by R.E. Rowe
We glide around the room, the metal disk rotating, musical vibrations resonating.
“Let’s be present,” he says. “Here—right now. In this moment.”
His words surprise me as we sway. Stepping. Turning. Present?
Reizo is way different than I thought he’d be. Mysterious, edgy, sometimes out of control, he’s an artist on a mission.
I shudder when he pulls me in tighter.
Time slows, notes linger. Floating.
The music ends, but we continue to dance. I think he’s going to kiss me for a second. He shifts his eyes away instead. I feel butterflies, but I’m not sure if they’re his or mine.
We stop.
Reizo gazes at the bookshelf, then at the desk. “I wonder what else we can find? I’ll check out the bookshelf, you check the desk.”
Well, okay then.
I begin thumbing through the stack of old newspapers. “All mid to late 1800’s, some early 1900’s.”
“Same with these: history books, biographies, and a few classics. Do you think your uncle knows about this place?”
I move aside the newspapers and pick up what appears to be a large sketchbook. “I doubt it. He told me the pond used to be a lake that was part of Wesley’s property.”
“You think all this stuff was my grandpa’s?”
“Maybe.” I open up the sketchbook. Pencil landscape and animal drawings fill the pages. A two-story mansion overlooks a picturesque lake with a field of crops in the background.
“These sketches are amazing.” I notice the drawings are signed Wesley Rush. “Your grandpa was a really good artist.”
Reizo takes a closer look. His eyes light up. “Yeah, he wasn’t bad.”
I open one of the drawers and find a small book with writing in it: The Life and Times of Me—Thomas Rush—1895. I read the first page aloud:
“My love for thee,
Sweet honeybee.
Never lost,
No matter the cost.
Ever yours, Thomas”
“Do you think this is the same Thomas your uncle was talking about?” Reizo asks, standing close, wrapping me in his warmth.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, it must be. I think Thomas would have been about our age around that time.”
Reizo touches my hand with a static charge that causes me to pause. “What do you think the poem means?”
I try to stay focused on the book, turning the page, ignoring how the electric tingle he’s delivering is attempting to take over my body. “Obviously Thomas was in love, but “No matter the cost” sounds as if something bad was going to happen.
I turn the page and continue to read: “I hold your smoky ashes in my wanting hand and cry. My dear old friend, you’ve heard my story, been the keeper of my most private thoughts. My memories. My dreams. My hopes. I know it was not your fault. You never meant to reveal us. But Murdock turned into a wild boar when he saw us kissing on the lake’s grassy bank after reading you. He sent Anna off to school, hoping our love would fade. And so, on this day and in this space, with great sorrow, I lay the ashes of my most cherished days, dear diary, to rest near the place where Anna and I first kissed. Spirit Lake. I promise to keep the rest of you here in my secret place. Father Wesley’s old cyclone shelter. The one place in the world he told me to guard and keep secret for all my life. Goodbye ‘ole memories.”
“I don’t get it,” says Reizo.
I shake my head. “You can be pretty slow. He’s writing about pages from his diary. Sounds like my grandfather found his old diary, which confirmed his feelings for Anna.”
“But wait, I’m confused. I thought Thomas’s father was Wesley?”
I think back on what Uncle Pete had recently told me. “Not at the time he was writing in this diary. I think his real father, Wesley, had already died. Thomas was probably being raised by my grandparents, the Murdocks.”
Reizo frowns. “That’s weird. Okay, maybe a lot weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“They raised Thomas and Anna as if they were brother and sister. That kind of makes us related, sort of.” Reizo searches through the desk drawers as I scan through more of the diary’s pages.
He has a point, but I let it go since we’re not genetically related. Thank God.
The pages of Thomas’s diary are full of daily descriptions of life on their farm: a cyclone, surviving illness, tending to business around the ranch. Getting up at sunrise, helping his adopted father with the cattle, cleaning the chicken cages. The first quarter of the diary mentions Anna before the section of torn out pages. When new pages start, Thomas writes about another girl, named Clara, who lived on a farm in a nearby township.
