For This Life Only

by Stacey Kade

  “You’re her little bitch now?” Caleb asked, rolling to a sitting position before spitting blood. His teeth were pink with it.

  I lunged toward him, my heartbeat pounding like a drum in my ears.

  But Thera stepped between us.

  “Not unless you want to be in the back of a squad car,” she hissed at me, her hand flat on my chest.

  It took me a second to process what she meant. Then, in the distance, I heard the growing wail of sirens.

  Fighting in a public place. That would definitely get back to my dad if the cops caught us and made it official.

  I nodded at Thera and she lowered her hand. We started toward her car.

  “That’s right, run like a little pussy,” Caleb shouted after me.

  I tensed.

  “Let’s go.” Thera opened the passenger-side door and pushed me toward the opening.

  I flipped Caleb the finger—see if he thought it was so funny this time—and got in.

  And when I shut the door, in the side-view mirror I saw Matt and Corey, our right fielder, scrambling out of Caleb’s car to pull him off the ground.

  Good. I hadn’t been as outmatched as I’d felt. I smiled, and pain, emerging from the blanket of adrenaline, ricocheted between all the hot spots on my face.

  My gaze shifted to my own reflection in the mirror.

  Blood dripped steadily out of my swollen nose; I could taste it, coppery and sour in my mouth, now that I was paying attention. My right eye was puffy and bruised-looking already, and there was a gash beneath my left that was adding to the blood flow.

  “Shit.” I looked like a Halloween mask. And the ache in my previously injured left arm and leg was sharpening with every second that passed. I had really pushed myself too far this time.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought too,” Thera said as she pulled away from Dog ’N’ Suds.

  “I can’t go home like this,” I said, feeling a surge of panic. “Sarah will freak. She’s got this obsession with death and dying. If I show up—”

  “First, let’s get the bleeding stopped,” Thera said, not even flinching as the police cars sped past us in the opposite direction. “I think you left about half of your blood in the parking lot. There should be napkins in the glove box.”

  I opened it and grabbed a handful of them, leaving bloody fingerprints all over everything. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  “And there might be some gauze left in the first-aid kit. I didn’t have a chance to replace the Band-Aids yet.”

  I bent forward to look for the kit, trying to keep the blood from dripping all over her car, and tentatively applied the napkins to my nose. It had been so long since I’d been punched in the face, I’d forgotten how much it hurt. My eyes were watering from the pain, which upgraded to agony the second I touched my face.

  “You know, it would be nice if we could go somewhere once without someone needing medical attention,” Thera said as I fumbled for the gauze inside the kit.

  “Twice is a pattern?” I asked, my voice muffled.

  “It seems like more than a coincidence,” she said. “You didn’t need to do that, you know. I’m used to Caleb and a lot worse. I can handle it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” I pushed the gauze into my nose. Not a great look, but it would help.

  “Defending my honor, were you?” she asked in an acid tone that told me there was definitely a wrong answer to that question.

  “No, shutting him up was all about him. He’s an asshole.” The car took a pothole, jostling my hand against my nose. “Ow, damn it,” I said through my teeth. “And I used to be more like him than I’d like to remember.”

  “But what good does it do? He’s going to have that much more to prove the next time he sees either one of us,” Thera pointed out.

  “He’ll think twice about it first, that’s the good it does,” I snapped.

  “Too bad you bought that good with your face. I think that cut under your eye might need stitches.”

  I shook my head and regretted it immediately when the pain roared to new heights. “No, no way. If we go to the ER, they’ll call my parents. If we just butterfly it, I can tell them I slipped in the hall or—”

  “I don’t have any butterfly bandages, Jace,” she said.

  “I think I saw a CVS on the way here. . . .”

  She gave a disbelieving laugh. “That’s not going to fix this.” Her hand moved in a gesture that encompassed the mess that was presumably me.

