by Jen Printy
For a brief, solitary moment, I’m home. A warm, comfortable sensation sweeps me away. It takes every ounce of strength not to fold her into my arms and kiss her hello. Although the woman is identical, she’s not Lydia. The puzzled expression on her face is evidence of that. The warm torment lingers before crumpling to an incessant ache.
Green Eyes bites her lower lip, swallows hard, and attempts a grin. “I remember you. You’re the guy who doesn’t look where he’s going.”
Still unable to utter words, I nod.
“I’m Leah. And you are?”
“Jack,” I choke out.
Her breath catches.
Tremors begin in the tips of my fingers and hint at a pending flashback. Escape! You need to escape! Escape! The siren thrums, but my feet refuse to obey.
“Are you okay?” Leah asks.
I don’t answer, and the awkward silence draws her attention to the floor.
Go! the siren bellows.
Rain runs down my face, icy and stinging. I’m on the sidewalk. I don’t remember turning or running out the door. I don’t recall anything except those eyes, that face, and the girl.
I stumble into a nearby alley and slump against a wall. The snarl of pain that feels like a thousand needles jab my flesh, sending tremors through my body, and I collapse to the slick pavement, but the hard landing doesn’t jar me out of shock. With my eyes closed, I let convulsive gasps rattle through me. Time loses meaning, and without my approval, my mind drifts into the past, to an afternoon filled with her laughter, spent under the elms. Back when the days were long, and the world was small.
When the haze releases, I’m lying on the bed in my apartment. How did I end up here? I hoist myself onto one elbow and look around. I’m in dry clothes. My rain-soaked ones are hanging in my closet. “Work. Crap!”
Ed picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, Ed. It’s Jack. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’m not going to make it in today.”
“Flu, I know. Your friend stopped by. Take care of yourself and, hopefully, I’ll see you Monday.”
“Friend?”
“Yeah, some tall guy. I didn’t catch his name. Then again, I don’t think he offered it. I’d be careful of that home remedy of his, though.” Ed chuckles. “Might put ya in the hospital.”
“Thanks, Ed. Will do.”
Curiosity forces me to my feet and makes me search the apartment. As I toss the place, I try to dislodge the paranoia that the sapphire-eyed devil was the one who got me home. In the refrigerator, a bottle of scotch and a carton of OJ bearing a Post-it note confirm my suspicion.
Two parts scotch. One part orange juice. We’ll talk soon.
Before my mind reels again, I grab my iPod. A hard pulsing beat drives away the thoughts pounding in my head.
The day passes, and night settles in. My emotional exhaustion encourages me to sleep. The nightmares, however, don’t.
Beads of cold sweat cling to my brow. In the darkness, an image of Leah takes full possession of my thoughts. I hold the flooding emotions at bay and study her, starting with the eyes. The purity of the deep color in itself is extraordinary, except for one fleck of gold in her right eye. The vision widens to encompass her face. Her skin is creamy white, like ivory. The familiar aquiline nose leads down to full rose-pink lips.
I crawl out of bed and make my way to a small dresser tucked into the far corner of the room. The top drawer creaks open, and I grope through socks and underwear until I find the small square box. Silver moonbeams shine across the box’s inlaid geometrical design. The passage of years has made the antique memento rough under my touch. I open the lid, and Lydia looks at me from the painted ivory. The tremors return and run up my arms. Fighting to ignore them, I steady my hand.
Staring at the miniature portrait, I know my impressions are right. Leah’s face is Lydia’s perfect replica, right down to the gold fleck. Impossible. The one thing I want more than death itself is buried deep in the ground in a land very far away. Without doubt, Lydia is dead. This is the one fact I’m sure of, and I have memories to prove it.
Ghostly echoes, familiar reminders of the past, call from the corners of my mind. My knees buckle. I cling to the oak dresser and shut my eyes. Pressure builds inside my skull. A gray light, beginning as tunnel vision, grows and blazes to life behind my eyelids. I instantly understand where my subconscious has dragged me. As if I’ve traveled through time, the scene plays out in the confines of my head. The genuineness is the worst part—the part that had once convinced me I was dying because I thought my life was flashing before my eyes. Now I bear reminiscences more stoically and count the seconds until the nostalgia ends.
