Touch: A Trilogy

by A. G. Carpenter

  I am not afraid of the afterlife. Been there, done that. But I know that if this body is emptied out again, Percy’s memory, hidden under my skin, will no longer be contained. If it were just lost, that would be one thing, but I’m afraid it will find a way back to him, and that would be a bad thing.

  I stand up and grip the piece of wood, tight. “No,” I say. “No more.”

  In the distance, sirens howl. No doubt Martinez and the others following up on the address Connie gave them. Which is good, because Percy and Franklin both will need to be checked over. But it doesn’t leave me much time.

  It ain’t like I’ve never killed no one. For sure there was Ms. Drowner, though that was an act of mercy despite all the unkindness she visited on me. And the Trainer boys, with all their possible futures burned to nothing in a single moment.

  Some might even say I killed Sheriff Mains, setting him on that road to the storm-crushed clearing with the weight of eight extra years dragging at his conscience. Some might say I had a hand in the loss of my sisters, keeping them too close while Mama tried to stop me from turning into someone too much like Daddy.

  But my fault or not, all of those deaths were the pulling of threads and changing futures.

  Malcolm is violent. Visceral. The old wood snap of bone as I strike his head, the corners of the piece of lumber driving splinters deep into my hands, and the splatter of blood on bare skin, thick and warm as spit.

  Maybe it’s the knot of anger and fear I stole from Percy, maybe it’s the last threads of Malcolm’s magic trying to catch hold of me, but my heart burns as I hit him over and over ‘til it seems all his blood is poured out on the worn floorboards.

  Footsteps echo on the stairs, and Martinez and Elliot come through the door, guns out. “Let me see your hands. No sudden moves.”

  Elliot’s voice is muddy under the rush of my own heartbeat. I let the piece of wood drop from my hands and shuffle back a few steps before my legs give out entirely.

  There are more voices. The floor shakes as more police officers enter the room, some of them moving to check on Percy and Franklin, some moving to check on the kidnapped woman, all of them skirting the pile of flesh and bone that used to be Malcolm.

  I close my eyes and try to slow the hammering pace of my heart. Swallow against the bubble of nausea and taste blood.

  Someone grips my shoulder, shakes me to get my attention. “Alex.”

  I open my eyes and look at Martinez. “Who?”

  He frowns. “Alex Michaels. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I don’t know… is that my name?” I blink and look around the room slow. “Can you tell me how I got here? I don’t remember.”

  25

  They put me in a little room with a table and a couple of chairs. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz against the back of my neck, a mosquito whisper that never stops. It matches the faint buzz in my hands, the wounds left where the paramedics pulled the splinters out of my hands, slathering them with lidocaine and covering it all with gauze to keep me from picking at the torn skin.

  There’s a mirror on the wall opposite the table. Two way, of course. I don’t need to be able to feel the threads running from the other side to know that I’m being watched, but it’s a little boring not being able to close my eyes and watch them back.

  The door opens, and Martinez enters with a folder tucked under his arm. He shuts the door gently and takes the seat opposite my own. “Sorry about the clothes.”

  I touch the sleeve on the bright orange jacket. “Am I going to jail?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Oh.” I raise my hand to tuck my hair behind my ear, but Alex’s hair had been short. Shaggy, but not long like mine. I comb the bangs smooth across my forehead and set my hand back down on the table. “I didn’t mean to kill that man.”

  Martinez opens the folder on the table and spreads a few photos out. “This looks pretty determined.”

  I stare at my hands, ignoring the peculiar appeal of the Rorschach-like pattern of white flesh in the midst of the dark blood. “I wanted him to stop hurting those other people. And he said… he said I was next.” I cup my hands together and make my thumbs do a little do-si-do around each other to try and keep them from trembling. Thinking. Remembering well enough the fear that made me hit Malcolm so hard and so many times.

  “I was afraid,” I say.

  “Because you’d been attacked before?”

  “Before?” It’s hard to meet his gaze. He and I never really spent time together, but I know he watched the interview at Greenhaven. Probably watched me everywhere else we crossed paths in the few hours I was with Percy. And Martinez is sharp and looking for anything out of the ordinary. “I’m afraid I—”

  “Don’t remember.” He ruffles through the papers in his file folder. “Two years ago, a group of men attacked and beat you. Badly. They left you unconscious in an alley.”

  “No. I don’t remember.” But I feel those scars in this skin, the ache in these bones from those injuries, and it makes me shiver. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. He said he was going to kill me next and I just… I was so frightened.” I slide my hand across the table instinctively and clutch his fingers. “I didn’t mean to do this, but I didn’t want to die.”

  “No? But you’d tried to kill yourself.” He doesn’t pull his hand away, but pushes another photo forward. This one the paramedics took of the uneven slashes down both arms, each stitched closed with dozens of tiny knots.

  “I don’t remember that.” Tears spill over as I look at him. “Please. I don’t remember anything except him.” I brush my fingers across the pictures of Malcolm’s dead body. “I just wanted to get away, but he wouldn’t… so I hit him ‘til I couldn’t feel him anymore. Couldn’t feel that… that fist around my heart anymore. And I’m sorry for it, but he said he was going to kill me.”

