Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  And I know I will follow him anywhere.

  Until out of nowhere, something shifts; I can feel it in his withering hold on me. I can see it in his eyes, tinges of green sparking behind the grey, and he pulls back, away from me. It’s only an inch or two, but it hurts. I need to be close to him, whoever he is. I’m supposed to go with him.

  Why does he pull away?

  He snaps his gaze from mine and gives his head a small shake. His approach halts. I’m hanging at the tip of his invisible thread, desperate for the wall he’s putting up to shatter so I can climb over and join him. It’s inexplicable, this sudden force drawing me to him, yet I can’t fight it. Don’t want to fight it.

  Finally, he brings his gaze back to mine, and I notice the green in his eyes has almost overtaken the grey. My stare is fixed, nothing can make me look away. He’s closing the space between us again, parts of him as hazy as a distant dream while other parts are vivid. When his lips touch mine, they’re surprisingly soft and warm. He’s sealed my mouth with his, a kiss and yet not a kiss at all; cool air pours into me, traveling down my throat and filling my lungs. With a sharp inhale, I’m soaking up as much of it as I can get, devouring all that he gives me until I start to tingle.

  His pull wavers, the invisible thread loosening its grip on me. A strong beat plays in my chest, and a flutter runs down my spine. My body is reclaiming me. With every new sensation, every spark of an awaking muscle, the man before my eyes fades into a distant memory. Thick strands of dark, almost black hair blend in with the lake’s deep blue, creating a swirl of inky colors around him, within him. He’s less real now, like a trick of the light, and I wonder . . . if I was to reach out and touch him, this man, this angel, would my hand run right through?

  It’s so bright. White and yellow lights make my dry eyes water, and I squeeze them shut.

  Where the hell am I?

  I force my eyelids open and brave the brightness. I’m squinting, trying to shield them, and it helps.

  There’s a white ceiling above me. My eyes shift to the right, and I see a plain, large window, the source of the penetrating sunshine. There’s a coffee-colored sofa along the wall, just below the window, and directly beside me is a small bedside table. It isn’t until I turn my head to the left that I see the monitors. I follow a bundle of white cords down to my upturned arm and count one, two, three of them, piggybacking together on the tube piercing my skin.

  Soft footsteps tap outside the door, coming closer, and a woman enters, dressed in a pair of turquoise scrubs. She rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn as she strolls over to the monitor. Eventually, her gaze lands on me, and her eyes widen.

  “Oh! You’re up.” She smiles, a warm curve of her lips that makes my shoulders relax slightly against the stiff bed. “I know you must have so many questions, but don’t you worry, hun. Everything is all right.”

  I’m sore, muscles throbbing from head to toe. I hardly feel like speaking, so I nod.

  She retrieves a tablet affixed to the wall and returns to the monitor. Her fingernails tap against glass as she makes some notes, bobbing her head from the monitor to the tablet and back again.

  “Can you tell me your name? First and last, please.”

  “Lo—” My voice croaks, and I clear my throat. “Lou Adaire.”

  Her fingers stop tapping as she tilts her head toward me questioningly. “Legal name?”

  “Right,” I mutter. “Tallulah Adaire.” Tallulah is a family name, but Grams was always Tallulah. Mom was Talli. I’m Lou.

  Her expression softens, and I wonder how she already obtained that information. “Very good, hun. And how are you feeling?” she asks, stepping closer. She sets the tablet on a table beside me and gently readjusts the IVs. My left arm rests limply in her hand.

  “I’m okay, I think. Just a little soreness.”

  “Mhmm. A little soreness and an angel on your side, I’d say.” She nods as she walks away, disappearing behind the front door for a second before rolling in a vitals machine.

  Something sparks in my mind at the mention of an angel, and it takes me a minute to place it. Oh my god. I wasn’t alone in the lake. There was someone else. A man. No, no, that can’t be right. Come on now, Lou, don’t go losing your mind just because you nearly died. If anything, it was a dream. A remarkably realistic dream, but a trick of the mind all the same.

