As awkward as her presence was, it was a bit comforting, because I assumed she was a friend of Chase’s and if nothing else, it was nice to see that someone else cared.
The preacher was pretty much finished at that point and asked that we all bow our heads for a final prayer. Those of us who knew each other said our hellos and goodbyes. I was on my last hug with Dawn when I heard a feeble, “Excuse me?”
I turned around and the small crowd consisting of Danny and Mr. Healey parted to give way to the voice. It was the girl in the black tank top with one hand across her stomach like she was in pain and the other plastered to the side of her thigh. She looked worse up close. Dark circles under her eyes and needle marks in her arm.
She looked so awful I wanted to step away from her, but was struck frozen. Wes put his arm around me as we watched her gaze travel frantically between Dawn and me. After about a dozen trips back and forth, her blue, bloodshot eyes settled on me. “Are you Sophie?” she asked. Her voice was so soft I instinctively leaned forward to hear her.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry to give this to you here, but I was told you had to have it.”
Confused, I asked, “It’s okay, what is it?” I was thinking maybe Chase had another message for me. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what else he could possibly say from the grave, but it was the only thing I could think of.
She stepped in closer, with her head down, moved her left hand from her stomach and began digging in her pocket.
As we all watched curiously to see what she was going to pull out, what happened next unfolded bizarrely in slow motion.
While we were watching her left hand, she raised her other hand and shouted like a maniac, “It’s from Tim!” And then her right hand came at me and all I could do was flinch. Wes was quicker to react and put his arm out in front of me. That’s when I saw the syringe clasped in her fist. He pushed her arm down and moved me backward. Stunned, I lost my footing and my knee flew upward, right into the down swing of her arm.
I shouted out as I fell back. Wes grabbed the girl and pushed her to the ground facedown. She was screaming at him and calling me so many curse words, I couldn’t keep track. Once I regained my composure, I searched Wes’ face and then noticed him staring at my leg.
“Get this girl, someone, please!” he pleaded and Danny quickly took over holding her with her face pressed against the grass. Hurriedly, Wes turned to Dawn and told her to call the police. Why do we need the cops? Since when does Wes even want the cops around?
“What?” I croaked, as my gaze followed Wes’.
Sticking out from my leg was the needle and syringe. It wasn’t the needle that made me freak, it was the fact that the syringe was filled with blood. “What is it?” I yelled scrambling backward.
Wes lunged at me and pulled it out, grabbing my face. “It’s okay,” he urged, but I didn’t believe him.
“Why would she do that? What is it? What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was panicked and it made me confused. My leg wasn’t hurting beyond the tiny sting lingering from the needle, but something about the shocked look on everyone’s faces along with the fury in the girl’s eyes told me it wasn’t good.
I looked back to Wes, about to reel off some more questions when the girl started shouting at me again.
“That’s what you get! You lying bitch! You think you’re so much better than us?” She started laughing. “Welcome to our world. Suffer and die!”
“Be quiet!” Wes shouted.
My eyes searched his for answers. “What’s she talking about?”
“Can you stand?” he countered, ignoring my question.
“Of course. I’m fine.”
His jaws clenched at the reference to me being fine. “Okay, let’s get you to the car.”
I nodded and stood on my own. Wes searched the ground for the needle he had tossed aside and picked it up.
Dawn stepped forward. “What are you doing? Don’t touch it.”
He turned toward her, with a weakened voice, like he was out of energy, and told her he was taking it to the hospital. Before she could answer, Wes made Danny promise to tell the police what happened once they arrived, and that we would be at the hospital with the needle.
Next, he told his late, hovering security detail to keep the girl detained until the police came. At that point, I was still in a major state of shock and confusion. All I knew was that a complete stranger, clearly strung out on something, had just stabbed me with a needle full of blood.
I felt some sense of relief that she hadn’t tried to stab me with something else, but as I tried to settle my nerves with that thought, the sense that something was very wrong kept creeping in.
Both of us were in a zombie-like state as we walked to his truck, and I tried to pretend I didn’t see him set the syringe in his floorboard. His effort to keep it out of sight, out of mind wasn’t working.
Hepatitis, syphilis, HIV. These are the things that came to mind on the drive over. When someone stabs you with a needle, you have to believe it was to pass something onto you. Why else would they do that?
I felt like the inside of my leg was crawling with a million infections. Even though I really couldn’t feel anything, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I wasn’t helping to settle Wes’ nerves either. He was sitting up, nearly hunched over the steering wheel in hard concentration. “It’ll be okay,” he kept saying, but I could tell he was thinking otherwise.
It was the story of our lives. Just when we were given a small amount of relief and hope, something else happened, as if to say, “No, Sophie, you really aren’t going to make it. No, Sophie, you really can’t defy fate.”
I could go on and on with all the no, Sophies that kept whispering in my ear. But seeing Wes’ obvious concern, I just sat quietly.
By the time we reached the hospital, I was holding back tears with every ounce of optimism I could muster. They ran several tests and held me for observation to make sure I wasn’t poisoned.
