Three Heartbeats Away: The Mortician's Daughter, #3

by C. C. Hunter

  I don’t know this Hayden. What if they aren’t the same?

  Then I remember his text. I think I know what happened.

  His eyes cut to the door, and he yanks off the earbuds. “Hi. Come in.”

  I study his expression in hopes of seeing complete recognition. I don’t. I move inside.

  His gaze shifts behind me. “You want to shut the door?”

  Or maybe he does. I do as he asks, then I inch closer to him. I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me inch closer. What is he thinking about? What does he remember?

  When the silence becomes awkward, I ask, “How are you feeling?”

  “Great. I walked today. Like, six steps on my own.”

  A real smile spreads across my lips. “I knew you’d be able to do it.”

  “The therapist says I could be walking normally in a few weeks. That once the muscles start coming back, it only takes a little while for them to strengthen.”

  “Good.”

  “How are you?” He sets his computer off his lap.

  “Great.” I take a few steps closer.

  He studies me, and I’m pretty sure he recognizes my bold-faced lie.

  I gesture to his headphones. “What were you listening to?”

  “It’s a video on weight training and physical therapy. The therapist recommended I watch it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sit down.” He motions to the end of the bed. “Or you can pull up a chair.” He points to the chair at the desk as if he thinks I might be leery of sitting on his bed.

  I’m not. If only he knew how many times we’d shared a mattress. I’d wake up and he’d be there staring, studying me, and smiling. In spite of me fussing about it to him, it was the highlight of my day.

  “So this is your room?” Still standing, I look around.

  “Home sweet home,” he says.

  There are some sports trophies, a few model cars, several books, and a Rubik’s cube. I see several framed photographs, and I move over to the wall with the desk and bookshelves. My gaze goes to a cell phone that’s been forced open, all the wires and computer guts visible.

  I look back. “You take phones apart,” I say.

  “I like messing with electronics. It’s sort of a hobby.”

  That explains how he may have known how to make phones explode with his spirit energy.

  My gaze shifts to the photographs. One is of a man who kind of looks like Hayden.

  I pick it up. “Is this your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He looks like you.”

  “Yeah.” That one word sounds haunted somehow.

  My gaze falls on the next photograph, one of him and Brandy, and my gut muscles cramp. I don’t pick it up, but it’s like an accident on the side of the road. I can’t look away.

  The fact that he appears so happy in the picture keeps the cramp coming. Finally, I’m able to turn away and shift my focus back to him on the bed. He’s studying me.

  “You don’t like Brandy, do you?” he asks as if he knows exactly what caught my attention.

  I try to hide my feelings. “I…I never said that. I only met her once before the other night.”

  “When you were at Jacob’s party?” he asks.

  I look at him. Does he remember that? Remember seeing Jacob and me kiss? Was that what he was thinking about last night when he appeared so unhappy at seeing Jacob touching me? What do you remember?

  Hayden shifts, like my gaze got too intense. “Jacob told me.”

  I offer an awkward nod, then an equally awkward question. “How long have you and Brandy been dating?”

  “About two months. Well, before the accident.” He continues to stare at me. “Why did you break up with Jacob?”

  “I didn’t… We weren’t really together.” I sit down on the edge of his bed.

  “He thought you were.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.

  He jumps in as if the silence feels off to him, too. “I was thinking about you and what you said about fighting with your dad. And it was… I suddenly knew something, like I know the other stuff. Your dad’s an alcoholic, isn’t he?”

  I nod. My lungs hold tight to the old air they’ve trapped inside. They need new oxygen, but I can’t do it.

  “You told me, didn’t you? You told me your dad drank too much.”

  He remembers?

  “When I was unconscious and you came to the hospital, you talked to me about your life, didn’t you? I read up on it on the internet. They say sometimes the person in a coma can hear things. That would explain how I know this stuff. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  He pushes a hand down his face as if he’s trying to believe it. “It doesn’t explain why I can see your black eye, but I figured you might have described it to me. But it would explain how I know you like those marshmallow treats. How you painted your toenails with polka dots. You could’ve described all that.”

  I’m frantically trying to figure out what to say. Do I lie? Do I tell him? Shit. Crap. Shitcrapshitcrapshitcrap.

  He sits up higher as if anticipating my answer. “So… Did you tell me that stuff?”

  “I don’t remember. I’m sure I spoke to you, but I’m not sure if I said all that.”

  Disappointment fills his eyes.

  “But maybe you heard me talking to your mom, and maybe things were said and—”

  “Did you kiss me?”

  My next breath gets caught on my tonsils, and I make a hiccuppy noise.

  He continues, “Did you? Because I remember that, too.”

  I blink, once, twice, three times. I envision what he thinks happened. Me practically assaulting him while he lay in a hospital bed in a coma. “No, I wouldn’t have… No, I wouldn’t have kissed an unconscious person.”

  He shuts his eyes tight. His face reddens. “That was so stupid… I’m sorry. I don’t know why my head is messed up.”

  “You said that the doctor explained you could be a little confused.”

  “This is more than a little. I can almost… Between thinking I saw Kelsey’s grandmother and this memory thing… It’s driving me nuts.”

