by MK Schiller
I waited until he was alone to approach him. “Well, well, what do you know, Uncle Joe.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said with a deep sigh. “I hear you’ve been asking a lot of questions, but—”
“Are you her mother’s brother or father’s brother, Joe?”
“Father’s,” he said tightly.
“Funny, because you don’t look like either of them.”
“You don’t resemble your sister either.”
“She never talked about you. Where’s the rest of the family, Joe?”
“There is no one else. I’m surprised you don’t know, seeing you two were supposedly so close.” He was trying to piss me off. It didn’t make sense. He seemed somber, but there was no raw emotion there. The man had just lost his brother and his niece, for fuck sake.
“We were best friends, but you’re her family. I mean, even if you don’t believe she’s still alive, don’t you want the men who took her away from us to pay for their crimes?”
He pushed his face into mine, trying to threaten me with his height. I didn’t back away. We were both close to the same size anyway, although with my leg it wouldn’t be a fair fight. “Listen, kid, she’s dead. Her ashes are in that urn over there.” He gestured to the fireplace mantle where two urns sat. “If you think this doesn’t hurt me, you’re fooling yourself. But what you’re doing is making it worse. If you loved her, then you’ll let her rest in peace.”
“She’s out there. I will find her.”
“Cal, come with me,” my mother said, appearing behind me.
I didn’t want to end the conversation, but Joe already had backed away, so I obliged. People were murmuring all around us. I could hear the gossipy evil in their quiet voices, especially Mona Simms; her whispers sounded like horse shrieks. She made some comment about how she’d known Sylvie was bad news, how any girl who dressed so peculiar had to be immoral. She went on about how Sylvie was a troublemaker and must have been on drugs to bring such chaos to our safe town, how she’d warned my mother she would ruin my life.
I stomped my crutch into the wood floor right in front of her. She looked up, the teacup in her hand swaying. The thick shoulders any linebacker would be jealous of abruptly jerked to attention. Her mouth clamped shut, stopping the spew of garbage flowing from it. “Shut the fuck up. You’re not even good enough to shine her shoes, you bitch. The only troublemaker here is you.”
Her eyes widened, and the mole on her cheek grew as her face morphed into shock.
“Caleb James Tanner! Get in here now,” Momma screamed from her bedroom doorway.
I staggered into the room. She slammed the door behind us.
“You have to stop this madness right now.”
“Momma, you have to believe me. I know she’s not dead. She promised me she would fight. If she really died, I would feel it in my soul. She was part of me. She was in here,” I said, pointing to my heart. I sounded frantic, but I needed someone to have faith in the idea. “I love her. I know—”
The hard slap stopped my tirade. My mother looked at me with those stern but sharp green eyes. She took hold of my shoulders. “Caleb, you have suffered more than any boy your age should, but you need to stop this now. Don’t you think I loved her? Don’t you think Mandy did? We’re all mourning her, but carrying on like this is making it impossible for any of us to grieve and move on. She would have wanted you to go on, son. As long as you keep holding onto this false hope, you never will.”
My own momma thought I was crazy. Everyone did. “I’ll stop talking about it.”
It wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear, but she accepted it. She wanted me to give up on Sylvie. That was a promise I could never keep.
“I won’t make you apologize to Mona Simms, at least not right now, but I think you should apologize to Joe. He was her only family. He asked if you might want to spread her ashes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied through gritted teeth. I would spread them. I had a feeling that both urns contained her father’s ashes, so I would give him a proper burial and say a prayer. I would do that for Sylvie.
I wouldn’t bury her. She wasn’t dead.
When I walked back out, Joe was leaving with some excuse about needing to catch a plane. I was glad. I didn’t want to see him ever again. I didn’t like him. He was lying to me. Sylvie was out there and all alone. She needed me. I needed her.
I sat on the couch next to Mandy. I swear there were invisible eggshells on the floor because everyone tiptoed around me as if I would fly off into another volatile rage again. I wouldn’t now. It was a waste of breath. I was alone.
“Cal, you’re really scaring me. You’re scaring everyone,” Mandy said, putting her hand on my knee.
“I’m sorry.” I patted her hand. She’d lost her best friend, too. She didn’t deserve my crazy on top of that. “Will you play something for her? Maybe sing?”
Mandy managed a weak smile. “What should I play?”
“Something happy. Something she likes.”
Mandy stared at me hard. I knew she hadn’t missed that I’d used present tense, but she nodded and smiled reassuringly anyway. I refused to use past tense when it came to Sylvie. I would see her again.
I wiped the tears that were running down Mandy’s cheeks. She embraced me. After a while, she stood up and made her way to the piano.
Tommy Castings took my sister’s vacant seat. It surprised me he didn’t want to stay the hell away from me like everyone else. I found some weird comfort in his company, though. We were both Sylvie’s friend at least. “She meant a lot to me, too,” Tommy said, bringing me out of my morbid silence.
It made me feel good to know someone else cared for her. “She really liked you. Not many people got to be close to her.”
“We were lucky, Cal.”
“How in the hell were we lucky, Tommy?”
He waved his arm around the room. “We both knew how special she was. Most of the people in this room never will.”