The room felt eerily cold, and Wes bundled me in a blanket in an attempt to make me feel more comfortable. It didn’t seem to help, and the time slowly ticked by.
Two long hours later, the news came. The preliminary tests on my blood came back negative for everything, but that wasn’t a surprise. I was told it could take weeks for any infection to show up.
The bad news came next. The initial screening on the blood inside the syringe tested positive for HIV. I can’t say it wasn’t expected. I half felt it traveling through me already.
As soon as the doctor told us the news, Wes turned to me and grabbed my face and said for the fourth or fifth time, “You’ll be okay.” And then with lightning speed he reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and left the room.
In his absence, the doctor explained how he was going to give me a shot to reduce my chances of contracting the virus by eighty percent and also put me on anti-viral medication as a precaution. Then he said that the blood in the syringe was going to be sent out for more comprehensive tests and I’d need to be tested every couple of weeks for six months to be sure of the final results.
As he was speaking, I watched as the rectangular lights in the ceiling began to distort. They were turning and turning and in them, I saw the moments Wes and I had already shared, mixed in with tainted moments from the future. Moments where our faces showed each other how much we loved one another, along with the fear that a virus was waiting and lurking to take my life. And if not the virus, then something else—an accident, a brick falling out of the sky. I mean geez, what else was I supposed to watch out for?
Just as I was falling back, hoping to find the pillow, my mom burst through the pale green plaid curtain. You can imagine. I got all the, “Oh, my gosh, what? Why? Who? Oh, my gosh.” I couldn’t explain, so I just lay down and covered my eyes, fighting back the tears.
The doctor gave her the rundown and I knew that in addition to the stressing over my own futu
re longevity, I’d have to suffer my mother’s freaking out.
After my discharge, she took me home. Wes came over after finishing up with the police statements. My mom went on and on about how she wished we’d moved when she suggested it a few weeks ago and that she blamed herself for not following through. I’d never seen her so angry and worked up. Then again, knowing her daughter could very well have a disease that would kill her was probably the worst news she’d actually had to live with.
We’d heard the doctor’s uplifting statements about how even if my blood did become infected, people can live long normal lives with medication. Not only did it not help her, it definitely didn’t help me. A “long” life wasn’t built into my future to begin with, and that made me fear that medicine wouldn’t be effective on me.
Maybe I’d catch a flu or something bigger to trigger and accelerate the disintegration of my immune system. My mom’s continued rant on our way into the house made things worse.
“Mom! Stop it, please!” I shouted. She stopped short, surprised. “Look, I’m sorry this is just something else for you to worry about, but did you ever think about how I’m feeling right now? It’s me who has to worry about what’s crawling through my blood. And it would be really nice if you helped calm me, but you’re making it worse.”
She stood, completely still and eyes wide. I don’t think it was what I said that stunned her. The concept wasn’t rocket science. It must have been how I said it. Like I was reprimanding a child. That’s what it felt like to me, which is why I wasn’t angry with her. I just wanted her to snap out of it.
She blinked once, slowly, then quickly several times. “You’re so right,” she said, her eyes tearing up, “I’m so sorry.”
She stepped toward me and pulled me in for an unfamiliar hug. She cradled me, and rocked me back and forth like a baby. “I just can’t help feeling like this is all my fault, but I know it isn’t. I know we can’t predict things like this. That’s what makes me frantic as your mother. But my goodness . . . my ranting won’t change anything. I’ve got to help you now, and I will. We will fix this.”
Her comforting words touched me, and I was glad for that, but deep down, I was calling for Wes. I’m not sure what my rationale was, but I felt and believed with certainty that Wes was the only person who could make everything all right.
And with that thought, I knew I was going to have to tell my mom the truth about everything. She needed to know exactly what I was up against.
Chapter 19
THE PIECES OF THE PAST
My mom did her very best to appear normal, and I appreciated it more than she knew. It helped settle my nerves while I buried myself in end-of-year schoolwork. It also gave Wes and me some time to prepare our reveal to her.
After much discussion, we agreed that it would be a good idea to include Tom. Certainly, going from no one knowing about Wes to my mom and Tom knowing was risky, but we didn’t see any other way.
Wes had been around for years, but when it came down to it, we were both clueless, and Wes wasn’t afraid to say he felt like he’d let Amelia and Lenny down. It didn’t feel that way to me, but he was hard on himself about it. Add in the immense pressure he felt now and he was ready and willing to accept additional help. It wasn’t a decision we took lightly.
When the weekend came, I went over to his house to prepare. He took me into the library and I watched as he stood on a ladder and removed a handful of books, carried them down, and gently set them on the desk.
The bindings indicated they were standard encyclopedias. Quite old, they nevertheless looked boring. While he made his way up the ladder a second time, I paid more attention to the collection of other items on his desk.
There was a small lamp, a few neatly stacked pads of paper, an intricately designed paperweight, and a long, narrow box set precisely in an upper corner of the desk.