  I looked down at myself, at the blood and dirt in smears all over my coat and jeans. My shirt, under my open coat, was worse in terms of blood splatter.

  “Shit,” I muttered again.

  Thera sighed. “I have an idea.” She did not sound happy about it. “We have butterfly bandages at my house, I think. And one of those stain stick things. We could go there, get you cleaned up.”

  It was a solid plan, one that solved the problem, but from her tone, you’d think she’d suggested turning ourselves in at the police station and getting first aid from them.

  “You don’t have to worry,” I said. “I won’t say anything about what you told me earlier. About your mom, I mean.” That was the only reason I could think of for her uncertainty. I’d been to her house before, after all.

  Her mouth settled into a thin, tight line as she changed lanes. “I know. You’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  * * *

  THERA PARKED IN THE credit union lot behind her house. Pulling into her driveway wasn’t an option, with Riverwoods’ original building directly across the street. Any number of people might see me as they went in or out on church business, and in my current condition—gauze up my nose, bloodstains everywhere, and a fast-food napkin plastered against the cut under my eye—I was definitely eye-catching.

  The back of Thera’s house looked a little worse than the front. The paint was peeling, and a couple of the windows were fogged from broken seals. A sad-looking chain-link fence, rusted and sagging, encircled the microscopic backyard, and the grass was thin and patchy. Dead vines and leaves clung to the fence, and random bits of litter, most of them ATM receipts from the credit union, were entangled at the base. The only thing that looked new was the prominent yellow-and-black sign stabbed into the frozen ground between the end of her yard and the start of the credit union parking lot.

  The headline—NOTICE OF PUBLIC HEARING—screamed in all caps, but the details beneath were in such small letters that I could barely make out a date and time set for next month.

  And the sign apparently didn’t only look new. When Thera saw it, she slowed, her shoulders hunched as she took it in.

  “What’s that about?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “More city council bullshit.” She took off then, toward a side door, at a faster clip than I could manage.

  Thera stopped on a set of sagging wooden steps by the side door to wait for me to catch up. “My mom is probably with a phone client, and I don’t want to disturb her,” she said as I approached. “So we’re going straight upstairs to the bathroom.”

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, her gaze flicking from my face to some unknown point over my shoulder.

  “Okay,” I said. She didn’t want me to meet her mother for some reason. I was almost sure of it now.

  Thera opened the door and stepped up onto the worn black-and-white linoleum floor of their kitchen. I followed.

  She moved swiftly past a closed wooden swinging door and then veered left through an open doorway, which turned out to be the hallway I’d been in the other night.

  With an urgent look, Thera waved at me to hurry up as she rounded the newel post and started up the stairs.

  “Thera?” The soft female voice came through the closed pocket doors behind me.

  Thera froze, one foot on the second step, dismay written all over her face.

  But she tried to rally. “Yeah, it’s me,” she said, in a voice that sounded almost normal, as she gave me a pani
cked look and held her finger to her lips. “I’m back.”

  A long pause followed. “With who?”

  Thera’s head dropped, her shoulders curving forward in defeat.

  What was going on here?

  “With Jace Palmer,” she said finally, reluctance rounding and slowing her words, like they were a hard candy she didn’t want to spit out.

  “I’m finished for the day,” her mother called. “You should both come in.”

  “We’re kind of in the middle of something, Mom.”

  “I would like to meet him.” Mary’s voice was light, but the demand beneath it was steel, unmissable and unbendable. “And I’m sure he would like to meet me. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Palmer?”

  I jolted at being addressed directly and at the assurance in her tone. She was right, though I hadn’t really thought about it until that second.

  Thera rolled her eyes. “That impresses you?” she asked in a whisper, leaning over the railing to speak to me.

  “She knew I was here,” I argued.

  “No, she knew someone was here,” Thera said. “Because she heard footsteps.”

  “But she knew I wanted to meet her.”

  Thera gave me a tired look. “Everyone always wants to meet her.”

