Immortal Mine

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “Hey,” I say, stepping into the room as she minimizes the window she had open.

  “Hey, yourself. Did you have fun?”

  “I really did,” I say. “I’d kind of forgotten how much fun it is just to hang out with the girls.”

  “Yeah, well, cute boys will always turn your head, won’t they?”

  I glance at her, hearing the slight edge in her voice. But she’s smiling at me, no malice reflected on her face.

  “You’re calling Sam cute? Since when do you give him compliments?”

  She laughs, shuts down the computer, and walks over to me. “I don’t like that an immortal is anywhere near my granddaughter, but... he’s not a bad guy, overall.”

  “Huh.”

  “‘Huh’ what?” she asks.

  “Two compliments. Without any irony, I might add.”

  “Should we change the subject while it’s still good?” she says with a wry grin.

  “Good idea,” I say. “My friends are having a surprise birthday party for me on Friday.”

  “If it’s a surprise, how do you know?” she asks, looking at me sideways as she opens a cabinet to pull a glass out.

  “They’ve had one for every person who’s turned eighteen this year. There’s only one more after me.”

  “Ah, gotcha,” she says, filling her glass with water.

  “Is that... necessary?” I ask, eyeing the glass as she tips it up against her mouth.

  “What? Water?”

  “Yeah. I mean, you can’t die, right?”

  “No, I can’t die,” she says sardonically. “But I can be pretty miserable if I don’t eat and drink.”

  “Sam says you can’t get fat.”

  “Really?” She sounds surprised.

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. That’s good news. In that case,” she pauses with her hand above the plate of cookies we made the other day, “may I?”

  I laugh and wave permission toward her.

  “What do you want for your birthday, Niahm?” Her question is casual as she sits at the table, but my stomach clenches as I prepare my response, one I’ve been thinking about for a while now. I sit across from her, one foot propped beneath me as I rock back and forth minutely with nerves.

  “I was thinking that maybe, since I have a long weekend with it being the end of the quarter and all, that you and I could drive to the city. We could stay there and, I don’t know, shop, go to a movie, eat out, things like that.”

  Jean stops with the cookie poised halfway to her mouth and stares at me. She lowers the cookie back to the plate and swallows loudly.

  “Just you and me?”

  “Well, yeah.” I look at the table, trace an imaginary pattern on it. “I thought it might be kind of fun, you know? Just to kind of get away, get to... get to know each other a little better.”

  When she doesn’t say anything I glance up and see her watching me, her hand at her throat, tears shining in her eyes and a small up-tilting at the corners of her mouth. My breath is pulled from me as I realize how very much she looks like my mother.

  “I think that sounds absolutely wonderful,” she says, her voice not far above a whisper.

  I nod, and without another word walk to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Goodnight,” I say, looking back to see her standing in the same position. I hurry up the stairs, and into my room, closing the door behind me as my breath whooshes out. The enormity of my request is no more lost on me than on her. Basically, I’ve just asked her to stay in my life.

  Jean.

  My grandma.

  Chapter 48

  Niahm

  “No need for so much subterfuge, Sam, I know what you’re up to.”

  “Maybe I’m having fun,” he says, kissing me before putting the bandana across my eyes. “I’ve never been part of a surprise party before.”

  I pull the bandana up so I can look at him. “Really? Never?”

  “Don’t feel bad for me,” he says, tugging the blindfold back into place. “I’ve done and seen a lot of things most people never get to in their lifetime.” When I open my mouth to say something, he lays a finger across my lips. “Not all of it has been bad,” he chuckles.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” I grumble.

  “At least pretend you’re having a good time,” he says, leading me to the truck. “Don’t be a fun vortex.”

  “A fun vortex?” I ask, squeaking in surprise when he sweeps me up into his arms and plants me in the truck.

  “A quagmire?” he asks before slamming the door closed. When he opens his door on the other side, I turn my head toward him—a waste of time since I can’t see anything. “Black hole?” he says as I hear him climb up into the truck and close his own door behind him. I’m grinning, but refuse to give him an answer. “Quick sand? Vampire?”

  I laugh at the last one. “How am I a vampire?”

  “They suck the life out of everything, right?”

  I punch in his general direction and completely miss. He laughs and pulls my hand into his, giving a little tug to encourage me to scoot closer, which I gladly do. The gesture brings to mind something I’ve been meaning to ask him.

  “Hey, Sam, what’s the deal with your hands?”

  “What?” I can hear the confusion in his voice.

  “The heat thing,” I say, and feel him stiffen next to me. “It doesn’t happen all the time, only sometimes. I just wondered what causes that, or do you even know?”

  I can feel the rigidity in him, feel his hesitancy to answer.

  “I’m not going to like the answer, am I?” I ask.

  “Probably not,” he says, voice strained.

  “Then don’t tell me yet.” I can’t see it, but I can sense his head turning my way. “I mean, I still want to know, I guess.” That’s a bit of an understatement. His absolute tension has me more curious than ever. “But let’s wait until after the party. I don’t want to suck any more fun from your night,” I tease. He doesn’t respond, other than a slight tightening of his hand on mine. My curiosity ratchets up to worry.

