you haven’t been sleeping.” Her dark brown eyes watched Tara Jane, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

A flood of thoughts raced through Tara Jane’s mind:
I’m not supposed to be here. This is wrong. This is not my world.

Then she caught herself admiring Ms. Martinez’s soft, olive skin.

No, somewhere along the line, my people got it wrong.

Nonwhites were the most evil of all outsiders. That’s what she’d been raised to believe. Yet it couldn’t be true. It just
couldn’t
. God could never overlook a heart so tender as Ms. Martinez’s, a woman filled with such kindness for others.

There is room for Gentiles in heaven
.
There must be.

She hugged herself tighter. She took a deep breath and let it out. She was tired and desperately needed some sleep. Maybe talking about the dream would help.

“In the dream, I open my eyes and I’m lying on the lawn of my old house. At first I’m not facing the house, but after fourteen years of playing on that lawn, I’d recognize it anywhere. All I can think is
I am home
.”

Tara Jane shivered. Her jaw faintly rattled, but she pressed on. “The grass is damp and itchy against my skin. Moist grass clippings cling to my face and I rub them away, blinking hard. When I open my eyes,
they
are standing there. Just
standing there
in a circle over me, looking down.”

“Your family.”

“Yes. Not all of them, but a dozen or so. They smell of burned flesh. It’s overwhelming, and I gag. I’ve had this dream enough times to recall the exact smell and remember how my eyes began to water at the stench. I want to cover my nose, but I don’t. I just stare up at them in fear.

“Their blackened skin is split open, peeling away in chunks to expose bloody muscle tissue. Some of their eyes are melted shut; others don’t have eyes anymore, but the worst are the eyes that are perfectly preserved. They bulge from the sockets as if forever trapped in a moment of terror. I try to recognize their faces, but the moonlight is dim and their features have been stripped away like melted dolls.” Tara Jane paused when she noticed the guidance counselor struggling to maintain her composure. She blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone into detail.”

“No, please. I’d like to hear the whole thing, exactly as you dreamed it.”

“Okay. Let’s see… They reach down and wrap their charred fingers around me and yank me into a standing position. My skin sizzles and blisters where they touch me, but the pain is nothing compared to my fear. I’m standing in front of my old house as it crackles with flames. Heatwaves cause my vision to dance as scorching-hot fingers are prodding me forward from behind, toward the open door.”

“I see.” Ms. Martinez lowered her voice, as if she didn’t really want to ask the next question. “And then what happens?”

“They push me and pull me, a sea of burned bodies coming at me from all sides, forcing me toward the open door of the burning house. When I first started having the nightmare, I would wake up before we reached it.”

“And now?”

“Lately, I get hurled past the threshold of the house before I wake up. Thrown into the fire while the rest of them shamble through the door to join me. For a minute, I can feel the pain. So much pain.”

“Poor girl,” the woman whispered, and then straightened her posture, eyes suddenly alert as if she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “I thought for sure the medicine they prescribed would help to ease your trauma…”

“I don’t take it.”

Ms. Martinez cocked her head and scrunched her dark, thin eyebrows. “Oh, sweetie, why? The medicine can soothe your anxiety and make it easier to talk about things, to work through these issues…”

“I—” Tara Jane paused for a moment, considering the best way to explain her position to a Gentile. Even the word “Gentile” proved how different her mind worked than the average American and how alienated she’d been her whole life. Someone recently explained to Tara Jane that the word itself was rarely—if ever—used in conversation anymore. And yet, it was a regular part of her vocabulary growing up.

“I don’t feel comfortable taking
pills
.”

When the counselor’s only response was a blank stare, she continued. “Father hated pills. He often preached against them. I remember when his second wife, Betty, visited a doctor and got a prescription for anti-depressants. Father was angry when he found out, but he didn’t punish Betty. He said God would do the punishing for him. Six months later, Betty got ovarian cancer and couldn’t bear his children anymore. God frowns on those who turn to medicine over prayer; it signifies a weak constitution. Those are Father’s words, not mine, but part of me still believes it.”