  Then she drew in a deep breath, as if accepting a terrible fate that could no longer be fought, and descended the stairs to stand with me in the foyer.

  “I like you,” she said, her gaze searching my face, as if seeking reassurance or answers I didn’t have.

  “I like you too,” I said, confused. It was a strange moment for an out-of-the-blue confession of something I already knew.

  “But if you hurt her, Palmer, no matter what she says, I’ll make sure you hurt too. Got it?” She edged past me, heading toward the closed pocket doors.

  Uh, okay. Frowning, I turned to follow. “Why would I—”

  “People see her as an easy target.”

  “Because of what she does?” I asked.

  She rubbed her forehead, as if a headache was forming. “Sometimes. But sometimes it’s because people are jerks.”

  Well, I couldn’t really argue with that logic.

  I moved out of the way, feeling my nerves kick in for the first time. I had no idea what to expect, meeting Psychic Mary. She was practically a mythical figure in my house and this town, often mentioned but never seen.

  I would just keep my mouth shut. That couldn’t hurt anything.

  Thera pushed the wooden doors into the pockets in the walls on either side and led the way in. Her face as she walked in was one of someone anticipating a punch, which I didn’t understand at all.

  I followed cautiously. The room, like the rest of the house, was clean but old. Faded wallpaper and rugs, the furniture and built-in bookshelves made of dark, heavy wood that looked like something my grandparents would have had before they moved to Florida. A familiar-looking carved cross, polished to a dull gleam, hung in a central position on the opposite wall between the windows.

  A modern, oversized sofa dominated one side of the room, with a wooden table and chairs pushed up in front of it. Mary, Thera’s mother, sat in the center of the couch.

  Her similarity to Thera was immediately apparent. She had the same dark, wild curls, though Mary had hers braided neatly and hanging over her shoulder.

  The rest, though . . .

  I looked away quickly so my shock wouldn’t register with her. The temptation to stare was almost overwhelming, but I could also sense the strain in Thera, standing a few feet away, waiting for my reaction.

  Mary was . . . I didn’t know the right word for it. “Large” didn’t seem close to adequate. Her eyes, cheekbones, and chin were nearly lost in bubbles of excess flesh. Her dress was a voluminous swath of fabric, more like a sheet, white with tiny delicate purple flowers. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to walk. A wheelchair folded up discreetly in the far corner of the room suggested that I might be right about that.

  People are jerks. Thera’s words echoed suddenly in my head. This was what she’d meant. Not the psychic thing, or not only that, anyway.

  “Oh, my God! Thera, what happened?” Mary stared at my face, aghast.

  “There was an incident—” Thera began.

  “Here, Jacob, come and sit here.” Mary pushed a wooden chair out toward me with a puffy bare foot. The ease with which she did it suggested lots of practice. Her toenails were painted a shiny purple color.

  But I didn’t move. Thera was slightly in front of me, blocking my path, and she didn’t seem inclined to step out of the way. And going around her felt wrong, given the sudden tension throbbing in the room.

  “Thera, go and get the first-aid kit,” Mary said. “It’s upstairs.”

  Thera stared at her mother, her jaw tight. “I know where it is.”

  “We might have some of those butterfly bandages left,” Mary added, her eyes focused on my face.

  “Do you think so?” Thera asked sharply.

  And finally Mary glanced from me to her daughter. They engaged in a long second of silent conversation, before Thera made a frustrated noise.

  “Fine. I’ll be right back.” But instead of retreating, Thera charged forward and pulled a worn spiral notebook off the couch next to her mother. I hadn’t noticed it before.

  Mary sighed. “Thera . . .”

  But Thera ignored her and pushed past me back out into the hall. A moment later, her footsteps pounded up the stairs like she was in a race.

  “Come on.” Mary waved me forward. “You look like you’re about ready to fall over.”