  The woman stops at my bedside, grabs a thermometer, and sticks it in my ear. “Now, do you remember what happened?” When she blows a few strands of blonde hair out of her face, they fly up to skim grey roots.

  I pause and mull it over as she withdraws the instrument from my ear. The bridge, the cold water filling my lungs, the man. Yeah, better leave that last one out of it. “I think so. There was a storm. My truck—I went off a bridge?”

  She closes her eyes and gives a sympathetic nod. “You did, poor thing, straight into Tuttle Creek Lake. Dr. Perry says it’s a miracle you’re even alive.” Her hand is resting over my own now, giving a small squeeze, but I hardly feel it.

  A miracle.

  Miracles don’t happen to someone like me, and when it looks like they do, it’s only a sign of something worse to come. Grams used to say I was a miracle for making it through the day I was born. But I’ll never forget that my mother sacrificed her own life for that to happen. I thought I was lucky to at least still have my dad, but he could only take it for so long—life without his other half. I close my eyes before the image of his lifeless body on the bathroom floor can fully develop. I’d prefer never again having to see so much red.

  “Oh, cheer up now, pretty girl.” My eyes open, the concerned sound of the woman’s voice wiping away my darkening thoughts. Her face looms over me, eyebrows puckered. “It’s not every day we get to witness miracles like this one around here, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Um, where am I exactly?”

  “Oh, of course. You’re in Salina.”

  I stare at the woman.

  “Salina, Kansas,” she clarifies.

  My brows crease. “Do you happen to know how far Ashwick is from here?”

  “Oh, sure. A good half an hour’s drive.”

  A light, fluttering sensation swells in my stomach as I absorb the fact that I’m so close. I’m almost there. In Grams’s hometown. Mom’s hometown.

  “Now, hun, do you have anyone you’d like to call? Anyone who might be looking for you?”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Just since last night.”

  I close my eyes, my head suddenly feeling heavy against the pillow as her original question echoes in my mind, taunting me. Jamie’s determined brown eyes pop into my brain, but there’s no way I’m going to freak her out over this. Finally, I manage to whisper, “No. There’s no one.”

  She goes quiet again, and I can feel her still standing beside me. I must be making her uncomfortable, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it.

  “Honey, how are you feeling . . . emotionally? You’ve been through something incredible, and you know, there are people you can talk to about it, if you’d like.”

  I know what she’s asking, if I’m mentally stable. The answer is somewhere in between hell if I know and far from it, but I don’t want to talk to anyone about Grams, about Bobby, about the accident. Or about him. The impossible angel my subconscious wants me to hold onto—a sick and twisted subconscious who gets off on showing me a world where not even the other side wants me.

  Seriously, not that I’m complaining, but who gets rejected by death?

  Some things are better left unsaid, so I stick with a safe, “I’m fine.”

  “Look,” she says softly, “you won’t be due for release for another twenty-four hours. Your vitals are looking good. Great, in fact. But I can see about pulling a few strings to get you additional nights if you need. Mind you, I make no guarantees, but—”

  I’m already shaking my head. “That won’t be necessary.” I slowly open my eyes and turn my neck a fraction toward her
. She oozes sympathy as she stares down at me. “Really, I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “All right. If you say so. Well, you’re headed to Ashwick? Have you got a place to stay there?”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, already regretting not planning this move better. Or at all. “Not yet.”

  “They’ve got the old inn. Can I at least get you their info? I’ve got a baggie with the clothes you were wearing at the time—they’ve dried by now, of course—and your wallet’s mostly intact.”

  I let out a breath of relief and offer a small smile. My wallet, my ID; that must be how she already knew my name. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  Maybe I’m being stupid and should accept her generosity. It’s not like things aren’t tight financially. All I’ve got is my personal savings stash to lean on. Working as the front desk administrator for a chiropractor only paid so much.

  Still, I don’t want special treatment, and more than that, I don’t want to be under a microscope or made to talk one-on-one about my feelings. As Grams could have attested, I’ll run a 12K marathon before wasting hours discussing my feelings and what they might mean. In other words: not going to happen.

