by T. K. Leigh
I follow my phone’s directions, turning off the main strip and driving through a residential neighborhood, American flags hanging from every house. Thick trees line the road, the lampposts on the median of the divided street announcing to all that this is the home of Lincoln.
As I approach the gates of Oak Ridge Cemetery, a solemn air greets me. I turn off the music and slow my speed as I meander along the roadway through the cemetery, marveling at how green the grass is. Nearby signs direct me toward a parking lot reserved for those here to pay their respects to President Lincoln, and I find a spot.
Killing the ignition, I step out of the car, stretching my arms skyward, tilting my head from side to side to work out the kinks in my muscles after hours of driving. I grab my bag and follow the marked path toward Abraham Lincoln’s resting place. And my final destination for today.
The building reminds me of the Washington Monument. A white obelisk rising into the sky, the setting sun casting a beautiful pink glow over it.
I start toward the mausoleum as a man in a park ranger uniform approaches. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The tomb closed to visitors at five.”
I check my watch to see I’m fifteen minutes too late.
“We open again at eight tomorrow morning, but feel free to look around the grounds and rub Lincoln’s nose.”
I furrow my brow. “Rub Lincoln’s…nose?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods over my shoulder. “For good luck.”
I follow his gaze. Several yards in front of the mausoleum stands a bronze bust of Abraham Lincoln’s face. Most of it is a dull copper, apart from his nose, which seems to shine from being constantly rubbed. It’s more than apparent this is a rite of passage, something everyone who comes here must do.
“Thank you.”
The man tips his hat, then heads off as I stroll along the paths, admiring the landscape. The lush grass. The overgrown trees providing shade and a serene resting place for the inhabitants. The stunning flowers in red, white, and blue that wrap around the building where Abraham Lincoln has lain for over 150 years.
I grab the canister out of my bag, checking my surroundings to see if anyone’s paying attention, unsure about any rules regarding spreading human remains in a cemetery. Certain I’m alone, I sprinkle a handful of Hunter’s ashes along the grass by the mausoleum, pausing to consider what he’d do or say if he were here. He would have found some way to charm the park ranger into allowing us into the mausoleum. That was Hunter. Always charming everyone he met.
Except my mother. She didn’t like him from the moment she met him. Probably because he made me happy, and she can’t stand the idea of anyone being happy.
Releasing a long sigh, I suppress all thoughts of my mother. They have no place on this trip. Hell, they have no place in my life. Period.
I take my time as I make my way from the building, passing the bust of Lincoln with its luminous nose. Stopping in front of it, I lift my hand, joining the ranks of millions who came before me as I rub it.
“It’s said to be good luck.”
I whirl around, the sudden interruption catching me off guard. “Wha…” I stop short when I’m met with the same stunning blue eyes from the diner this morning.
“Rubbing his nose,” he continues, as if it’s not a strange coincidence that we ran into each other again. “It’s said to bring good luck.”
A sly smile builds on his full lips as he steps toward me, his frame towering over me by nearly a foot, making me estimate him to be around six-four. His broad shoulders fill out his button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. A few tendrils of chest hair are visible from where the top button is undone. A pair of khaki shorts hangs from his hips, revealing sculpted legs, making me wonder whether the rest of his body is as toned. Judging by the way his biceps stretch the fabric of his shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, I imagine it is.
When I hear him clear his throat, I inhale sharply, whipping my eyes toward his to see him smirking, a cockiness about him from having caught me checking him out.
“So I’ve heard,” I reply nonchalantly, holding my head high.
“Have you also heard the story about the plot to steal his body?”
“Steal his…body?”
“In the late 1800s, a counterfeiter named ‘Big Jim’ Kennally hoped to ransom it for two-hundred grand and a pardon for his engraver, who was locked up in prison. That was a lot of money back then.”
“Some would say that’s a lot of money today.”
“Well, in the late 1800s, it was a… What’s that saying you Americans use? Shit ton?”
“Sounds about right.” My cheeks warm, a blush blooming on them. “Did he succeed? In stealing Lincoln’s body?”
“Unfortunately for ‘Big Jim’ and his associates, they were really bad criminals.”
I tilt my head. “Bad?”
“Not bad as in dangerous. More like they were…daft.”
“Daft?”
“Yes. You know… Dumb.”
“How so?” I angle toward him.
As I peer at him in the glow of the late afternoon, I notice there’s something different about him. He seems more…vibrant than he did this morning. It could be because the caffeine finally kicked in, but that doesn’t seem to be it. Hours ago, sadness consumed his tone. It lacked life, energy. Like he was just going through the motions. But now, the eyes that had been clouded with grief exude a renewed vitality.
“The men didn’t have body-snatching experience. Sadly, this was before the days of being able to find a reliable body snatcher on Yelp.”
A laugh escapes my throat at his serious tone, and he flashes a debonair smile. It steals my breath. Full lips framing perfect teeth that shine brightly against his tan skin.
