Second Sight (Sojourner Series Book 3)

by Maria Rachel Hooley

  At any other time I probably would have been ecstatic to meet a guy like Kane, someone who seemed pretty decent. But right now, as I stare ahead at a blackboard covered with notes I really don’t care about, all I can think about is Lev and how unfair it is he’s gone. Same song, different verse, I know. I just miss him, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.

  The rest of the day blurs together, and I notice that Kane shares a lot of the same classes I do. Still, he’s not so intense as Griffin was my first day at Hauser’s Landing. I have enough room to breathe, even though I know Kane’s interested.

  After school, Sarah and Jayzee invite me to go to the park and hang out. Apparently Kane likes shooting hoops. At first, I’m not sure because Jimmie might react to me not getting home, even if I am trying to be good and make friends. Then again, he’s been in Knoxville spending a whole lot of time with Theresa, so how is he going to know whether I go straight home after school? I could definitely use some unwinding.

  So, after the final bell rings and I shove my books into my locker, I find Jayzee and Sarah together in the hallway and walk with them a couple of blocks from the school to the park, where there’s a basketball court. I’m on the verge of asking about Kane when I see he’s already arrived, playing against an equally tall and formidable-looking guy with hair so dark it’s almost black. It’s a sunny, still day, and even though it’s late afternoon, the heat clings to us like am extra layer of skin. In fact, Kane and his partner, who couldn’t have been here more than ten minutes, have already shed their shirts, revealing deeply bronzed skin from hours spent outside. The muscles in their arms and chest are tightly sculpted and each movement accentuates their build.

  The girls and I walk over to a line of benches and sit, clearly watching the guys. Although Kane isn’t paying any attention to me, I’m sure he knows I’m here.

  “Who’s that?” I ask.

  “Colin,” Sarah replies, her voice wistful and dreamy, just like her eyes as she watches him.

  Jayzee laughs and shakes her head. “They have a…thing… if you couldn’t tell.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty clear.” I study Sarah as she watches her boyfriend. She raises one hand to her mouth and begins biting her nails, so focused she doesn’t even realize when she’s bitten past the quick, causing blood to darken beneath the nail and rise to the surface. Weird. Most people bite their nails when they’re worried about something, but I’m not sure I sense worry in her.

  “Is that the guy Scott was giving you grief about?”

  She nods. “Yep. Not that he’s even met Colin. He thinks he knows everything.” Her expression hardens, and she starts chewing her nails even harder, baffling me as to how she doesn’t feel pain. Aside from that, at least there is one person on my side about Scott. He does think he knows everything.

  “Did you ever notice anything weird about him?”

  Before Sarah can answer, the ball slips from Kane’s fingers and shoots off the court toward us. While Sarah and Jayzee start to duck, I reach up and catch the ball.

  “Nice!” Kane shouts, giving me an approving grin.

  I launch it back at him, and he snatches it out of the air like the ball belongs in his hand, making me suspect the boy plays more basketball than not. For a moment, I keep staring at him, even after he goes back to playing and I sit back down.

  “What do you mean by weird?”

  Unsure how to put what I really want to say, I shrug. “I don’t know. Something about him just seems strange. He’s totally different than anyone I’ve met before.”

  Sarah shrugs and finally takes a break from chewing her nails. “He’s a control freak—likes the ball in his court, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do I ever,” I mutter, shaking my head. “How long have you and Colin been going out?”

  “Six months.” She smiles brightly. “Isn’t he amazing?”

  Although I can tell she’s totally stuck on him, I’m not quite as enamored. For one thing, although I can’t really say I see anything unusual about him, something inside tells me he’s different. Then again, something inside once told me that no matter what, Lev would always be there. Sure. Whatever.

  “So what do you think of Kane?” Jayzee asks, and even though her voice is casual, her question feels anything but.

  “I don’t know. Seems nice enough.”

  “Nice enough?” she shoots back, turning her full frown at me as though she can’t believe I just said that. “Did you even check out the packaging? Or are you blind?”