  Martinez looks at me for a long minute. Finally, he sighs and pulls his hand away from mine. “Okay.” He begins collecting the photos and putting them back into the file folder. “Seems a lot of memories got lost in that room.”

  I do my best to look puzzled. “What?”

  “One of our agents, one of the men you saw being attacked, doesn’t have any memory of what happened either.” He says it casual, but his eyes are fixed on mine. “Funny, right?”

  I shrug. “I guess.” I pull the cuff of the jacket down over my hand. It’s an instinctive gesture—I used to do it to hide the scars on my arm.

  Martinez gets real still and, for a moment, I’m not sure either of us breathe. He slips the last photo back into place and looks up at me. Slow. Cautious. Sharp indeed.

  The divot at the bridge of his nose tells me he doesn’t know for certain, but he suspects it’s me. I lick my lips and smooth my hair across my forehead again. “Are you okay?”

  He twitches in spite of himself and slaps the folder closed. “Tell me your name again.”

  “Alex Michaels. Alexander, I guess.” I hesitate. “That’s what… that’s what they told me. The paramedics.”

  “And your middle name?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  Martinez sighs. “All right.” He stands up. “For a moment there you reminded me of someone.”

  “Oh?”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  I sit back in my chair as he closes the door behind him. I’m tired and, despite the jacket on the prison uniform, cold. Slowly, I tuck my hands against my chest. The cuts from the wood splinters are beginning to sting again, and I bite my lip against the urge to scratch at them.

  Instead, I stare at the two-way mirror, blue eyes staring back at me. And how many others on the opposite side of the glass? Is Percy watching me? Like Martinez, he won’t know it’s me sheltering inside the skin of Alexander John Michaels. And with Martinez watching me…

  I sigh and drop my gaze to the table. It will not
be safe to approach Percy for a while. Not until the uncertainty about what happened in that house has faded. Not until I have some idea of what to do next.

  I curl my hands tighter over my heart. I will not forget you Percival Cox.

  26

  After a while, a woman comes in with an armful of clothes. “If you’ll follow me,” she says, “I’ll take you to a room where you can get changed.”

  In spite of myself, my hands tremble. “Changed?”

  “Yes. You’re being released into the custody of your family. They brought some clothes for you to put on.”

  I stand up obediently. It’s a relief to not be going to jail, but I’m almost as nervous about going home with the Michaels. Although I look like their daughter, I am not her. Even with the pretense of amnesia, they will anticipate something I cannot give them.

  But the other options are worse. Telling the truth about my secondary existence would land me back in an institution. And no doubt Percy as well. Not to mention poor Franklin, who would likely just wind up in prison.

  This road is lonely and difficult, but it is still my best way forward.

  I follow the officer down the hall to a bathroom, the clothes clutched tight against my chest.

  “I’ll wait out here,” she says. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

  “Thank you.” I try to smile, still feeling like I am inhabiting this body at a distance. The smaller movements in particular are hard, like trying to pick up marbles with my toes.

  There is no table or shelf in the bathroom, so I balance the clothes on the edge of the sink. The tile is cold against my feet, and I work the prison clothes off as fast as I can, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror stuck to the wall.

  This is only temporary.

  I don’t know how I’m going to get my own self back, to rid myself of this skin, these parts that are not my own, but I will do it. I have to do it.

  For a moment, I lean on the edge of the sink, gasping for breath and trying to keep my heart beating as I force my soul to stay put.

  These bones are mine. To break, to love.

  They serve me well. I move and speak and hold. My bones, but they are not mine.

  I could write my name a thousand times with a razor blade, but this skin is not my own.

  Bones, skin, and scars. Intimate. Strange.

  My soul remains.

  To break, to love. Unburning and immortal.

  This is not my final form.

  There is a knock on the door. “Excuse me? Are you okay in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just a minute.” I smooth the shirt across my tall and lanky body, comb shaggy hair back from my face. Collect the bright orange and white prison uniform from the floor and balance the sandals on top.

  The officer produces a plastic bag when I emerge. “Just put those in here.”

  I don’t know if they’re going to the lab for further processing or to the laundry. Maybe even to the trash. At this point, I don’t care. I just want to go somewhere safe and lie down. The twist in my gut says it may be some time before I can find a safe place.

  Martinez comes down the hall. “If you’re ready, I’ll take you downstairs now.” He looks about as uncomfortable as I feel, and I have a sudden urge to put my arms around him and tell him everything will be okay. Even if it’s not today.

  But I just nod. “Okay.” My chest aches, desperate to see Percy again, and I fix my eyes on Martinez’s shoes leading me away. Down the hall to the elevator. Another hall. And finally to a lobby with neat rows of chairs.

  Letitia and Jonathan Michaels stand up and hurry toward us. Then stop a few feet away, clinging to each other.

  I slide my hands into my pockets. “Hello.”

  Letitia is the first to move, rushing forward to put her arms around me. “Alex. Oh, my darling.”

  I tremble. Should I put my arms around her? Ignore her? Martinez is still watching me. Still searching for a glimpse of the person he saw earlier. So I clear my throat and say the hard thing.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t… do I know you?”