I stand at the large double doors of Wind Rush House under a cloud-riddled sky. As powerless as a marionette to control its own strings, I play my part and remove my hat, rapping the lion-head knocker decorated with black, crepe, and white ribbons. The door creaks open, and the manor’s housekeeper greets me. The bright expression she always wears is gone, leaving the folds around her mouth downcast.
In a hushed voice, Mrs. Mills begins, “The mistress will be grateful you came, Mr. Hammond. Sir Robert has gone for the day to make the preparations, and Mistress thought you’d want to see Miss Lydia one last time.”
I nod and follow Mrs. Mills to the front parlor. The small room is wallpapered with a pattern that matches the curtains. The room is regally furnished—a lush cream-colored high-back sofa where Lydia and I read as children; an oval table with a green silk tablecloth on which we’d planned our future; the grandfather clock, which had been silenced at the time of her death; and the ornate mirror above the fireplace, now draped with black cloth. Our story from beginning to end sprawls out before me in this tiny room. A lump forms in my throat. How did I think I could bear being here knowing she’s not? I slump against the mantel, unprepared for what’s to come.
Mrs. Mills lingers. “Sir Robert was being unreasonable. And still is.”
“He blames me?” The words tumble out.
No response follows. Her silence is all the acknowledgement I need.
“Do you know why she was out in that storm?” I ask.
She cocks her head, perplexed. “She was running to you.”
“But why?”
“You don’t know?”
Sucking in a sharp breath, I steel my emotions. “Know what?”
“After Master William’s sudden death, Sir Robert wanted Miss Lydia to break off the engagement. Wind Rush House, along with the entire estate, is entailed and will now pass to Sir Robert’s nephew, a Granville Philips. Mind you, I don’t listen to idle gossip, but according to the Harris’ chambermaid, Frannie Harris has met him twice in London, and both times, he was extremely unpleasant, hardhearted, and selfish.” She sighs. “Sir Robert said that Lydia would marry Philips. That it was beyond either of their choice now.”
William had been like a brother to me and grew up in Wind Rush House as much as my own. He surely would have informed me of Lydia’s new prospects, despite his father’s wishes, had he still lived. But his death had triggered this terrible chain of events, and I had been shut out, like a veritable stranger.
She continues, “Miss Lydia said no, of course, that she’d rather throw away her position in society than marry any other.”
I shift my gaze from her to the fire. “Sir Robert’s right then.”
“No. He’s not,” says Lady Ashford. She walks into the room, dressed in black bombazine. She straightens the onyx cameo pinned to her neckband. Her weak smile doesn’t touch her eyes. “You came. After everything, I wasn’t sure you would.”
I bow. “Thank you for thinking of me at a time such as this.”
“Jack, I believe we’re past formalities. You were going to be my son. Come.”
The scene shifts and warps, and I’m swept along like a leaf floating on a stream. I stand at Lydia’s bedside. I choke back brewing panic. Seeing her with the lasting bloom gone from her cheeks, with no teasing smile on her lips, so
lidifies this hell as reality. In stark contrast to my building misery, Lydia looks peaceful, as if she’s asleep and having a pleasant dream. For now, we live in separate worlds.
A single tear rolls down my cheek. I lean in and whisper a silent good-bye. When my lips press to her snow-white forehead, I cringe, finding her skin ice cold.
To my relief, the memory shrinks away, leaving me shuddering on the floor, disoriented and dizzy. The first moments after a flashback are like waking up after drowning in a sea of grief. The freezing wood floor against my cheek makes me wince, and I roll to my back. A haunting anger at what my actions caused swells. Lydia’s death was my fault, at least in part. I had nothing and had no right to ask for her hand. Young and stupid, I didn’t recognize my misstep until it was too late.
