by Jen Printy
The rest of the site is an alphabetized roster of religions from the common to the obscure. A brief description follows each. First, I click on the Mayans. Aside from the expected human sacrifice to please the gods, I learn that the Mayans believed a person’s soul could be severed from its body. I search the rest of the entry for anything that seems the least bit beneficial but find nothing.
After three hours of clicking links, I’m disheartened to discover that only the Rwandoya and Pioche-Sioni of Ecuador hold promise. The peace-loving Pioche-Sioni believed a soul detached from one’s body as punishment for taking a life. The offender would exist between life and death, never knowing either. Sounds familiar.
A tap on my shoulder shoots me into the air. “Holy shii—oot,” I say, turning to find the librarian standing behind me, her mouth open in surprise.
“Sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to let you know the library will be closing in ten minutes.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “Is there any way I can get this”—I wave both hands in front of the screen—“on paper?”
“I could help you e-mail yourself the link.”
I give her a dry stare.
“Okay, paper it is.” She leans over my shoulder and takes control of the mouse. “Which web pages do you need?”
“Pioche-Sioni and Rwandoya.”
Back at the counter, I occupy myself with reading a flyer of Portland’s upcoming events while the librarian staples the printed copies in order so I “don’t get them confused.” The gesture is kind-hearted, but I’ve clearly given her enough reason to deem me a moron. I thank her and toss the printouts in my knapsack before heading out the door and onto the busy street.
After a dinner consisting of burnt frozen pizza—I ought to be able to cook after all these years, but I can’t—I sit at my small dining table and thumb through the pages. I skim a series of photos showing examples of tribal art—distorted faces sculpted into pottery and carved into wood and stone. Each portrayal of the afflicted soul was obviously a vision of the netherworld.
If I’m already in hell, can I reach heaven? I’m not optimistic. As a young child, I went to church every Sunday and listened to my father’s sermons. What little I do remember doesn’t paint a bright future for me. I would be viewed as one of the damned. Maybe I’ve dodged the fire and brimstone, but does this mean there’s no paradise for me?
I read the same passages again and again, hoping to find something to ease my anxiety. My eyelids grow heavy, sounds fade away, and I surrender to sleep.
My heart gives three thuds then sputters once more before falling silent. In a deep corner of my consciousness, I know I must be dreaming. But this awareness doesn’t quash the excitement I feel when I hear my mother call my name.
I open my eyes then blink with confusion. I’m standing in the middle of a small room with gold inlaid walls and high domed ceilings. Shafts of light pour in through arched stained-glass windows, filling the room with rainbows. I look down at myself. I’m dressed in a coal-black morning coat, matching trousers, and a crisply pressed lavender vest. A white rose is pinned to the lapel.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly. The door flies open.
“My handsome boy!” my mum says, stepping into the room. I look into her blue eyes, which are the color of a cloudless sky. We share this feature, along with the sable hair. I wrap my arms around her. She buries her round face in the crook of my neck. “My son,” she whispers.
“You’ve waited far too long for your paradise, son. It does me good to have you here with us.” My father’s deep voice booms from the door. At the tender age of seven, I lost my father when Saint Peter called his name. However, in this moment, he looks healthy, happy, and robust. He bears none of the evidence of the violent death that I associate with the last time I saw my father.
“You look well. It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too, my boy. You, too. Eternity looks good on us both, I dare say.” He chuckles as he puts his arms around me and folds me in. Comfortable and warm, I feel like a child again. As he steps away, he says, “It’s time. You don’t want to keep that bride of yours waiting any longer. She’s grown a bit impatient.”
“Bride?” I look down at my clothes again.
“Of course. What better way for you to begin your forever?” My mother straightens my hair then brushes away the moisture sparkling on her eyelashes.
She’s right. No better way.
I follow my parents from the room. Beyond the gilded door, the rest of my family waits for me. Ruth and Henry are accompanied by my youngest brother Fredrick, who didn’t live past his first birthday but is now a man. Greetings of kisses and embraces follow. Pure happiness envelops me.