I continue browsing the pages. “Anna disappeared from Thomas’s life by the end of his new diary. I think he must have married a woman named Clara instead.”
“Check this out.” Reizo holds up an old black and white photograph. It’s a picture of a slim, gray-haired man in light pants, a jacket, and a bow tie sitting next to a woman wearing a long-sleeved gray dress with a white scarf over her head and tied under her neck. There’s a teenage girl in a formal dress on their right, sitting with her hands folded. A teenage boy dressed like the old man is on their left. They’re posing outside next to large oak trees that remind me of the trees around the pond. A large lake is in the background.
“The boy looks like you,” I say.
He looks closer. “They sure don’t look very comfortable.”
“I think back in those days they had to keep still for a minute or two while the photographer took the shot—”
“Hey.” Reizo starts to laugh. “Check this out. That dude may look like me, but the babe looks exactly like you.”
I lean in and take a closer look. He called me a babe!
“You’re turning red,” he says, smiling.
I roll my eyes. “Is there any writing on the back?”
Reizo turns over the picture.
1905—Thomas Rush, Lester Murdock, Jane Murdock, Anna Murdock.
Aimee puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
A chill runs across my back.
“Your grandfather and my grandmother were an item,” she says.
“So Thomas and Anna were lovers, huh?” I wink. “Oh yeah.”
Aimee pushes me playfully. “Stop.” She chuckles. “Back in those days, it was probably a big deal getting caught kissing at their age—especially since they’d been raised under the same roof. From Thomas’s diary, it sounds like Anna must have been sent away shortly after they took the picture.”
“But Thomas was the Murdock’s adopted son. Isn’t that a little ridiculous? It’s not like they were physically related.”
“I know, but obviously people didn’t think like we do now back in the late 1800’s. I’d like to know more about Anna’s story.”
“She must have gotten married and had kids at some point...” I look at Aimee and raise my eyebrows twice. “Since you’re here.”
Aimee smacks me on the forehead. “Not helpful. Keep looking, maybe we’ll find something else.”
“Jeez. You don’t have to keep hitting me.” I grin and take a step back and scan the dimly lit storm shelter. “It’s a strange feeling when you see a picture of a great-grandfather you never knew existed and you actually resemble him. Think about it. He was here . . . now we’re here. Trippy.”
Aimee continues searching through the desk. “More sketches, some school work, some writing. Most of it has Thomas’s name on it. It looks like everything in the drawers belonged to Thomas. There are a few items that could have belonged to his father, but it’s hard to tell.”
“Thomas must have been the last one in the shelter after Wesley. Maybe he kept it secret after they leveled Wesley’s house.”
“It’s weird, though.” She picks up a handful of old black and white photos.
“What do you mean?”
Aimee peers at a photograph of a large house near a lake. “Why would they
level an impressive mansion? It doesn’t make sense to destroy such a big house. It almost seems like people wanted to forget about your Grandpa Wesley.”
“True, but people did think he was crazy.”
After I said it, I regretted it—so stupid. I’m one to talk about crazy, given that I’d been locked up. Being held prisoner in a place where a mad doctor can keep me forever is way worse than embarrassing. It sucks.
“Weird,” she says. “It just seems odd to level a perfectly good house, especially if Wesley died. You know what I mean?”
I dust the cot off and sit on it. “I guess.”
I watch Aimee’s shadow move gracefully on the mortared wall and slowly shift my gaze as she sits down on the cot next to me. The glow of the candle highlights the softness of her skin. There’s a flicker of magic in her eyes. Beautiful wrapped in kindness. Her movements are like watching a graceful dancer. I feel a wave pass over me, but it’s not goose bumps. It’s superheated air. Nerves and excitement all at once, my insides tense.