  She shudders, but doesn’t let go. “It’s me. Mom. And your dad.” A frantic waggle of her hand and Jonathan steps forward, too.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  I nod, awkward. “Hello.”

  Martinez frowns and props his hands on his hips. “The police may have some follow up questions for you, but for now, you’re free to go.”

  Jonathan extends his hand. “Thank you, Agent Martinez. And when you see Agent Cox…”

  “I will give him your thanks.” Martinez claps me on the shoulder. “Be careful, Alex.” Then he’s striding away, and I am left alone with the Michaels.

  For a moment we just stand there, nervous and staring at each other. Finally, Jonathan pulls his keys from his pocket. “You ready to go home, Alex?”

  “Yes.” The smile still feels weird, but they don’t seem to notice.

  Letitia doesn’t let go as we walk out to the car. “I’ve made all your favorites for dinner. I hope you still… well, I’m sure you’ll like them. And then you can go to bed or watch TV or whatever you want.”

  Jonathan circles the car, unlocking the doors with the key. “Alex isn’t a child, Lettie.”

  “No. No. Of course, not.” She smiles up at me, apologetic. “I just meant. We’re happy you have come home. And whatever you want…” Tears spill over, and she brushes them away. “We want you to be happy, too.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Jonathan nods and pulls the driver’s door open. “Then let’s go home.”

  I climb into the back seat, pulling my knees in close as I fill more space than I am used to. Stare at my hands, knotted in my lap, because if I don’t, I will stare at the building in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of Percy.

  I cannot see the road ahead of me. Cannot see anything outside my own flesh and bones, and that scares me. How will I find my way forward? Find my way back to Percy?

  My hands are cold, and I tuck them against my chest and the flicker of warmth hiding there inside this nearly-dead flesh. My soul, still burning even while all my other magic has left me.

  I take a breath and then another. Painful, but still breathing. Still living. Still holding tight to the one thing I know for sure.

  This is not my final form.

  THE END

  III

  Of Flesh and Bone

  Prologue

  The summer that Baby came it fell to me and Addie to make the weekly trip to pick up our box of food.

  With Daddy gone and Mama laid up on the couch, her feet so swelled up she couldn’t get her shoes on, there was barely any money coming in, and that meant visiting the food bank every Friday to get a loaf of bread, a stack of those slices they call cheese but really aren’t, plus some canned things that might or might not be enough to feed the three of us ‘til the next weekend.

  There was no proper building for the food distribution, so the folks that ran it would be at a different church each week. They said it meant they didn’t have to waste money on rent, and it gave the do-gooders a chance to volunteer and actually do some good.

  So Addie and me would get the wagon out of the tool shed and take turns pulling it to the church, then pull it home together.

  Sometimes we went to the Pentecostal Church across the railroad tracks and got in line with a bunch of folks who were smooth and brown, not all freckled and blotchy with the heat like us girls were. It was a longer walk, but the ladies who put the food into our box were always nice, sometimes slipping a couple extra cans into our share and asking after Mama.

  But most the time we wound up at the Greater Third Baptist Church that was in the middle of town.

  There weren’t no First or Second Baptist anymore. Whatever disagreement made folks split off to make their own building and baptize how they saw fit had been reconciled or forgotten. But one thing they seemed to agree on was the character of poor folks.
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br />   Ms. Skinner, a tall woman who always looked like her bones were a size or two too big and drew blood-red lipstick over her lips to try and make her look more feminine, stood at the beginning of the row of folding tables—clipboard in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. “Green, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Addie bobbed politely, one hand plucking at the hem of her shorts as if she would make a proper curtsy.

  Ms. Skinner rattled her pen against the clipboard. “Where is your mother? An adult is supposed to be present to receive food.”

  “She’s at home, ma’am. Restin’ like the doctor told her to.”

  Ms. Skinner shook her head. “She should be working. Keep you girls fed.”

  Addie was pinker than usual, her blue eyes pale and icy, but she nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “God helps those that help themselves,” Ms. Skinner said.

  Addie tilted her head back and stared up at the steeple with its freshly painted cross at the top—all neat and white. Not like the Catholics who like to remind you it was a weapon and keep Jesus pinned there, forever sacrificing himself.

  “Well...” Addie paused, tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I reckon if we could help ourselves, we wouldn’t need God’s help.”

  Ms. Skinner squeaked, and her mouth drew up so tight, I thought she might turn her head inside out. I ran my fingers over the threads runnin’ left and right and straight ahead just in case there were one where that happened. There weren’t.

  Ms. Skinner scribbled something on her list, the tip of her pen tearin’ a hole right through the paper. “Sign.” The curl in her lip said, If you can. But just ‘cause we were poor didn’t make us stupid.

  Addie signed her name and handed pen and clipboard back. “Thank you, Ms. Skinner. You have a good weekend.” She didn’t wait for a response. Marched down the row of tables collecting our loaf of bread and stack of cheese slices wrapped in paper, three cans of soup and three of vegetables.

  And I stacked all of them in the box in the middle of the wagon, neat-like so the bread didn’t get crushed.