With the welcomes complete, they usher me down a long, narrow hallway, where the walls and floor are all constructed of polished white stone. The high ceiling is vaulted, and tall arched windows, like the ones belonging in a grand cathedral, line one wall. An open doorway waits at the end of the hall. Vines of multicolored roses are twined around the columns guarding the entry. I step into the vibrant light. The smell of sweetgrass and honeysuckle meander on each breath of wind.
I blink, adjusting to the brightness, and I realize I’m in a garden. Everything transmits its own prismatic light, sending beams dancing off every surface. The awareness hits me. I’m free. Heaven is even more beautiful than anything my imagination could have produced. I look for her, scanning the sea of familiar faces. She’s here somewhere. She must be. Instead of Lydia, I find William, her brother and my best mate. He died just two weeks before his sister. I’ve missed him. I’ve missed them all.
William smirks. “Finally. You took your time. Lydia was never known for her patience, and heaven hasn’t changed that.”
Same William.
“My sister will be happy you’re here.” He grabs my shoulders and spins me around.
The crowd blocks my view. I strain my neck trying to look around them, to catch just one glimpse. The sea parts, and Lydia walks toward me, wearing pale lavender and a crown of white roses. Her eyes spark with expectancy, and as she steps in front of me, a beaming smile stretches across her face.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispers.
“Sorry I’m late, love.” I take her hands in mine.
“It’s time for you to be happy, Jack.” She kisses my cheek. “And time for you to let me go.” Her voice drifts through the chilled air. Wisps of fog overtake us. Lydia vanishes into the mist. Again, I’m alone.
I open my eyes to the faint light of the streetlight casting its golden hues across the walls of my dingy little apartment. I feel sick, and my mind continues to whirl with what-ifs. I had simple desires when I was young. All I wanted was to grow old with the girl I loved. This still doesn’t sound unattainable. Marriage. Children. Happiness.
How naïve I was.
With no desire to sleep, I stumble across the room to the brown-and-golden plaid sofa. After the dream and the memories it provoked, peace won’t find me anyhow. I find the remote shoved between the cushions. I channel surf, finding only infomercials and a couple of B-movies based on immortals, who all live much more interesting lives than I do, either saving the world or destroying it. Every hero gets the girl, and every villain gets to die. I envy them all.
My life sits before me like a two-bit sitcom. Half of last night’s dinner lies in an open pizza box resting on top of the one from two nights ago. Empty beer bottles clutter the coffee table. Not one is Prize Old Ale, I note. And here I sit, slouched on the ugliest sofa I’ve ever laid eyes on, brooding at well past three in the morning. Pathetic. No wonder they don’t base any of these movies on reality.
Lydia’s dreamful words roll through my head. I huff and lean against the cushion. I let my mind relive memories, searching for those sapphire-blue eyes and trying to avoid emerald-green ones. What I should do is find the devil and pump him for information. That would be the smart—and sane—path to take. He implied he would return. But when? Tomo
rrow or one hundred years from tomorrow? What’s soon to an immortal?
My stomach drops. The quiet voice deep within pleads, Stay here.
Eyes closed tight, I press my lips into a hard line. A pair of eyes gazes back at me, matching the voice in my head. Leah. I’m barely holding on to sanity. Anger surges, and with a sweep of my arm, the beer bottles clatter across the floor. I know I’m not good enough for her, yet I think of Leah more than ever. Why is she the spitting image of Lydia? Maybe some research into her family tree might help answer my question and, in turn, remove her from my thoughts. But that option requires knowing more about her—a last name, to start. I groan. I’ll be returning to Old Port Java tomorrow. Sanity be damned.
The small voice in my head cheers.
“Shut the hell up,” I grumble.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, Leah isn’t at the coffeehouse. At first, I think she might be in the back room. That hope quickly crumbles when I overhear Rachel talking with a customer, complaining about being on her own today. I listen, but she provides no explanation of Leah’s absence.