Aimee hands me Thomas’s sketchbook and stops suddenly, as if she’s felt what I’m feeling. She blushes at first, but then her eyes soften, as if she’s inviting me to kiss her.
Is she? How can I tell? What if she’s not?
I move in close, until my lips are a couple inches from hers. She shutters when I touch her arm and glide my fingers across her bare skin until I reach her hand.
Should I? But—I suddenly feel like I’ve overstepped. Why would this girl be interested in me? I’m the crazy kid who talks to himself like an idiot. The dude other kids whisper about and avoid, the one with voices ranting in my head.
Just as I’m about to stand up and apologize for overstepping, she touches my face with her fingertips and everything changes.
I breathe him in and let my lips touch his lips in the dim light of the old storm shelter.
It’s hard to separate his feelings from mine. It’s like trying to sort a bowl of mixed up colored beads, some his, some mine. I feel our hearts beating as I run my fingers like a comb through his long hair and kiss him deeper.
I barely know Reizo, but I feel as though I’ve always known him. It’s such a stupid thing to say, but damn it, it’s true. I stop thinking and open myself up to feeling everything, his pulse quickening. Wonder glows around him and mystery swirls behind his eyes. I feel shivers and close my eyes. Breathing is overrated.
But sadly, breathing is required.
We both lean back and silently gaze at each other. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never felt so connected with someone before. But what if he feels different? What if?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I—”
I push my index finger on his lips, then replace my fingers with my lips and kiss him again. He’s an amazing kisser. Our embrace tightens.
His touch sends tingles twirling over my skin.
Reizo’s bright eyes shift to the floor, his face turning a rose color in the candlelight. A sideways smile grows across his face—the boy I just kissed.
He feels the same way I do. I’m sure of it.
I try to enjoy the moment, but my mind wanders. I think about the things we’ve said to each other. The looks we’ve shared, his soft, shy spirit. Then I remember something odd he said to me when we talked about how he’d saved my life, “Guess we’re even.” He said it bluntly, yet he wouldn’t talk more about it when I asked. Even at what? It’s not like we made a bet, played a game of chess, or exchanged money.
I lower my voice. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he whispers.
Should I? My little voice says yes, but my nerves make me hesitate.
His face tightens. “What?”
“What did you mean when you said, we’re even?”
His breathing suddenly becomes erratic and he taps one foot, as if he has a twitch that won’t stop. I feel waves of tension coming from him. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. Did I ruin our first kiss? Am I asking too many questions?
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask.
His eyebrows furrow and he stands up. “No. I didn’t mean anything specific. I’m just glad you’re okay.” His response is quicker than it should be.
I’m not buying what he’s saying. Something is really wrong. I can feel it, but I’m not getting it. I’ve clearly upset him. Why? I think back to the day I first met him. The day he showed up at the pond.
He takes three quick steps to the storm shelter’s bookcase, keeping his back toward me.
I’ve rattled him, but I keep pressing.
“Why did you come to the pond on the last day of school? You know, when we met for the first time.”
Was he spying? Following me? Stalking me?
He shakes his hands out as if he’s about to run a one hundred meter sprint. “I didn’t know you’d be at the pond that day. Is that what you’re asking?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fumbling through books on the shelf.
“Not exactly.” I pause a moment. “I just remember you seemed nervous that first day, sort of like—why is it we’d be even?”
He turns toward me. His intense stare reminds me of the crazy Reizo from school. There’s an invisible hand pushing me away, yet I still feel kindness from him—it’s a weird combination.
“Yeah, that’s it. I saw you and instantly got nervous. Like always. That’s right. You make me freaking nervous. Exactly.” His eyes shift as if he’s trying to decide to bolt or not, fight or flight.
What the hell? I have no right to press. I need to defuse this situation.