  My party is the same as every other party thrown for everyone who’s turned eighteen before me this school year, down to the recycled party decorations. It’s fun anyway. All the seniors are there along with the juniors and sophomores as well. Stacy’s mom baked the cake, and most everyone else brought something their moms made as well. It’s sort of like the junior version of the after-church potlucks. We play music, dance, and laugh at the boys who suck the helium from the balloons and sing in chipmunk voices, and underneath it all is Sam’s edginess, making it hard for me to concentrate on my friends.

  Whatever the heat thing is, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me, but he will. He can’t lie about it. And I’m suddenly not sure if I really want to know. I try to imagine what it can be, but have no idea where to take that imagining. What comes after immortality?

  Finally, years later, or what feels like years, everyone leaves. No one has a curfew when we have an event like this, so it’s 2 a.m. before we finally head back out to Sam’s truck. Sam is reluctant to be alone with me if his body language is any indication.

  We drive toward my home, but before we get there, he pulls off the side of the road down a small dirt path. He turns toward me and in the ambient light I can see the stress written in every line of his face. He really doesn’t want to tell me.

  “All right, spill,” I try to tease, though my voice comes out wavering and nearly as tense as he is.

  He takes my hand in his, and slides his thumb up and down across the back of my hand, watching the action. “You sure?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer honestly. When I don’t say anything else he looks up at me and blows out a resigned breath.

  “Most immortals develop a kind of... skill, I guess, after they become immortal.”

  “What kind of skill?” I ask, confused as to what this has to do with his hot hands.

  “Depends. It’s di
fferent with everyone. Usually an immortal begins to develop the skill before they become immortal; they just don’t recognize it for what it is.”

  I think about his words. “You mean, like, flying or... or someone who can grant wishes?”

  He smiles—it’s a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I haven’t met anyone who can fly or grant wishes. Which, by the way, is a strange place for your imagination to have gone. No genies among immortals.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “So what kinds of things are you talking about, then, since you’re not exactly being forthcoming with information here.”

  “I’ve known immortals who are incredibly strong, or who can move things just by thinking about them. Some can start fire with their hands, or create ice. I knew one who could transport from place to place, but not through time. And some,” he pauses, pushing his hand against mine until we are palm to palm, threading his fingers through mine, “some can read minds.”

  That strange heat begins, intense, and I decide he must be the fire creating guy.

  “Nope, not fire,” he says.

  Guess it was easy to figure out what I was thinking.

  “It’s never easy to figure out what you’re thinking, Niahm.”

  My eyes widen as realization hits. “You can read minds?” I ask.

  “Yes... and no,” he says. “What I can do is more being able to see what’s in someone’s mind. I can see everything a person has ever done, or thought, every conversation they’ve ever had. I can see what they’re thinking.” He glances at our hands again. “But only if I’m touching them. Particularly if I’m touching their hand.”

  I follow his gaze to our hands, my mind processing his words. If he can see what someone is thinking just by touching—I rip my hand from his, suddenly feeling very exposed.

  “The heat?” I ask.

  “I can always feel the heat, but usually the other person can’t. I was surprised the first time you told me you felt it.”

  His words freeze me. The first time? I try to think back to the first time I felt the heat... at the movie, in the dark, the first time he held my hand.

  “You can see everything? Know everything?”

  “Yes, even things the person has forgotten.”

  “So every time you were holding my hand, every time I could feel that heat between our hands... you were...” I look up at him, betrayal saturating every pore in my body, “spying on me?”

  “No, Niahm, I wasn’t... well, perhaps I was. I didn’t mean to hurt—”

  I push away from him to the opposite side of the truck, horrified.

  “You had no right.” I push the words out, an angry whisper.

  “Niahm, please, I—”

  “No! No, Sam, you don’t have an excuse for this one. This wasn’t a lack of planning, or not thinking what a moments action might do to me like when you—” The vision of him turning the gun on himself rips through my mind and I shake my head, trying to clear it. “This was something you planned for, something you did continually, over and over, stealing my privacy. You didn’t give me the chance to decide whether I wanted you to know something or not. You just took it.”

  He holds a hand toward me in supplication, misery on his face. I stare at his hand in horror. As if realizing what the gesture must mean to me, he drops his hand back to his side.

  “Niahm,” he says, despair heavy in his voice. Nothing more. Just my name.

  “I wasn’t sure, Sam, if I could deal with everything.” I laugh sardonically. “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  He shakes his head mournfully.

  “There isn’t much I can tell you that you don’t already know, is there? Except this: I will never forgive you for this, Sam. All this time, you’ve known exactly what to say, exactly what to do that would make me happy, make me love you, when you didn’t deserve it. Trust is a pretty big issue with me—as I’m sure you know.” I can’t keep the mocking sarcasm from my words. Then again, I don’t really care to. “You went into my head, without permission, and you took everything from me.” I pull the handle, opening the door. “I have nothing else to give.” I slide out of the truck, slamming the door behind me.