My chest tightens with disappointment, but the real panic doesn’t set in until the following day, when Leah still doesn’t show. The uncertainty drives my nervousness to new levels, which causes me to think about her more, which ratchets up my agitation. A vicious cycle.
To make matters worse, the voice in my head grows more persistent. I’m not sure what it wants me to do about the situation. At first, I’d assumed the voice was just my longing for Lydia manifesting in a new, torturous way. Now I’m not sure. The voice seems to come from somewhere outside me and is not quite my thoughts. Maybe I really am mad. Regardless of the source—longing, a lost mind, or even a warped voice of reason—I can’t make Leah materialize, no matter how much I wish it.
By Friday, I’m a wreck. I attempt to let a hot morning shower chase away the tension before beginning another tedious day. I need to be at work at seven sharp—the same time the coffee shop opens. This means no Leah today. Closing my eyes, I immerse my face in the water’s steady stream and wonder how I have allowed this place—correction—this girl to get to me like this.
I arrive at the bookstore to find Ed unorganized, as I expected. The store’s summer lecture series starts today, beginning with Sally’s talk on the language of flowers. Although I’d offered—practically begged, actually—to stay late the night before, hoping for anything to keep my mind off this all-consuming pursuit, Ed claimed he could handle the preparation alone. However, nothing has changed overnight. The floor needs sweeping. Chairs are forgotten, still stacked against the wall. Boxes of Sally’s most recent book sit sealed in the corner, where I placed them yesterday afternoon. I sigh.
Ed doesn’t glance up, too focused on his disorganized efforts at arranging the napkins in a decorative fashion to notice anything. Grumbling, I grab the broom from the closet and sweep, starting with the entryway.
After several minutes, Ed notices me. “Oh, good. You’re here. I need you to go over to Old Port Java and pick up the refreshments.”
I freeze, suppressing a small smile.
“I’ve ordered four dozen muffins and three canisters of coffee. Do you think that will be enough?”
My mind rifles through strategies. Will she even be at the coffeehouse? If she’s not, I’ll ask Rachel. Surely, a smile or two will coax Leah’s whereabouts out of her.
“You’ll need to take my car. Jack? Jack! Are you listening?” Ed shouts, rattling my thoughts.
“Yes, Old Port Java.” I lean the broom against the counter.
Ed presses his car keys and cash into my hand. “Hurry, okay? There’s still a lot to do.”
“And why is that?” I smirk and shake my head.
“I know. I know. My wrong.”
I squelch a chuckle. “It’s bad, Ed. My bad.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s what I meant. My bad. Now hurry, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
In Ed’s beat-up Subaru station wagon, I sit, frozen. The last time I attempted to speak to her, I looked like a complete idiot. I’ll have to do better this time. If she’s there. She has to be. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel and inhale deeply. Quit over-thinking this. She’s just a girl. Stop digging up the past and talk to her, dammit! I turn the key, and the old car groans to a start. Seems as though neither one of us has much confidence in my ability to pull this off gracefully.
Outside the door of Old Port Java, I rub my sweaty palms against the rough fabric of my jeans and gulp in one long breath for boldness. After I rake my fingers through my disheveled hair, I check my reflection in the front window. I sigh. No use. The hair’s a lost cause. Through the glass, I catch sight of her. Leah’s here. The butterflies take flight, fluttering against the walls of my stomach. Unexpectedly, the sensation feels good, like living instead of existing.
I walk in, reminding myself why I’m doing this. Sanity. That’s all! Oh yeah, and don’t forget the muffins. Ed will have a conniption if I forget those.
Waiting in line, I watch Leah work behind the counter. Her lithe hands move pastries into small lined trays. She chews her lower lip when concentrating. Under my breath, I list ways to look relaxed.
“Shoulders slouched. Check. Arms hang at sides. Check. Breathe steady. Check.”
If this weren’t so pathetic, I would laugh at myself. By the end of my checklist, I’m calm and collected on the outside—the perfect spokesman for any deodorant commercial. Inside, I’m a muddled mess. Keep cool. Stay tough. Focus.