The man had a point.
Mandy started playing “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel. I smiled, remembering Sylvie and Mandy practicing it. It was definitely the most inappropriate song for a memorial service, especially one in a small southern Methodist town. The lyrics were shocking and maybe even blasphemous.
No one sang along this time. I didn’t give a fuck. Sylvie was one of the few people who would appreciate Mandy’s musical choice.
I hoped she was listening.
Chapter 18
Present day
After Sylvie’s alleged death, I’d changed. A part of me had disappeared with her. Momma made me go to therapy. I took the ferry to the mainland and drove forty miles each way since we had no therapists in Prairie. Dr. Arnold had interesting books and a stuffed doll of Freud on his shelf. He’d suggested I couldn’t let go of Sylvie because I was feeling guilty that I hadn’t saved her that night. He’d called it damsel-in-distress syndrome or some shit.
In a way, he’d been right. I did blame myself. I should have picked her up and carried her away sooner. I should have stood in the line of fire. I should have covered her body again. There were a lot of what-ifs from that night, but my guilt extended far beyond the should-haves and what-ifs. It wasn’t the past that kept me up at night. It was the present. She was out there, and she didn’t have anyone to help her, protect her, love her, or care for her.
Dr. Arnold reasoned there was no way I loved her, saying I was way too young to fully understand that emotion. Fucking quack. He had no idea. But I went to see him every single week. I nodded. I listened. I faked answers to his questions. I pretended to move on until the good doctor gave me a clean bill of health.
In the end, I’d decided I needed to go to college and get a job. After all, how could I find Sylvie if I had no money?
I’d never planned a career in teaching. My first choice had been to play college ball and eventually go pro, but even as a cocky kid, I’d known that was a long shot. My second choice
had been to enter the police academy like my father and have a career in law enforcement. My third had been to sign up for the Marines and defend our country. My physical and mental injuries precluded all those professions, so I’d settled for the only other thing that I was good at. Reading.
I’d majored in English Lit. I looked for her in the girls and women I’d pass on the street. I searched for her name or profile on the internet. I hunted for clues in other violent shootings. Eventually, I realized if Sylvie were alive, why the fuck wouldn’t she find me? That was the epiphany I had. It was the moment I stopped looking and started waiting. As I’d told her once, I was good at waiting.
Staring at this girl in my doorway, I realized it was all worth it. Every fucking second.
I exhaled for what felt like an eternity. I’d been holding that breath in since I’d left her at the coffee shop. Maybe even since the night she died. I had questions, each one rising above a stormy sea that begging to be answered. I still had anger, but the cloak lifted. I needed to hold her right now.
“Get in here, girl,” I said, pulling her into my apartment. She dropped the apples embracing me. They thudded to the floor with hard thunks, but I wasn’t about to pick them up. I leaned her against a wall and stared at her, allowing myself to look at the face I’d missed over these years. “I knew it was you. Everyone told me I was crazy, but I knew if you weren’t on this earth, I would have felt it.”
“I’m so sorry, Caleb.” Hearing her say my name made it clear why Sophie Becker never used it. The way she said it, drawing out the syllables slowly against those sumptuous lips gave her away. All of my anger instantly dissipated as I wrapped my arms around her. She let me, falling into my body where she fit so nicely.
“I’m assuming you had your reasons. I want to hear all about that, but right now, I just need to hold you. God, it’s so good to hold you.”
She cried against me, and I suffered each whimper with her. I buried my face in the crook of her neck and breathed in her sweet scent. She placed her arms around me, and then I couldn’t help myself. I slid my hands from her waist to her ass and lifted her. She immediately crossed her legs over my hips, tightly locking those cowboy boots behind me. We remained like that for several minutes since it seemed neither of us had words.
“Are those happy or sad tears?” I asked.
“Happy. I…I’ve been walking around the whole city with that stupid bag of apples since we talked. I didn’t know what the right choice was.”
“Why was it a choice at all?”
“I’m going to tell you, but first can I try something?”
I lifted my head and stared into her tear-stained face. She smiled nervously.
I gave her a wide grin to put her at ease. “I wish you would.”
She moved her lips toward me, but I met her halfway. The gravity pulled our mouths as if they were independent of the rest of us. We smashed into each other, desperate for the contact. I slid my tongue across her lips until she opened for me. I drew out her tongue and tasted her delicate sweetness. She moaned, sending vibrations through my body. I had so many questions, but my physical longings prevented my mind from forming any coherent thoughts. I wanted to take her against this wall right now. I wanted us to be one.
“Cal, we have to stop,” she murmured when I finally parted our lips to suck in some air.
“Why? You don’t want this? Because your body’s communicating a very different message,” I whispered against her ear. I ran my tongue over it and sucked in her lobe. She shivered against me, clutching me tighter. She could feel my erection against her shorts. I only hoped I could hold out long enough to make it satisfying for her. She did things to me that I had never experienced with another girl. Dr Arnold had said that childhood memories were often misguided and inaccurate, driven by a sense of grandeur that simply didn’t exist. But he didn’t know a damn thing. What I felt for Sylvie was no childhood crush.