  She nods. “Okay then. Dr. Perry will be right in to check on you, then we’ll discuss your stitches and—”

  Stitches? A frown tugs at my lips.

  “Oh, not to worry.” She pats my arm. “It was just for a cut on your shoulder blade, nothing major.” It’s then that I remember the windshield breaking. Warm blood on my skin. “Now, there’s also an officer wanting to talk to you about the accident. Whenever you’re up for it, of course.”

  I mutter some kind of acknowledgement, which seems to satisfy her because she turns to exit. The door clicks behind her, and silence fills the air. My mind isn’t right yet, still foggy and drained. The monitor’s beeping beside me, and there’s something oddly comforting about the sound. Soft, steady, hypnotic.

  Reassuring.

  I keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead and taking slow, deep breaths.

  I’m alive.

  I should be happy. I should be experiencing more relief than I am, but all I can focus on are the many missing pieces of my heart. The thing is, I didn’t just lose my grandmother on Sunday morning, but my entire family. She was my mother, my father, my sister, my best friend. The only person in my life who never left and always loved. The single constant in the ever-changing sea around me.

  And now, as I lie in this bright room, the beat of the monitor echoing in my ears, a blanket of haze and uncertainty rushes over me. When I think about my future, my life, my mind goes blank. It’s not an illuminating, white slate either, full of warm lights and promises.

  It’s dark and lonely, and all I feel is cold. I’m alone, in a world filled with strangers and steel walls.

  Chapter 3

  Ashwick Inn is a large, Victorian style building. I can hear its age with each creaking step I take down the wooden hall floor. When I shove the bronze key into my room’s keyhole, it jerks and sticks before I can turn the knob and push the door open. The room is oversized, bigger than any back home, and fits an enormous bed along the far-left wall, a worn loveseat pressed up against its foot, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases stocked with dusty material. There’s a fireplace to my right, built into the base of the only red bricked wall in the room, and above it sits an older TV. The large, round rug laid out before it holds a single rocking chair.

  I wonder if Grams has been here before. Clearly it’s been around for a while.

  Would she have ever needed to stay at an inn? Could she have walked down that very hall, on the top floor? As open and talkative as Grams was, her past was a solid door that remained shut. It didn’t matter how many times I used to ask about her life before LA, about the grandfather I’d never known, my questions were never met with answers.

  She would have loved this place, though: the natural scent of wood filling my nose, the comfortable, folksy feel that she filled our own home with, and the way the fresh coldness from outside wafts through the air. For those very same reasons, Bobby would hate it. Ashwick Inn lacks a certain ambience he tends to go for these days—the kind with smoky casinos and full-service bars.

  I glance down at the new, stiff duffel bag in my hand, the price tag still poking out. A quick detour to the tiny town’s only shopping strip allowed me to stock up with some basics before heading here. My wallet and clothes are the only visible ties to my life in LA now. I never thought I’d feel so bare without any of my own clothes, photographs, and other belongings, but now I can’t shake the feeling a part of my identity was left at the bottom of Tuttle Creek Lake.

  At least one of the shops carried cute postcards. I take a minute to write a little note for Jamie, letting her know I’ve made it and I’m doing okay. I may have conveniently left out a few of the darker details, but Jamie’s the kind of bestie who’d drop everything and come cursing and banging down my door to make sure I’m all right. She has enough people to take care of under her own roof as it is. Setting the card aside for now, I cross the room.

  The bathroom’s small, cozy. A standalone, oval tub sits in one corner. No shower. That’s fine with me; at least it’s clean. I start the water, turning the knob to as hot as I can stand, then close the door to let the steam surround me as I undress.

  The water is almost too hot when I lower myself down. Relaxation washes over me. After turning the faucet off, my eyes close as the soothing sound of water settling takes over. It’s hypnotic, the smallest waves caressing me, and my body melts into it like butter. And somehow, it’s familiar—the warmth, the syrupy sensation tugging at me, the tingling.