  Is knowing harder on him than not knowing? Does he need time, as Kelsey suggested, or is he just suffering? Words start lining up on my tongue, words that contain the truth, or elements of it. “You know, I’ve heard that people in a coma can…like, leave their body.”

  He stares at me. “Just pop in anywhere?” A big laugh spills out of him. “Okay, I get it. I’m sounding outrageous, right? Thanks for reminding me.”

  “I’m not really joking. I’ve read their souls can be present at…”

  He leans his head back and laughs again.

  I force a smile that feels as phony as those plastic Halloween masks I wore as a kid. “I’m sure it feels crazy. But—”

  “It’s okay. You’ve made your point. I’m done talking about it.” He exhales. “Truth is, I don’t know why I feel as if I can tell you this but not my mom or Jacob or Dex. Not even Brandy.” He holds up his hands. “But no more crazy talk, I promise. So don’t run away afraid I’m losing it.” His blue eyes meet mine, and he’s serious. He’s afraid of what I think.

  “I’m not running.” Sincerity fills my voice. “And I don’t think you’re losing it.” I want to reach for his hand, to touch him, to console him. To make him see the truth. I don’t.

  He smiles, not a real one, but a good forgery, and my chest grows heavy knowing how hard this is for him.

  “So…” he says with forced enthusiasm. “Tell me. And be honest. How are things with you and your dad?”

  “They’ve been better.”

  “Was…the argument with your dad about his drinking?”

  “Partly.”

  “What was the other part?”

  I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”

  “Good. I like long stories.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Hey,
I’ve been telling you all my shit. Make me feel a little better. Please.”

  I just blurt it out. “My dad’s been lying to me my whole life. My mom’s alive, not dead.” The need to cry stings my sinuses.

  His eyes widen. “Whoa. That’s huge. How did you find out?”

  I scramble to find a way to tell it without including a dead bride with a knife buried in her chest or easels being knocked over by a ghost. I tell him about discovering the paintings and finding the divorce papers.

  “What did he say when you confronted him?”

  “I haven’t. I’ve been staying at Kelsey’s.” I brush my hair behind my ear and swallow to keep the emotion down.

  “That sucks.” He places his hand on his jean-covered knee. “It might make you feel better to know you aren’t the only one with a fucked-up family life.” He inhales. “My mom’s getting a divorce.”

  “I know.”

  When he looks surprised, I say, “She told me when she asked me to drive you to your physical therapy sessions.”

  “Yeah.” He frowns. “I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that he was cheating on her. I saw him and a woman kissing in a motel parking lot. It’s what…what Mom and I were arguing about when I stormed out and…had the wreck.”

  I try to look surprised. “That must have been hard.”

  “Part of me feels guilty now. I know it’s because of me that they are getting a divorce, but I also know she deserves better. My father wouldn’t have ever cheated on her.” He leans back against his headboard, and it squeaks. “And now I want to change the subject. If I keep thinking about it, I get madder and madder.”

  The conversation shifts to hobbies, then to his playing catch-up on schoolwork. “Mom already brought me a list of homework assignments.” We start talking about the teachers. I laugh at his story of how one of his teachers was caught in the locker room with the coach. We’re talking about my old school when his phone rings. He looks at the phone, then at me, almost as if asking permission.

  “Answer it,” I say.

  He does. “Hey Jacob. Yeah. No. I’m…talking to Riley.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. He frowns. “No. She’s just here to get the schedule of when to pick me up for therapy.”

  Just?

  “Yeah,” he says into the phone. “We can talk later.” Pause. “You told me already.” His tone goes slightly defensive. “I got it. You don’t know that. Bye.”

  I can’t help but wonder what Jacob’s saying. Was he talking trash about me? When Hayden swipes his phone off and sets it on the mattress beside him, I look away, feeling as if I was eavesdropping.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Sometimes Jacob can be pushy.”

  I want to ask what he said, but I don’t. “Yeah.” And just like that, the camaraderie Hayden and I found is lost.

  I want it back, but how do I get it?

  His phone rings again. He looks at it. Something flashes in his eyes. It looks like guilt. My gaze shifts to the ringing phone, and I suddenly understand the guilt. Brandy’s name appears on the screen.

  “I should go.” I pop off the mattress and start for the door.

  “Wait.” His plea reaches my ears and makes a direct hit to my heart.

  I stop. I turn around, hoping he’ll say something that will chase away the hurt I feel.

  His phone rings again. He frowns. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I had to, didn’t I?” I spout out. “How else would I know when I’m supposed to take you to therapy?”

  I know my anger is over the top, but damn it, I don’t like feeling as if I’m nothing more than a hired servant.

  As I head for the door, I see the photograph of him and Brandy, and I move faster.

  Making it to the living room in a few hurried seconds, I mumble a quick goodbye to his grandmother and rush out before I get hug-assaulted again. The moment I settle behind the wheel, my phone dings with a text.

  I grab it, hoping it’s from Hayden, asking me to come back inside, telling me he doesn’t want to talk to Brandy. Assuring me I’m more to him than a hired chauffeur.

  It’s not from Hayden.

  Dad: Why aren’t you answering the home phone?