I stand and walk to him. I gently take both of his hands into mine. “I’m sorry, Reizo. I didn’t mean—”
He lets out a sigh and takes in a deep breath, then speaks soft and slow. “I know. I’m sorry too. I overreacted. Like I always do.” He pauses until it becomes uncomfortable. “I—”
I take his right hand in mine, lead him back to the cot, and we both sit down. “It’s okay. Honest. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Forget it.”
His energy changes back to the sexy Reizo. “I should . . . tell you.”
I try to make myself appear calm, but I’m not. “Tell me what?”
“What they say about me is true.”
I’m still not following what he’s trying to say. “What who says?”
“Everyone at school. Dr. Stewart, Principal Rutworth, Moser.”
What is he talking about? “I’m not following, Reizo.”
“I’m crazy like my Grandpa Wesley.”
An awkward moment passes before he continues. “I hear voices.”
“What do you mean?”
“Voices talking inside my head.”
I start to chew on my thumbnail. I’m not sure I like where this is going. Why the hell did I press?
“Are you hearing them now?”
Reizo shakes his head no. “It’s weird. I usually hear them everywhere, day or night, but not when I come to this pond. When I walk past the oak trees, the voices in my head disappear. Gone. Silence.”
His eyes fill with tears.
“What kind of voices?”
“It’s the same two all the time.”
“What do they say?”
Tears trickle down his cheeks. “I— I just couldn’t take it anymore, Ames.”
I try to process what he’s saying as I wipe his tears with my hand. He believes he’s crazy, but I know he’s not. The Reizo I know is thoughtful, seriously artistic, sexy. Not crazy.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Reizo.”
His drooping eyes say he doesn’t believe me.
“I’m serious.” Then, before I think, I blurt out, “You promise not to say anything to anyone if I tell you something about me?”
He nods. “Sure.”
I suddenly have second thoughts. Should I? It does seem like share time. But—
“It’s okay, honest.” He grins. “It couldn’t be as bad as
hearing voices.”
“You know my heart gave out while I was running during a track meet, right?”
“Of course, everyone in Franklinville knows that. The coaches revived you.”
“Actually I died for a while, but then came back.”
“You died?”
I nod. “What would you say if I told you when I was dead, I spent time talking to my dead grandmother?”
He turns his head slightly. “You probably just relived memories about her—dreams, right?”
“No, Reiz. I sat with her here at the pond when I died. We talked. I mean really talked. She was real and I was dead.”
“You were in heaven?”
Huh, good question. I never thought about it from that perspective.
“All I know is that I visited with my dead grandmother and we talked about my life.”
“What did she say?”
“Our lives are a gift. Each of us should just experience it and not worry about messing it up. The weirdest part was we weren’t here, we were there.”
“Where’s there?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not exactly sure. It was like a heavenly version of the pond: bright, vibrant, amazing color. More real than real. I felt totally at peace and filled with love.” Welled-up tears release down my cheeks. “It was a joyful, amazing place. I don’t think it was on Earth.”
I’ve said way too much. Now he’s probably thinking I’m a delusional girl with a defective heart.
Reizo brushes my tears away, his eyes soft and understanding. “I’d say cool . . . That’s what I’d say.” His voice turns serious and the lines on his forehead deepen. “But if that place, there, is so awesome, why did you want to come back here? You know? This place sucks.”
I push his shoulder playfully. “It doesn’t suck. Every life is special. She told me not to waste mine. Your life is special too, Reizo.”
“My life is special? Seriously? It sounds to me like the special part was being there, not being here.”
“Grams told me I had things to do in this life. Experiences to experience. It just wasn’t my time yet.”
Reizo stares. The intensity of his hazel eyes causes my heart to flutter.
“What things?” he asks.
“I can’t remember exactly.” I sigh. “All I know is everything changed for me after that experience with Grams. My life is different now. I don’t care about the mall, what new purse or shoes to buy, or school gossip. Those things are a waste of time.” My face warms. “I feel thankful now when I take in a breath. When I taste something salty or sweet. When my lips kiss the lips of a boy named Reizo Rush.”