  I edged toward the chair and sat down cautiously. Even still, a groan escaped. All my muscles were tightening up.

  “What happened?” Mary asked, leaning forward slightly.

  I wasn’t sure where to look. I didn’t want to stare at her, but completely avoiding looking in her direction seemed wrong too. “I fell.” Might as well try the story I hoped to sell to my parents.

  Mary snorted, a noise very similar to the one her daughter made at times, and the movement made her whole body shake. “Onto someone’s fists?”

  I laughed reluctantly, and my ribs protested. “Ow.” I pressed my palm against my side and realized for the first time I’d split the skin over my knuckles as well.

  Mary sucked in a breath in a sympathetic hiss. “What happened?” she asked again.

  Caleb. Dude had a hard head. Or, more specifically, a hard face. “It was stupid. Somebody was running his mouth, and I—”

  “Here.” Thera reentered the room, breathless, with a box of bandages and a first-aid kit that was a twin to the one in her car.

  She set both on the table and started to pull out another chair.

  But Mary stopped her. “Ice pack?” she asked, looking toward Thera, as if she expected Thera to produce it from behind her back.

  “Mom—” Thera protested.

  “Without it, the boy’s nose is going to blow up to twice its size,” Mary said pointedly.

  I didn’t understand what was going on here, but I was definitely missing something.

  Thera exhaled loudly and turned to go through the swinging door into the kitchen. The slam of the freezer door sounded a moment later.

  “You should take that gauze out now,” Mary said, pulling tissues from the box on the table and laying them out on the wooden surface. “If you wait, the blood will coagulate around the gauze and your nose will bleed all over again when the gauze comes out.”

  I stared at her.

  She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I started nursing school. A long time ago.”

  Wincing, I pulled the gauze from my nose and crumpled it up into the tissues she’d laid out.

  Mary handed me another tissue for the small trickle of blood that ran out of my nose. It was nothing like the gushing of before.

  The noisy crash of ice cubes hitting the counter came from the kitchen.

  “And grab some of the bath salts Cecilia left the last time she was ov
er here,” Mary called, before turning to me. “She and I trade services. She owns the spa a couple of blocks over. If you soak in the salts tonight, that should help with some of the soreness.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I hadn’t taken a bath since I was, like, seven, but I might be willing to try it if it would help.

  Thera returned with a baggie of ice cubes wrapped in a small towel, and a clear plastic box with what appeared to be tiny crystals, handing both to me. “Anything else?” she asked her mother, almost daring her.

  “No, that should be everything,” Mary said, seemingly unconcerned. “Let’s see your face, Jacob.”

  I put the ice pack and crystals down on the table and peeled back the stuck napkin with a grimace.

  Mary shifted forward, as if she might try to stand to help, but then she sank back into the sofa weakly. “Thera,” she said, out of breath.

  “Yeah, I got it.” Thera dragged a chair around and positioned herself to the side of me.

  “Did you—” Mary started.

  “Yes, I washed my hands,” Thera said without glancing in her direction. “So what I’m going to do,” she said to me, “is kind of pinch together the sides of the cut and use the bandage to hold them in place. It’s probably going to pull a little.”

  That did not sound like fun, but it was better than stitches at the ER. “Okay.”

  She pulled the backing off the first bandage and leaned in, both hands coming straight at my eye.

  I automatically moved back.

  She shook her head with a smile. “You’re going to flinch on me, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I’m totally okay with you putting your fingers in my eye.”

  “I thought sports guys were supposed to be tough,” she said with a laugh.

  “Not a sports guy anymore,” I pointed out.

  She touched my cheek gently with her thumb, away from all my injuries. It was soothing rather than clinical, for a different kind of hurt.

  Out of the corner of my eye—the one Thera was not currently endangering—I saw Mary watching us, her head cocked to the side with curiosity.

  I shut my eyes then, and with quick, almost professional efficiency, Thera applied three butterfly bandages. She had done this before.