I tighten my hands into fists and grind my teeth into the soft tissue of my cheek. Soon, the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, but it’s necessary to trap the grief. Willing myself to stand, I use the dresser as a crutch and return the portrait to its home. With a shove, I shut the drawer and slump onto the corner of the bed. My gaze lingers on the dresser. The knots in my stomach twist and tighten. Well, that’s the end of the search. No matter the reason for the likeness, I can’t go near her again, not after an attack like that. Worst in years. She’s a one-way ticket to Loonyville.
In my mind, a quiet voice begs, Just another glimpse. To find out who she is.
“Shut up.”
But she stared back. Her reaction was bizarre.
“Shhhh, please,” I whisper. I rub my temples, but the voice is relentless.
Who is she? Who is she? Who is she? it chants.
Even with renewed resolve, how long can I stay away from her? A month? A week? A day? “Leave.” Yes, that would be the smart thing to do. I should find a sunny spot and never think of this cursed place again.
Who is she?
“I don’t know!” I stand and storm to the closet to retrieve the tattered map and rusty dart from my duffel. After pinning the map to the wall, I sink onto the corner of my bed, flipping the dart over and over in my hand. I should have left the first time I saw her. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. What was I thinking, staying? I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with her. The disembodied voice again pleads with me to stay. When was the last time anyone actually noticed you? No one even knows you exist. But Green Eyes, she sees you. I groan in defeat, slapping the dart onto my bedside table, and head for the bathroom.
Following a long shower to clear my head, I wipe the steam from the mirror to study my reflection, grumbling under my breath. An unrecognizable man looks back. His blue eyes no longer hold sadness, but possibility. I was fooling myself into believing nothing changed the instant I first saw her. Obviously, my belief is not even close to the truth. I’m a kingdom defeated, and I fear Leah has taken over.
“Damn girl! What hex has she cast over me?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Over the next week, I don’t go into Old Port Java once. However, I do stray by the shop twice, technically not breaking the bargain I made with myself. The first time, the coffeehouse isn’t open yet. I peer around the edge of the storefront window, darting out of sight anytime Leah glances in my general direction. Her golden hair falls around her shoulders, framing her face. I hold my breath. She twists her flowing locks up into a clip, revealing the graceful nape of her neck. Now and again, she laughs at something Rachel says. She looks happy, which bothers me. Shouldn’t I want her to be happy? I huff. Selfish still.
The second time I play Peeping Jack, I witness a patron harassing Leah. A businessman with impeccable hair leans over the counter as if he thinks he owns the world and says something that turns Leah’s expression wary. She shakes her head and starts to walk away, but the man grabs her by the arm and yanks her toward him. A consuming anger scorches me, whipping through me like a fire through a parched field. I could try to tell myself my reaction to his behavior is only gentlemanly, but I already know my need to defend her goes far deeper than common courtesy. I’m about to burst into the shop when Rachel comes out from the back room and kicks the bastard out.
He needs to be taught some manners.
What happens next is involuntary, almost instinctive. I follow the man and shove him into a nearby alley. He stumbles into the darkness, regaining his balance against the side of a lofty, brick building. He glares at me and puffs out his chest, ready to defend his ruffled pride. I grab his shirt collar and twirl him, nearly ripping the seams. Then I slam him up against the adjacent wall. “If you ever go in that coffeehouse or talk to her again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My grip tightens, I smack him harder into the wall, and his head collides with the bricks. “Don’t lie. Talk to her again, even look at her, you’re dead. Understand?”
“Let me go.” The man tries to squirm from my grasp.
I clasp my hand around his throat. His heartbeat pulsates at a feverish rate under my claw-like fingers, and his skin reeks with the fresh smell of fear. “Scared?” I grin. “Not a word. Not a look.”
“Okay, okay! I won’t. I promise.”
“If you do, I will kill you. I promise you that.”
As an intense thrill builds within my chest, tickling the base of my neck with an icy prickle. I release the man, and he crumples to the pavement. I back away and turn to leave. My pace quickens when I think about doing something I might regret. Then I curse myself for letting things go so far.