  Sam shoves his own door open, right behind me as I stalk toward my house, my arms folded tightly against my chest, against the heartbreak that I can feel coming. He reaches out, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “Niahm, please, let me—”

  I swing around on him, shoving his hand from me with all the fury flowing through me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I growl, putting all the anger I can into my words. “Don’t ever come near me again. You said you’d go away if I asked it. Go away, Sam. Go away and never come back.”

  I harden my heart against the pain on his face and turn away from him. He doesn’t follow me this time as I hurry away.

  Chapter 49

  Niahm

  Stacy rides to the city with us. She’d been planning to go anyway for some college interviews, was just waiting for her mom to have time to take her. I offered for her to ride with us. She promised to keep out of our hair for the weekend and let us have our “bonding time” as she called it. She was going to get a motel room even, but that was silly. Jean has a house there, with plenty of room for her to stay with us. Much safer, too.

  Some of my joy in the trip has been taken by Sam’s revelation. I haven’t told Jean what happened. I’m sure she knows something is up, but she hasn’t asked. I’m a little leery of her, wondering what her power is. Stacy just thinks that Sam and I broke up. I told her that he and Shane were going to be moving away from Goshen.

  I’m furious with Sam, and that’s the only thing holding me together. If I let go of that, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart. So I’m holding it tightly. My mom always told me that anger shouldn’t be a bedfellow, but I can’t help it.

  When we get to the house, Jean gives Stacy a key to her second car sitting in the small garage behind the house. Stacy has an appointment with counselors at a couple different colleges. Her phone has GPS, so Jean isn’t too worried about her. We make plans to meet her later for dinner, over Stacy’s protests that that hardly keeps her away from our weekend.

  “Well,” Jean says, “what do you want to do today?”

  “Shop,” I say immediately. In my agitated mood, I have a strong desire to spend money on myself. This trait I know I get from my mom.

  “I know just the place,” she grins.

  We bundle up and she takes me to an open air mall that sprawls across three city blocks. We buy new clothes, shoes, and spring jackets. Then we stop in front of a day spa.

  “Let’s go in,” I say. Jean shrugs and follows me through the tall glass doors. We decide to spoil ourselves and get both a manicure and a pedicure. As we’re sitting in the massaging recliners with our feet soaking in the scented water, I look over to where there are a few women having their hair done. I look at Jean.

  “You should get your hair done,” I say.

  She grimaces. “I don’t think there’s much they can do with this,” she says without lifting her eyes from the magazine in her lap, lifting a frazzled gray portion of her hair and dropping it back to her shoulder.

  “They can color it back to what it’s supposed to be,” I say.

  Her gaze snaps to mine. Her eyes narrow slightly, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind my words.

  “Why would I want to do that?” she asks slowly.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” I counter. “I mean, most women color their hair nowadays. How many grandmas actually have gray hair?”

  She continues to watch me then finally shakes her head.

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Everyone knows me with the gray hair. If I suddenly show up looking... well, younger, that might raise some suspicions.”

  “C’mon, no one will think anything. We came to the city to have fun, went to the spa, got our hair done. I’ll get mine done also so it doesn’t get too much notice.”
She still looks unsure, so I say, “Please. For me?”

  She sighs, giving in. “Alright.”

  I grin.

  Jean dyes her hair brown with lighter highlights at my urging, and I add highlights to mine. As the hairdresser’s getting ready to trim my hair, Sam’s face flashes before my eyes, my hand heating phantomlike. I decide to cut my hair off. Or maybe not quite off, but so that it resides just below my shoulders. Jean just raises her brows at my request, but says nothing.

  When we’re done, I look pretty much the same with shorter hair, but Jean looks amazing. I can definitely tell that she’s my mom’s mom, but it’s not painful for me to look at her, her features just different enough. She’s actually very beautiful.

  Stacy meets us for dinner and oohs and ahs over our hair and nails. We all head back to the house, and Stacy heads immediately for her room to call her mom with news about her interviews. I go and sit by Jean on the couch where she’s reading a book.

  “Fun day,” I say.

  “It really was,” she answers, putting her book down next to her. “Thank you, Niahm. I know I don’t deserve to have such a fun day with you, but thank you, anyway.”

  My heart sinks at her words. She thought she had to walk away from her family to protect them from what she is, and has spent all this time living alone. When she finally does reconnect with a family member—me—she gets nothing but rejection and hatred. Tired of trying to maintain all my anger at her, I scoot closer and lean against her shoulder. She tenses for a moment, before relaxing, leaning her cheek against the top of my head.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so awful,” I say.

  “Niahm, you haven’t—” She cuts herself off at my grunt. “You had a right to be,” she says.

  “No, I didn’t. I can understand now why you felt you had to leave. I think in that same situation, anyone would do the same thing. But you came back. For me. And I’ve only made it hard for you. You’re my family, all I’ve got left. I don’t want you to go away again.”

  Jean’s hand covers mine, and I can feel her shaking with emotion.