  Angry that I’ve been gone for a day and a half and he hasn’t even figured it out, I text back: Cause I’m not home!!

  I turn off my phone and drive to Kelsey’s.

  I’ve been at Kelsey’s kitchen table staring at my computer for two hours when I realize Kelsey should be back by now. I check my phone and moan when I remember cutting it off. After I turn it back on, it blows up with ping after ping. I have eleven texts and one voicemail. One text is from Dad. Three from Kelsey, and seven from Hayden. The voicemail is from him, too.

  Certain Kelsey’s will be the easiest to read, I start with her texts.

  “Crap,” I say when I read her first line and realize I might have been wrong about it being the easiest. Kelsey’s mom started running a fever and, concerned, the doctor ordered more tests.

  I call her immediately. “Hey.” Guilt for not checking in earlier adds an apologetic tone to that one word. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s okay. The tests didn’t show any problems. They’re saying it’s not uncommon for people to get a fever after an operation, but they want to play it safe, so they’re keeping her another night.”

  I glance away from the computer screen, where I’ve been searching the locations of all the Delicious Donuts. Yeah, I learned they are a chain. But there are only three in Texas. All in Catwalk. Which means Shane was killed here. Chills run up, then down my neck at knowing I share the streets with murderers. I refocus on my conversation with Kelsey. “Are you staying the night at the hospital?”

  “No. I’m about to leave. Where have you been? I was worried when you didn’t answer.”

  I tell her about my visit with Hayden and getting Dad’s text that had me turning off my phone.

  “And neither of them have called or texted?”

  “I just turned on my phone, and I got messages from both of them and you. But you’re the only one I’m not mad at, so I called you before I read theirs.”

  “I’m so special.” She takes a stab at humor, but it misses its mark. “Are you at my house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there shortly.” We hang up, and I force myself to move back to my texts. I debate whose messages will hurt the least. I go with Hayden’s because at least he hasn’t lied to me all my life.

  All are extra short but one. I have two I’m sorry texts. One really sorry text. Two call me texts. One please call me text. And the long one: We need to talk. I realize what I said sounded bad. I swear I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. I’m confused about…about everything. Please don’t pull away. U are the only thing keeping me sane.

  The anger I feel toward him becomes mingled with the guilt of upsetting him, the jealousy over Brandy, and all the emotional baggage that goes with being in love with someone who doesn’t remember you.

  I listen to his voicemail. He basically repeats what he said in the texts. But hearing his voice adds another layer of guilt. I need to call him or text him, but to say what? It’s okay. Okay that you had a girlfriend while you were wooing me and making me fall in love with you? Okay that your friends might be badmouthing me and instead of defending me you are telling them I’m just at your house because your mom hired me?

  It’s not okay.

  Not ready for another emotional punch but wanting to get it over with, I swipe over to Dad’s text.

  Dad: I can’t get out of this meeting tonight. Order in food for your dinner, but I will be there tomorrow when you get home from school. We need to talk.

  “Great. You be there tomorrow, Dad,” I mutter into the house with only four cats to hear my exasperated rant. “I won’t. I’m taking Hayden to his therapy session! Which I would’ve told you if you’d have been sober.”

  Frustrated that Dad still thinks I’m home, I slam my phone down on Kelsey’s kitchen table. The loud sound
makes me flinch, and I check to make sure I didn’t crack the screen. I didn’t.

  I want to go to Kelsey’s bedroom, beat up a pillow, and cry. Instead I refocus on my computer screen. There’s a murderer out there who might be about to snag another victim. I look back at my phone and remember Hayden.

  I text him.

  Me: I’ll be there after school tomorrow to take u to therapy. We can talk then.

  I put down my phone and my angst about both Dad and Hayden, then pick up my there’s-a-murderer-loose angst. Glancing around the empty kitchen, I say, “Shane? If you can hear me, I could use a little help.”

  And, like usual, I get nothing.

  “Exactly what are we looking for?” Kelsey asks when I park across the street from Delicious Donuts. A humming streetlight spits out voltage above the sidewalk.

  “A boarded-up window.” I dip my head down to see the three houses facing the donut shop and frown. “Boarded up on the inside.” I close my eyes for a second to try to envision the angle I saw the sign from the small opening of wood.

  “I’m not sure we could see that at night.” She’s holding the baseball bat she insisted on bringing when I told her what we were doing. In my defense, I didn’t ask her to come. But she flat-out refused to let me come alone. And I love her for it.

  “It had a high rectangular window.” I look up and down the street, or what I can see of it from the Mustang’s sightlines. “I don’t think this is it. I’m not sure it was a house. More like a business.”

  Right then, a man comes ambling down the sidewalk. Kelsey pulls her bat close.

  He seems to notice us and starts toward the car. I reach down to put the car in drive.

  “Hurry!” Kelsey spits out.

  Right before the guy gets to our car, I dart out into the street.

  “Shiiiit.” Kelsey looks back. “That was close.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t him.”

  “And I’m sure I don’t want to find out if you’re wrong.”

  “I don’t believe this is it.” I pull over a block down the street and put the address to the second Delicious Donuts into my phone.