  It’s so quiet, I can hear my own inhales and exhales. Each breath a soft pull and whoosh, a smooth and steady stream of air. Until it’s not, and I hear a different rhythm. It’s quieter, but there’s a roughness to it. It’s deep and controlled, and it doesn’t match the rise and fall of my chest. In fact, it doesn’t seem like me at all.

  My eyes snap open.

  Steam clouds the small bathroom, but I can see there’s no one here but me. Still, I feel it. I feel a presence, a warmth on my skin, and I hear it in the air like a painter’s brush stroking its canvas. I try to quiet my breathing, forcing each exhale to be long and slow, so I can hear the sounds better. It’s clearer now, heavy, coming and going in strong, steady patterns. Breaths.

  A cold sliver of unease sneaks up on me, mostly because the logical part of my brain tells me I should be panicking. That’s the natural reaction, after all. Somehow, my body and my mind are on completely different planets. I know it can’t be real, whatever this is. Yet I feel it, a gentle pull. A warm hum calling to me. Even if it is my subconscious tricking me again, manifesting some way for me to overcome Grams’s death and the accident, it’s hard to care when such a soothing cloud of calm surrounds me. No sense of malice, no threat in the air. Something about the presence comforts me, easing the ache of loneliness, and it’s drawing me in.

  For reasons I can’t understand, I don’t want to lose the feeling, the sound. The presence. Not yet. And right now, I’m choosing to feed it.

  On a shaky breath, I close my eyes again, my breaths falling into pattern with the soft breaths behind me. When I hear the inhale, I fill my lungs. When I hear the exhale, I release. Soon, we’re in sync with one another.

  An entire minute goes by like this, with me continuing the slow and steady breathing and listening to them—it? him?—follow. I’m in a trance—a romanticized state devised by the newly unstable half of me, and it’s the first true sense of peace I’ve felt since Grams’s passing.

  It’s fading now, drifting away. I don’t want it to leave me yet; I’m not ready to be alone again. But what can I do? It’s dwindling, the warm presence around me diminishing and leaving my skin cold, until the sounds are barely even an echo anymore. Once they’re gone completely, my eyes slowly open and I look around once more.

  The room is ju
st as empty as it was before, but somehow I feel even lonelier.

  CRACK.

  CRACK.

  CRACK.

  A desperate, shaky scream climbs up my throat, but it’s not mine. Boyish and small, the unfamiliar voice pours out on its own.

  My arms, small and skinny, hang over the side of the bed. Jeans pulled down to my ankles, each draft of wind seeping through the open window sends a fresh wave of pain through my raw backside.

  What’s happening to me? This isn’t me, my body, my voice. And yet the pain, the fear, the anger, it’s real enough that it may as well be.

  A long shadow stretches over the bed before me, warning me of what’s to come.

  CRACK.

  This lash is harder than the last, tearing my flesh open as pain ripples to my core. “Please, Pops! No more!” I have no control over the words I cry, nor over this child body I don’t recognize.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ talk back to me, boy.” Hatred burns through each word, and the giant looming over me inches forward. He doesn’t stop until his tobacco and whiskey-stenched breath is close enough to touch the nape of my neck. He lowers his voice to a menacing whisper. “Unless you want little Tommy over there to take the rest of your beating for you, of course.”

  I feel my head involuntarily jerk toward the right-hand corner of the bedroom, where a boy lays in a heap on the carpet. I’m unsure how I know this, but the boy is six years old. One of his eyes is swollen shut, while the other looks up at me pleadingly. His nose is caked with dried blood.

  On its own, my jaw snaps shut, teeth grinding together.

  “That what you want, boy?” taunts the man, leaning closer still. “Your little brother to take what you ain’t man enough to handle?”

  My eyes narrow, and the voice that isn’t mine grits out, “No, sir.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He backs away, but my relief is short-lived as the shadow before me raises its arm. I know it’s coming, the burn, the blood, but I keep my eyes locked on little Tommy. I will not close them for this bastard. I will not cower, not while the tiniest spark of hope still gleams in my little brother’s single, unharmed eye.