Finally, the lady in front of me, who couldn’t decide between Coastal Miles Blend or Sunshine Decaf, steps away. My turn has arrived.
“Hey, handsome,” Rachel says with a glint in her eye.
I shift back a step. “I’m here to pick up an order for Rare Books. Muffins and coffee.” I keep my tone all business.
Leah glances over. Her eyes widen before they return to her work. The ancient warmth in my chest flares, and I take another deep breath.
Rachel leans forward, resting her elbows on the countertop, accentuating her assets. “Oh sure, honey. I have everything you need.”
I attempt to ignore her remark’s lecherous connotation and take a step back. How can someone make picking up muffins sound so dirty?
Rachel rolls up onto her tiptoes and stretches her neck to peer out the window. “Is that you parked in the loading zone?”
I nod.
“Is the car open?” Rachel asks and gives me an alluring little smile.
Leah walks toward us, hands full, and shoots Rachel a disapproving glance. She kneels by Rachel’s side to place the platters of fruit tarts into the display case, and her eyes snap to me. I realize I’m staring.
I catch a hint of a smile on her lips before I return my attention to Rachel and nod again. This is safer than speaking. Because of the heat in my chest and Leah being so close, my voice is undependable. Besides, I don’t want to risk encouraging Rachel. I have a feeling she would consider “not interested” a pick-up line.
“Leah, can you grab the boxes and coffee in the back marked ‘Rare Books’ and put them in the white station wagon parked out front?” Rachel asks.
“Sure thing.”
Leah walks around the counter, lugging the first load. Her eyes meet my gaze, and a suppressed hint of expectation dashes across her face.
Flurries of excitement, trepidation, and doubt mingle together and chip away at my calm mask. I quickly suck in lungfuls of air then clear my throat to assess my voice before I begin. “You don’t have to do that. I can get them.” My words come out rough but coherent.
“Yeah, I kind of do. It’s my job, and my boss is watching. I don’t want to get fired.” Leah speaks with something like amazement in her voice and jerks her head in Rachel’s direction. A bright smile stretches across her face.
I swallow hard and open the door.
“Thanks. So you work at Rare Books, huh?”
“Yes.” I fo
llow her out of the store like a lost puppy.
“I haven’t been in for a month or so. A hippie guy worked there. Journey, I think his name was.” She screws up her face as if she’s tasted something unpleasant. Then she laughs. “Everything was ‘right on, man,’ and ‘power to the people.’”
“I’m his replacement.”
“Phew, that dude knew nothing about books. Hopefully, you do.”
“I know enough.” I grin, opening the car’s rear door.
“So are you new to the area? Or just the store?”
“The area. Moved here from LA a few weeks ago.” A sudden dryness takes up residence in my throat. While her back is turned, I rake my fingers through my hair again and then peer at my reflection in the car’s grubby window. What am I doing? Sanity, remember.
“Wow, that’s a trip. What brought you here?”
I shrug. “Just needed a change.”
“Well, you got it.” She laughs again. “It can be hard fitting into a new place. I remember when I moved here from Wiscasset. It’s a small town about two hours up the coast,” she adds, sliding the box into Ed’s backseat. “Anyway, I was lucky. My brother already lived here, so I never felt alone. And Rachel and I became fast friends.” Leah pauses and looks at the sidewalk. Seeming to find something about the red bricks captivating, she gnaws on her lower lip again. “So, there’s a group of us going to a movie this weekend, if you’d like to meet some people.”
“What movie?” I blurt, attempting to keep my voice nonchalant. My fingers find their way to my hair again.
She peers up. “Death Will Come. Have you heard of it?”
I chuckle with wry amusement and shake my head.
“Well, it’s good. It’s a cult classic and one of my favorites.”
I think I catch a hint of pleading in her eyes. This is my hope and not reality, but the figment still causes my words to seize in my throat, leaving me stunned.