Wes was on his third trip up the ladder, facing a now-empty section of the bookshelf. I wondered what he was staring at, but I also wanted to see what was in the box, so I quickly pulled it close and opened it. Inside was a beautiful antique pen. It was brass with carvings painted green and gold, which wowed me, but what intrigued me the most was the tip.
It wasn’t a standard ballpoint tip, but a sharp pointed nib. My eyes traveled back to the box, now understanding the purpose of the little jar resting in it. Like a moth to a flame, my hand took it out and before I could stop myself, I grabbed a notepad and began writing.
At first, I started with my name, and couldn’t believe how easy it was. And not only easy—my penmanship was actually neater. It was clearly my handwriting, but there was something about the way I had to angle the pen and write each letter with care that made the words look more elegant.
After the initial feeling of admiration, my breath caught as I realized I had no prior experience using a quill and real ink, but it seemed easy. Looking for someone to help me understand, my gaze traveled up to Wes, who was standing at the top of the ladder, watching me.
“I’m impressed,” he said.
I looked back down at the page, “Yeah, me too.”
He smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d had practice doing that in another lifetime.”
“Ha ha,” I joked, but underneath the sarcasm was a strange sense of solemnity. It was as if I no longer felt like myself. I mean, who was “myself” anyway?
For the first time, I actually felt afraid to admit to exactly what my newfound skill signified. Circulating within my soul was Amelia. The weight of her existence suddenly felt heavy.
I think before that moment I’d never truly believed it. I considered Lenny and Amelia to be parts of me, like a bloodline carried on. But now it was more than that.
“You can make it,” she urged, “You’ll be all right.” She was very much trying to be heard, and I tried to listen.
I dropped the pen and rubbed my eyes, unsure if it was a memory of her saying that to Wes, or if she was actually encouraging me. Whatever it was, I couldn’t crumble now. I directed my attention back to Wes and our current task.
Prior to coming into the study, Wes had told me he had more pictures and items from the past that might help my mother to accept the impossible. So now I watched as he jimmied lose the wall behind the empty section of the bookshelf.
“Can you take this?” he asked.
I walked over and he handed me a piece of darkly stained wood that was about three by two feet wide. It had been made to appear like the back of every other shelf.
Behind it lay hidden a fireproof safe from which Wes pulled a box.
“Gee, what’s in there? Photos of the Grassy Knoll?”
“That’s a good one, but no,” he said climbing down. “I wouldn’t be hiding those if I had them,” he winked.
Over on the couch, Wes prepared me for the shock of seeing myself in past lives. The first picture he took out was of Amelia in her uniform. She was amazingly intriguing. The photo looked like a nursing school photograph taken from the waist up. Her hair was parted on the same side as mine, but it was pulled neatly back without bangs hiding part of her face.
It was obvious that she was sitting with perfect posture and she wasn’t smiling, but something in the soft lines of her mouth told me that she was happy. And although the picture was black and white, the pale coloring of her eyes was still striking.
I sat speechless, still disbelieving what I already knew. How awkward is that? Looking back at me was another version of myself that seemed so similar, but so different at the same time. I felt her emotions as if they were my own, but I also felt her still warning me as if she were someone completely different. She seemed to say, “Don’t ever hold back.”
I shuddered and Wes pulled something else from the box. “This was the last letter she wrote to me.” He held it up preserved in a plastic sleeve.
Dear Weston,
Watching Dr. Thomas save you has been the most rewarding moment in my life. The thought of bringing this sickness
to you breaks my heart more than staying away, so I am sorry to say that I will not be visiting you anymore. Your life means too much to me.
Please know that I am not afraid. I will die knowing that a gift has been given to the world and I trust that you’ll be vigilant in finding its meaning. You were not made what you are for nothing. Please find your purpose and know that I will carry my memories of you wherever my soul takes me.
With love forever,
Amelia
April 15, 1918
I looked at him, replaying Amelia’s words. His eyes were fixed on me with curiosity. How was I supposed to respond to this?
Reading just one letter, it was so obvious that she cared for him immensely. Even as she lay dying from the flu, she only wanted what was best for him. She believed he was special and had a purpose. That’s all that mattered to her. She wasn’t writing a drawn out letter about how she would miss him so much, wallowing in their possible separation. No, this was a selfless letter that made me feel ashamed.
What Dr. Thomas accomplished in saving Wes was nothing short of a miracle. It was the beginning of who knows how many medical breakthroughs, and Amelia never lost sight of that. As hard as it seemed to focus on that now, I wouldn’t lose sight of it, either. No matter what my own fears might be.
“Thank you,” I said.
He blinked for what seemed like the first time since I’d started the letter. “For what?” he whispered.
“For reminding me about what’s important.”
My shoulders fell softly and even though the corner of my mouth turned up into a soft smile, a look of panic touched his eyes.
“No . . . “ He shook his head, took the letter, and set it aside. “No, you are important.”
“No, you are important,” I repeated.
“Stop it. Right now,” he replied, grabbing hold of my face with his cool hands.
“Wes, please listen—”
The Iron Quill Page 12