  I shrug. “So he’s cute. What do you want me to say?”

  Not answering, she turns back to the boys. Their skin is slicked with sweat, adding a sheen to their bodies, accentuating the muscles all the more. Kane dribbles the ball and rushes toward the goal. Although Colin raises his arms, trying to block the shot, Kane lobs it over his palms, and the ball arcs slowly into the basket.

  The guys come toward us. Sarah offers Colin a bottle of water, and Kane picks up one beside Jayzee. He smiles at me while taking a drink, trying to catch his breath.

  “So,” Kane begins, “How do you feel about getting together on Friday night and renting some DVDs?”

  “They rent those here? How progressive,” I retort, unsure how to answer. I don’t think I’m ready to date, no matter how cute Kane is.

  “Yeah, smartie, they do. Come on. We always get together on the weekends, usually at Jayzee’s place.”

  So it’s not a date, not that that really helps me because I’m still Grounded Girl, the superhero with no life. Mmmm. Would Jimmy know?

  The point is suddenly mute as Griffin suddenly drives up and nods for me to come to his vehicle. “Oh, great,” I mutter, grabbing my book bag.

  “Who’s that?” Jayzee asks, obvious interest in her voice.

  “A friend,” I retort, waving as I head toward Griffin.

  “What are you doing, Lizzie? Aren’t you supposed to be grounded?” Griffin meets me halfway, and while his tone is light, I can tell he’s worried.

  “Yeah, well, Jimmie always worries about me making new friends. I knew I’d be home before he would.”

  At that moment, Griffin looks over at the group, first at Kane and then at Jayzee. I’d swear his pupils suddenly dilate, but then again that’s probably just me seeing things again.

  “Who is that?” he asks, and without clarification, I know he’s referring to Jayzee. Part of me wants to give him a hard time, but the other part suspects he won’t hear it.

  “That’s Jayzee,” I mutter. “Now please close your mouth before you drool all over your nice shirt, Griffin. Let’s go home.” Although he lets me lead him, he’s still looking at Jayzee, and Jayzee’s looking back.

  Chapter Nine

  “What did you say her name was?”

  It’s the third time Griffin has asked me about Jayzee, and I’m thinking he’s got brain damage. What else explains his slack jaw at the sight of her and his apparent inability to retain something as simple as a two-syllable word?

  The whole drive home, he’s been distant, only giving me an acknowledging “mmhmm” or “yeah” when he sensed a break in the conversation that needed some kind of response.

  “Her name is Jayzee,” I snap as we pull into the driveway. “And the moon is made of blue cheese.” I stare at him, wondering if I’ll get a response I can deal with, like “Blue cheese?”

  “What an unusual name,” he murmurs, staring straight ahead.

  I sigh and get out. No point. At length, he follows me to the door and goes to the spare bedroom while I head to my own room, trying to sort through everything. In the back of my head, I feel thoughts of Kane nagging at me, trying to make me focus on him, but I refuse. He’s a nice guy, I tell myself. But I’m leaving it at that.

  No, what’s really disturbing me is Griffin’s reaction to Jayzee, which reminds me of Jimmie and Theresa, and while both women are beautiful, I don’t see the allure that seems to blind them both to everything else. I sit on the bed and
grab my literature book, figuring I’ll do a little not-so-light reading and get it over with.

  Griffin knocks at the open door and slips in. “You wouldn’t happen to know Jayzee’s phone number would you?”

  “867-5309.” I rattle off, but when he starts to scribble it down on his palm, I say, “I was joking, Griffin. I don’t have a clue. I just met her.”

  “Oh.” He’s staring at his palm as though wishing that number were real. “Can you get it?”

  He turns his gaze toward me for the first time since seeing Jayzee, and even so, I can see the distraction in his wistful gaze, as though I’m not really here in his mind. He’s all about Jayzee now.

  “Probably. But I don’t know why you’re so interested. She’s not exactly your type.” I push the bangs back from my face.