After work, I recline against the stark-white counter of Portland Public Library, determined to adhere to my plan—bury my focus in the possibility of me being soulless to force my thoughts away from Leah, for my sanity’s sake. This morning’s little slip-up was stupid and couldn’t be repeated. I’m no one to her, and I need to remember that.
A lady with cropped salt-and-pepper hair hustles behind the counter, steering a cart stacked with books. I lean farther over the counter and crane my neck, trying to catch her eye before my resolve wavers.
“Excuse me. Can you help me? I’m writing a paper about cultural beliefs regarding soulless humans,” I lie then flash her a smile.
She raises one eyebrow. “Soulless humans? What on earth are they teaching you kids these days?” She takes a seat behind the closest computer and begins to type.
I snort. I’m older than most of the books in this place, for crying out loud. And I’ve probably read most of them at least once. With so much time on my hands, books are a safe pastime and a useful escape from the real world.
The librarian shakes her head. “Nothing. Sorry, dear. Have you tried Google?” She points to a long S-shaped table lined with computer screens looming at the opposite side of the room.
“Thank you,” I say flatly. I eye the machines warily and trudge toward the table. I’m prejudiced; I’ll admit it. I can’t help it. Computers and I have never gotten along. I’m not a complete technophobe. I have a good relationship with my cell phone and iPod. Granted, it took a neighbor’s nine-year-old grandson to teach me the simplest tasks. But in time, I’ve mastered them. On the other hand, these infernal machines seem to have a grudge against me. However, today, they’ve become a necessary evil.
As I approach, the row of darkened screens leers at me, seeming to sense my deficiencies. I suppose I could ask Ed for help with my Internet quest. But he would laugh his ass off, and I would undoubtedly become the butt of his jokes for days, if not weeks, to come. Besides, how would I explain my need for the search? Student research project won’t cut it. No, best to keep the two worlds separate.
A teenager at the farthest end of the table abruptly stands. Grumbling something about being late and his mom killing him, he shoves a couple of beat-up textbooks into an equally beat-up knapsack and rushes off. To my unexpected good fortune, the boy leaves the Internet search engine up and running. I drop into his chair, contemplating how to begin.
After a few attempts, I manage to clear “War of 181
2” from the search bar. Then I hunt and peck my way through a long, detailed description. I include every particular I can think of, hoping that being thorough will prevent the need for a repeat performance. I drum my fingers on the light oak tabletop while the machine thinks, giving no hints about its progress. After a wait that feels endless, a frowny face pops up, apologizing for the inconvenience because I crashed Google. I sigh. Fan-freaking-tastic.
“How’s everything—what did you do, dear?” the librarian says from behind me.
“I touched it.”
She chuckles under her breath then pauses for a long moment. “Scoot over. Let me see. Did you type a whole paragraph? With punctuation… and in proper English?”
I shrug.
“Well, that’s the problem. Google likes searches short and to the point.” She speaks slowly, pausing after each word. With a few quick keystrokes, she gets an entire page of results in seconds. “There we go. Think you’ll be all right from here?”
I nod, trying hard not to grimace.
She smiles and walks away, her long paisley-printed skirt billowing behind her.
I slip back into my seat and scroll through the list. There isn’t much, just a few gaming sites, a couple of movies, and an indie rock band I’ve never heard of. A site called Strange Religion catches my eye, and I click on it.
I wait impatiently for the site to load. Finally, when the screen is finished, I’m greeted by paintings of blood rituals and black magic—all creepy, even to me—and a list of quotes. One stands out:
Indeed the Rwandoya people believe the offspring of Shanko-Tuku (the god of death) exhibit a lack of empathy and remorse as well as shallow emotions and egocentricity. It is also true that the Rwandoya deem these descendants soulless and shun them within the tribe.
Rev. Abelard Neumann, missionary to the Rwandoya from 1873-1898
Not a single attribute fits. Sure, I lie, and I’m selfish, but doesn’t everyone display those qualities from time to time? For a moment, I almost wish I was shallow. Indifference would make living forever a hell of a lot easier.