“Oh, sweetie. That was just a coincidence.”

“Then there was the incident with mother. Father
did
punish her when he found out she’d been taking pills to keep from having babies.” Tara Jane felt her cheeks flush with blood. “I’d never seen Father so angry. Mother had defied one of the most important rules set down by the prophet. He punished her, and after that, she didn’t take the pills anymore. She got pregnant twice more and died during childbirth the second time. Father said it was God’s revenge for her disobedient nature.”

“Do
you
think it was?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think God would take my mother as a punishment, no. It just doesn’t seem right. But medicine… it scares me to take it, all the same.”

“I understand. And I think we’ve made progress today, just talking. You’re really opening up, and I appreciate it, but Tara Jane, I have to admit: The nightmares, the loss of appetite, the feeling of being watched. These are all symptoms of PTSD that can be
treated
.” She stood and began to walk around her desk, signifying the end of their meeting. “Will you do me a favor? Will you think about it, really consider trying the meds, and then come and see me first thing tomorrow?”

Tara Jane nodded. She pushed out of the chair and steadied herself against the desk, feeling a bit woozy for a moment. She really
did
need to eat something if the simple act of standing was becoming a chore.

She sighed. She passed an open window, and suddenly her breath hitched in her throat. She caught a glimpse of something, off in the distance. There one second, gone the next, on the edge of the parking lot. Her spine stiffened, familiar bumps on her skin.

She blinked hard, but nothing was there. Only parked cars, an empty sports field with green grass swaying, and the lingering sensation that something out there had its eyes fixed on her.

Chapter Three

The ringing of Casey Wendell’s phone took her by surprise. Her ash-blond hair, hanging in a stylish bob halfway down her neck, swung to the side as she jolted upright, plucked from deep thought. A collage of paperwork stirred, corners flapping. The pen she’d been chewing on clattered to the desk, a pink lipstick stain ringing its gnawed plastic end.

It was her desk phone, not her cell, so it would be business-related. She took a moment to adjust herself, straightening her jacket as if the caller could see her. She lifted the receiver. “Casey Wendell speaking.” She eyed the open file in front of her. She’d been mulling over the Sweet Springs reports and lost track of time again. She frowned, picked up a photo and let it flutter back down.

“Ms. Wendell. This is Vanessa Martinez,” said the caller.

A long silence. Where did she know that name? The coffee machine in the break room was on the fritz again, and with no caffeine to sort out the millions of thoughts in her head, her brain had gone into auto-pilot mode.

“I’ve been working with Tara Jane Brewer.”

Recognition dawned on her. Martinez was a budding therapist who visited schools and counseled teens whose needs went beyond “troubled youth.” The courts had placed the latest Sweet Springs escapee in her care, in addition to appointing a psychiatrist, whose name also slipped Casey’s mind at the moment. She really needed some coffee.

From an open file on the desk, the young girl’s pensive eyes stared up at her. She had already been thinking about Tara Jane when the phone rang. “Ms. Martinez. It’s good to hear from you.” She was suddenly tense, nerves set on edge. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

“The girl is fine. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m just wondering if there’s been any news from her… well, her
community
.” She sugar-coated the truth for propriety’s sake, but Casey sensed the reluctance in her voice, her tongue tripping over that last word.

“Ah, yes. The dastardly cult.” She heard Martinez gasp, ever so slightly, then chuckle under her breath. Casey wasn’t one for political correctness when she sensed she could get by without it. “They’re pushing for full custody, and most likely, they’ll get it. It will take a while, but it’s possible she’ll have to go back. She has extended family there, and they want her to come home.” A couple seconds ticked by, then she added, “They always do.”

Tension oozed from the phone. The counselor’s voice sounded choked, nearly exasperated. “But how? How can our justice system allow her to return to such an awful place?”