“I want you, but—”
“We both need this. Hell, we deserve it. We can talk later,” I growled, planting kisses down her neck.
“Dammit, Cal, I’m trying to tell you something.”
“What?” I demanded, not wanting to put her down.
She sniffed the air. “Something’s burning.”
“Fuck,” I groaned.
I didn’t release her. Instead, I carried her into the kitchen and set her on the counter next to the stove.
“You didn’t have to carry me in here.”
“Do you think I’m ever going to let you out of my sight again?”
I almost removed the pan with my bare hands, but she had the wisdom to grab my arm before I did. She handed me a kitchen towel. I removed the charred contents from the oven and set the pan on top of the stove.
“What was that?”
“Dinner.”
“Should I make us something?” she offered.
I turned off the oven and shifted over to her. “Let me just look at you for a minute.” I moved my fingers through her hair. The soft, vanilla-scented strands felt like spun silk against my hand. Her skin still smelled like honey. “You’re so beautiful, but then again, you always were.”
She looked down. “You’re the beautiful one. Mr. six-foot, blond-haired, gray-eyed perfection. I can’t believe you’re a prof—sorry, a college instructor.”
I chuckled. “I’m six-three now, for your information.” The normalcy of our conversation put me at ease, like we were sixteen again. I couldn’t look away from her as I took in every lovely feature. “Sorry, I’m staring at you. I just can’t believe you’re actually here with me in my house. Even Momma and Mandy thought I’d gone nuts. I can’t wait to tell them.”
She placed her hands on my shoulders. “You can’t tell them. You can’t tell anyone. We really need to talk.”
“Let’s talk.”
“Can we eat first? I haven’t eaten today. I’m going to need my strength to get through this.”
She was right. There were so many questions, and I needed the entire story, front to back and every which way between. “Sandwiches okay?”
“Better than okay.” She hopped off the counter.
She proceeded to the living room. I started making our meal, keeping a close eye on her through the opening between the two rooms. She picked up the apples, placing them back into the sack. She set the bag on the dining room table.
“So, this is you?” she said, hooking her thumbs through the loops on her shorts, taking in my small apartment.
“Rent’s cheap,” I replied.
“This is exactly where I imagined you living.”
“Like I said, it’s a rental.”
“Yes, but you picked it. It’s old-school like you.”
I laughed. “You think I’m old-school? We’re the same age.”
“Maybe a better description is old soul. You have an old soul. I thought you’d live in a place like this with architectural moldings, hardwood floors, crystal doorknobs, and of course, lots and lots of bookshelves.” She gestured to the three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves I had made myself. They had to be double stabilized because they were bursting with books.
“The e-reader revolution sort of past me by.” I walked over to join her with the plates in my hand.
“They look great.”
“Although I burned the chicken, I’m not a bad cook. And my sandwich-making abilities are above par.”
I gestured to the couch. I didn’t want the limitations of the dining room table to keep us separated. She sat on one end, taking the plate from me. I sat on the other.
“Roast beef with spicy mustard. You still like that, right?” I asked her. It upset me that I had to ask her. That I didn’t know the answer.
“My favorite. Thank you.”
I realized I’d forgotten the drinks. “Milk or juice?”
She hesitated, the corners of her mouth quirking. “Actually, I would really love some wine if you have any.”
I’m such an idiot. We weren’t kids anym
ore. “Guess I should have asked red or white.”
“Either is fine. I still drink milk or juice, but I could use a glass of wine right now, or maybe a bottle.”
“Me, too.” I headed into the kitchen. I poured us both a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and brought the bottle with me.
I handed her a glass and sat beside her. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, chewing her bottom lip.
“How about the beginning?”
She swallowed her wine. All of it. Then she took my glass from my hand and did the same. I refilled our glasses.
“Okay, sailor, calm down and start already.”
She put her hand out toward me in a gesture that signaled a handshake. I shook her hand slow and cautious.
“Nice to meet you, Caleb Tanner. My name is Gabrielle Deluca. That is my birth name. Everyone called me Gabby.”
I stopped shaking her hand, but I didn’t let go. “You will always be Sylvie to me, but please go on.”
She swallowed, taking a bite of her sandwich and chewing slowly. I tried not to let my impatience show. “I’ve never told this story. I’m not supposed to, but if anyone deserves the whole truth, it’s you.”
“I agree. I have so many questions, but I’ll hold off asking them. I don’t want to interrogate you anymore.” I smiled, trying to make her more comfortable.
“My father was in the mafia.”
I almost choked on my wine. “What, like a wise guy? Like in Goodfellas or Casino?”
She laughed. “Hardly. He was the accountant who cooked the books and laundered their money. He’d never even used a gun. Spreadsheets and calculators were his weapon. I told you I was from Boston, but I’m really from New York.”
“How did a New York girl with a mobster accountant father end up in Podunk Prairie Island?”
She sipped some more wine, but she didn’t down the glass this time. “We were in witness protection.”
I wasn’t totally surprised. It made sense and was one of the theories I’d come up with, although the mobster image didn’t fit her father at all.
“Those men…the one’s that came that night. They killed your mother, right? I remember you called them ‘cancer.’”