  “Oh, and what is my type?” He leans against the door molding, his gaze sharp and penetrating. As he stands there, he appears a stranger. I recognize his Izod shirt and Dockers shorts. I see the gold watch draping his wrist. Everything about him seems like Griffin, but his eyes are different—distant somehow—and I struggle with trying to understand the sudden shift. I know things weren’t great for him at home, but is he really in that big of a hurry to hook up with the first pretty girl he meets?

  No, that’s not it. It’s more than that. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

  “I don’t know. Just not her.” I can’t take this weirdness. I slam the book shut and brush past him.

  “Where are you going?” Griffin asks.

  “To get some fresh air.” I grab my purse and head for the front door, waiting for him to say something about Jimmie or grab my arm, but he doesn’t. So I stride out the front door, and crawl into my Jeep, well aware the window is still broken but not really caring. Come winter if it’s still broken, I’m sure I’ll get more than a little upset, but right now, the air outside burns with August, so it’s not like a pane of glass is going to matter. The added ventilation might even help.

  Even as I start the engine and back out, I keep expecting Griffin to come running out of the house, and it’s hard to believe I’ve escaped, even after I’m driving down the road, heading toward the cemetery to snap some pictures of the statues. Maybe it’ll help me relax; I need that. There’s just too much weirdness in my life for my own good. Besides, there’s something refreshing about feeling the air ripple through my hair as I drive.

  Not long after I turn into a dirt lot to the side of the cemetery, and stare out amid the vast expanse of graves around me, the stones varying in shapes and sizes. Not surprisingly, the cemetery here reminds me of the one at Hauser’s Landing. Maybe it’s all part of the small-town thing. At least this time there’s nobody’s grave I’m coming to see, and these pictures I’m planning on taking won’t remind me of the life I left behind or people who should’ve lived longer.

  Grabbing the camera from my purse, I lock the doors and head to the gate, half expecting someone will drive up after me. I glance at my watch and realize that it’s too early for Jimmie to be off, and even if he were, I’m thinking he’d be spending time with Theresa again. I used to think giving him a distraction would be nice, but I’m starting to miss the old Jimmie. It’s like everything keeps shifting, and I find myself freefalling no matter how hard I try to keep my balance.

  The one way this cemetery is different than the one at Hauser’s Landing is it doesn’t have an office building, so I guess it’s a good thing I’m not looking for a particular grave. The rusty gate swings open at my touch, and as soon as I enter, I start looking at a number of headstones much older than I expected.

  Ahead, I see an older man sitting on a marble bench beside a grave. His cane rests next to him, and he stares at a beautiful headstone with a statue of a woman nearby. She wears a long, flowing robe with only one sleeve jetting across her shoulder, her hands lowered in prayer. Individual curls wisp around her face, and even her eyes seem lifelike. The old man reaches up and touches the statue with an open palm, a gesture that seems touching yet at the same time, out of place. Still, I can’t help but watch through the camera lens. My finger reflexively presses the shutter button repeatedly, forever sealing those moments into memories for later.

  It seems like I stand there forever, gleaning peace from the way he looks, and I wonder if that statue were carved to resemble the woman he might be mourning. His wife of decades perhaps? Or maybe it’s just my hopelessly romantic side wanting to believe somewhere there are people who understand love and what it means to care about someone forever.

  When I finish taking those pictures, I lower the camera, still watching the old man as he carefully kneels beside the grave, his wrinkled old fingers gripping the top of the stone. The other hand grabs at a bouquet of white lilies and, despite his shaking, carefully sets them in the vase fronting the stone.

  I step closer to him, unable to stay away, wondering at this display of emotion and how long she has been gone for him to seem so desolate in her absence. Even though he doesn’t look up, I know he senses me, and I should walk away, but something keeps me standing there, watching, wondering if that might have been Lev at my grave one day if both of us had been normal. All at once, pain I’m not prepared for comes at me, and I bite my lip, trying to keep back the black hole that used to be my heart. My camera dangles uselessly from one hand while I wipe my eyes with the other.