“So they formed an alliance with a man who purported to be a grave robber, Swegles. Unfortunately, they didn’t run the necessary background checks, because Mr. Swegles was actually a paid informant of the Secret Service.”
“Good help really is hard to find, isn’t it?” I quip sarcastically.
“That it is.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. “When Swegles told his contact at the Secret Service what was going on, they put a plan into motion to have agents waiting for them. What unfolded then was like a comedy of errors.” A chuckle rumbles from his chest, as if he’s recalling a humorous personal memory, not a historical anecdote. “The men had hoped to steal a body, yet they struggled to even pick the lock of the tomb. When they finally did manage to get inside, they couldn’t lift the coffin. Not to mention, a group of lawmen were lying in wait.”
“So they didn’t steal Lincoln’s body?”
“No, they didn’t. Even so, the custodian of the tomb was worried. What if more…experienced people decided to make a go of it? He couldn’t stomach the thought, so to protect Lincoln’s remains, he created the Lincoln Guard of Honor.”
“Guard of Honor?”
“Precisely.” He briefly catches my eye before shifting his attention to the mausoleum. “Five ordinary men got together to relocate Lincoln’s body to a shallow, unmarked grave in the tomb’s basement. They all pledged to keep the location secret, and in the years that followed, they did just that. It wasn’t until twenty-five years later that they were relieved of honoring their duty.”
“What happened then?”
“Robert Lincoln had his father’s body placed into a steel cage, which was lowered ten feet below the ground and covered with cement.” He nods at the obelisk. “And that’s where he still rests to this very day.”
I turn my eyes toward the building, neither one of us saying anything for several moments as we pay our respects to the man buried and protected within its walls. A slight breeze blows, the aroma of fresh-cut grass and wildflowers surrounding me. It’s a stark change to the stench of garbage and stale cigarette smoke that seems to permeate the streets of New York.
“They never taught that in history classes. At least not in my school.”
<
br /> “What can I say?” He shrugs, dimples popping. “I’m a sieve of useless information.”
“Well… Thank you for the lesson. It was rather educational.”
“Glad to be of service…” His voice rises in pitch, making it apparent that he’s asking my name.
“Nora.”
“Anderson.” Pulling his hands from his pockets, he offers me one, a single brow arched in anticipation.
My eyes trained on his, I extend my own hand, allowing him to wrap his fingers around it. His grip is firm, but not overly so. There’s a tenderness in the way he touches me.
“Nice to meet you, Nora.”
“Likewise, Anderson.”
We stop shaking, but don’t release our grasp. It’s not because I don’t want to. All reason says I should. But something keeps my hand fused to his, some bigger force at play. Something familiar about him that speaks to my subconscious, pulling me toward him instead of away as it normally would. My heart rate picks up, those same goosebumps from earlier returning, but this time they’re stronger, the chill trickling down my spine more pronounced.
I try to look away, to break this spell his mere presence seems to cast over me. By the awe and curiosity in his stare, he appears just as bewitched by me. His eyes are a myriad of shades, compelling me to get lost in them. Light hues of blue more clear than the most stunning ocean. But the more they flame, the darker and stormier they become, until they’re nearly as dark as midnight. I can’t help but feel like I’ve seen these eyes before. But where? Wouldn’t I remember them?
He parts his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he leans closer. But before he can utter a single syllable, I yank my hand from his, severing the connection.
“I have to go.” I turn, practically running away from the mausoleum and toward my car, ducking inside like I’d just robbed a bank. Why did I run from a simple handshake?
Because, deep down, I know it wasn’t a simple handshake.
A handshake doesn’t make your knees weak.
A handshake doesn’t make your heart ricochet into your throat.
A handshake doesn’t make your core clench.
A handshake doesn’t allow you to peer into another person’s soul.
Yet I felt all that with him.
Which is why I had to leave, not looking back until the cemetery, and Anderson, are safe in my rearview mirror.
This is not how I expected to end my first day of saying goodbye to Hunter.
Chapter Six
Anderson
I stare at the pill bottles on top of my toiletry bag, my daily reminder of the new trajectory my life has taken.
Corticosteroid. Receptor modulator. Muscle relaxant. Anti-depressant. Insomnia pills. Drugs to help control my bladder. Oh, and my favorite, drugs to help with any sexual dysfunction I may experience as a side effect of my recent diagnosis, one I still struggle to come to terms with. What I thought was simply a terrible migraine that caused me to pass out and hit my head, resulting in a mild concussion, was a symptom of something much worse.
But there’s nothing I can do. This is now my life.
I’m not sure I want it to be. To lose control of my muscles, my bladder…hell, my entire body. It probably won’t happen for years, my progression slow, which is why it took so long to diagnose me in the first place. According to the neurologist I saw back in New York, I’ve had MS for several years, but my flareups were too spread out to raise any suspicion. I’d written off the random pins-and-needles sensations, blinding migraines, and occasional dizzy spells as being caused by stress or lack of sleep. I should have known better.
After all, my mother had MS. She was my age when the disease took her life twenty-five years ago. All I can think about is how, one day, she was this vibrant woman who made everyone she encountered smile. Then, practically overnight, she was gone, having fallen to the disease that now plagues me.
A phone chiming cuts through my growing denial, and I glance at the screen to see my younger sister calling. It’s not unusual. I talk to her quite a bit. But not in the middle of the night. It’s only eight at night here in Illinois, but back home, it’s nearly five in the morning.
“Esme,” I answer quickly. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course,” she responds. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s early. You know what Dad says.”
“I know. I know. The only people who call you between the hours of midnight and seven in the morning are those with bad news,” she recites. “But it’s evening where you are. And I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d call to check in on you.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “How are you?”
“I’m…good.”
“Like, good good? Or ‘I hate this question so I’m just going to say I’m good’ good?”
“A little of both.”
She blows out a long sigh. “I wish you’d come home.”
“I know,” I respond, running a hand through my disheveled hair that’s had a chance to grow out these past few months I’ve avoided public engagements. Couple that with my overgrown facial hair, and I barely resemble the persona of the man I was molded into years ago.
“I’m worried about you, especially about you driving.”
“I told you… The neurologist said I can still drive for now. He even thought it might help with some of the psychological effects, with the stipulation that if I encounter any muscle spasms, difficulty with gait, or extreme dizziness to call him immediately.”
“Maybe I just want to give my brother a hug to let him know he’s not alone. You don’t have to go through this alone,” she reminds me. “Hell, you haven’t even told Creed, and he’s in charge of your safety.”
“Because there’s no way he’d let me drive on my own, Esme. You know that damn well. I just…” I expel a long breath, falling onto the bed of the tiny motel room a few blocks away from Lincoln’s final resting place. It’s a far cry from the luxurious surroundings I stayed in last night in Chicago. But this is what I need right now. To be normal.
If I were born into a normal family, I wouldn’t feel forced to keep my diagnosis to myself for the time being. But I wasn’t.
When you’re not only part of the Royal Family of the Western European Nation of Belmont, but also Crown Prince and next in line to the throne, things are never normal. Every choice must be carefully weighed before a decision is made. For now, I don’t want anyone other than my sister to know. That includes my oldest friend and chief protection officer, Creed.
We may have grown up together, our mothers having been close friends, but as a member of the Royal Guard, Creed takes his oath seriously. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t hesitate to follow protocol in order to ensure my safety. And that would include informing my father. I’m just fortunate this incident happened while traveling under an alias here in the States and Creed believed me when I told him the doctors didn’t find anything serious. That it was just a migraine brought on by the stress of it being the anniversary of my girlfriend’s death. Otherwise, I doubt I would have been able to keep this from hitting the headlines. And there’s no way he would have been okay following behind me in a separate car as I drove across the country.
“I need a little more time to process everything,” I tell my sister. “Need some time to myself. Before everything changes.”
“Speaking of changes, Creed mentioned you had a change of plans.”
“You’ve spoken with Creed?”
“I, well… Yes, I have.”
“I bet you have,” I tease, breaking through the growing tension. I don’t have to worry about her telling him about my MS. We made a pact years ago to always keep each other’s secrets, and it’s one we still honor, even though we’re both in our thirties. “I never knew you to be the type to go for phone sex, Esme, but whatever works.”
“Anders!” she gasps, using her nickname for me. “That’s sick. I’m your sister.”
“Yet you’re not denying it.”
“
There’s nothing to deny. As I’ve told you time and again, there’s nothing going on between us.” Her voice falters. “It’s not allowed. Anyway, this isn’t about me, or Creed, or whatever.” Her tone brightens. “He mentioned you’re driving Route 66.”
“I have to take the opportunity while I still can.”
“Are you sure you’re not doing this to avoid facing the truth?”
“I’m not avoiding anything,” I protest, although my voice lacks the conviction I wish it held. “I have to face the truth every damn time I get out of bed and wonder if the soreness in my arm is from sleeping on it wrong or if it’s another symptom. There’s no avoiding this. Not when it’s forcing me to question everything in my life, Esme.”
“Then come home,” she pleads. “Be with your family. Don’t push us away. While I can understand why you’d want to take this time to process everything, to do things you’ve always wanted to do, your family needs you. Your country needs you.”
“Until they learn their future king is a goddamn cripple.”
“Just because you may eventually have trouble walking—”
“And shitting and fucking,” I interject, but she ignores my outburst, remaining as levelheaded as always.
“I did my research. Your progression is slow. And you have relapsing-remitting MS, which is easily managed with drugs and diet. This isn’t the death sentence you make it out to be. Even if your symptoms do deteriorate, it doesn’t mean you’ll be any less qualified to rule this country.”
“We both know it might. At least in some people’s eyes. It might be best for all involved if I abdicate now before it becomes a bigger deal than it needs to be.”
The line goes eerily silent for what feels like an eternity. “Why would you do that?” Esme squeaks out.