  “We were married forty years,” he croaks.

  Unsure why he’s speaking to me or even how to respond, I finally step forward. “You’ve given her a beautiful place here,” I manage

  “It’ll never be as beautiful as she was,” he says, his shaking hand adjusting the petals of the lilies. “She loved flowers like these.”

  More tears appear, but I’m not sure if I’m crying for his loss or mine. Maybe both, I think, as I look at the stone and read the name. “Bess Hudgens.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry for your pain. I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

  Shaking my head, I realize just how true that is. I’ve lost more people than I’ve kept in my life, and part of me doesn’t have a clue what to do with that realization. It was one thing with my parents. I don’t remember much about them, so whatever I’m missing, it’s not like I know the difference, which I guess works well as an anesthetic. But with Lev, whether he’s dead or MIA, he’s still gone from my life, so he might as well be dead. I still have nightmares about the night Maguire aimed for me and got Lev.

  The old man slowly turns to me, and I see the tears streaming down his face. His shaking hand points to the bench. “Perhaps you can humor an old man and just sit with me.” His eyes are dulled, the way age has of lessening the fire of color with cataracts, but I can still imagine the bright blue they must have been when he was young.

  “Sure.” I move to the bench and sit, and as he rises, I’m painfully aware how difficult each step must be for him. Arthritis has found a warm host, sadly. He sits, and I nod to him. “I’m Elizabeth Moon.” I cross my legs at the ankles.

  “Bob Hudgens.” He looks at the grave. “So what do you like people to call you?”

  I shake my head, taken back by the question. He’s got to be the first person who’s ever asked me that. People just pick what to call me, and I answer. But he wanted to know what I preferred, which is easy because only one person ever called me Elizabeth that I didn’t mind, and I’m not so sure I’ll ever want anyone to ever use that name again.

  “Lizzie will do,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

  He shrugs. “A person should pick their own nickname. I mean, you couldn’t exactly choose what your parents called you.” A breeze picks up and lightly fans his thinning silver hair.

  “Are you a Robert or just a Bob?” I watch my legs start swinging back and forth.

  “A Robert. But that was my dad’s name, and I never could live up to it, so I called myself Bob. And that’s who I became.”

  I nod, somehow comforted by that idea of choice. “So how long ago did you lose your wife?” I glance b
ack at the stone his gaze has never left.

  “Two years.” His Adam’s apple bobs with emotions I know he’s trying to hold back. “But it seems like an eternity.”

  “Does it ever get any easier?”

  He slowly turns to me. “That’s kind of like asking if you’ll ever love that person any less, Lizzie.” He shakes his head. “She filled a special place in my life nobody else could. Maybe if I were younger, I would have tried finding someone to start over with, but at this point I’m a little too old for that, and I’m ready to go to her.”

  A lump fills my throat, and my whole body stiffens. I just keep telling myself to blink and breathe, blink and breathe. Grief hits like that. It’s like when you’re breathing and your lungs fill with air but suddenly something wraps around you, squeezing. You take in less air with each breath until suddenly there’s nothing. That’s me. The nothing.

  “And who did you lose?” he asks softly, his voice unsure. He brushes his hands across the knees of his pants, and I look at those wrinkled fingers, wondering if he at least enjoyed his life with her. Was the fleeting time they spent worth the misery of now?

  “My boyfriend, Lev.” My tone is clipped; I don’t know how to talk about this without crying, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to. Still, it feels good being able to talk about this with a stranger. There are no complications to add into this mix. “He was murdered six months ago.”

  He nods slowly. “Then I, too, am sorry.”

  Half of me expects he’ll give me some advice, and that something trite will come out, just like with everyone else. Instead there’s silence, which I can’t stand.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me this will get better?”

  He shakes his head. “Why would I lie to you? You know what you feel. There’s nothing that will change it, especially not well-meant things like, ‘You just need to get back to living’ or ‘Time heals everything.’ It doesn’t, you know.”