Resurrection

by Sara Reinke

  “I love you, too, lamb,” he told her, switching off her bedside lamp. Darkness fell upon the room, broken only by the swath of golden light spilling through the opened doorway from the corridor beyond. He walked toward the door.

  “Daddy?”

  Emma’s voice, small and uncharacteristically hesitant, gave him pause. He turned in the doorway. “Yes, Em?”

  Her face was draped in shadows, but her eyes glistened with reflected light from the hall. “Will you leave the light on in the hall?” she asked.

  He raised a curious brow, but shrugged. “Okay.”

  “And the door,” she added quickly. “Don’t close it tonight. Okay?”

  Jay walked back toward the bed. “Since when are you afraid of the dark?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her mattress.

  Emma shrugged, tugging another stuffed animal out of his way as he settled beside her. Now that Jay really looked, he realized she had a lot of stuffed animals in her bed, not just the usual two or three that were her favorites. From the looks of things, she’d cleaned out her shelves and brought every toy bear, rabbit, piglet and dog she possessed to bed with her.

  “I had a bad dream last night,” Emma said quietly. He had suspected as much; he’d awoken that morning to find her snuggled in bed beside him, something she seldom, if ever, did. She wasn’t the sort to be frightened by a nightmare, much less admit aloud that she’d had one. Jay liked to joke that she was a thirty-year old woman trapped in a five-year-old’s body, but all at once, she was pure little girl, all wide-eyed and apprehensive.

  Jay brushed her hair back from her face. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I saw Grandma and Grandpa’s farm,” Emma said. “Grandma was there, in the yard. She was hanging wet clothes up on a string.”

  Emma had been only two years old, little more than a baby when Jay’s mother had died. She often spoke about her, however, with a familiarity and fondness that Jay found admittedly disconcerting at times. “I thought you liked dreaming about Grandma and Grandpa’s farm,” he said.

  “I do,” Emma said. “But it was different this time. The wind was blowing really hard. The clothes were all flapping around and they kept covering Grandma up. I couldn’t see her. And she was trying to say something, but I could hardly hear her because the wind was so loud.”

  She looked up at him, troubled. “She told me to get beneath the sink. There’s a cupboard there, she said, where you and Uncle Paul used to read comics sometimes. She said to crawl in there and close the door and hide.”

  Jay blinked in surprise. Had he ever told her about the cabinet beneath the sink at his mother’s Kansas farm house? He didn’t remember doing so, but couldn’t figure out how Emma would know otherwise. She must have overheard me and Paul talking about it once, he thought. Or maybe I said something to Marie, and she heard me.

  “Why would Grandma tell you to hide there?” he asked, still puzzled as to how exactly this constituted a bad dream to Emma.

  “So that he wouldn’t find me,” Emma said, her voice little more than a whisper. She tugged Mr. Cuddles against her face and spoke from behind his ear. “She told me to hide there so he wouldn’t find me.”

  A strange little shiver slid down Jay’s spine, raising the downy hairs along the nape of his neck. “So who wouldn’t find you, lamb?”

  Emma shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I could see him there in the yard, standing behind Grandma. I could see him when the clothes would flap, and then they’d hide him again. He’s coming closer, Grandma said. He’s watching us.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure there’s nothing to worry about?” Jay asked Paul, cradling his cell phone between his shoulder and ear. He parted window blinds with his fingertips, peeking out of the living room and down toward the darkened street below. The harsh, yellow glare of a streetlight splashed against the asphalt and disturbed the shadows, lending outlines to cars parked along either side of the street. The glow from neighboring windows and brownstone facades decorated for the holidays with flickering, colorful lights also played against the darkness. He watched a yellow cat slink across the street, stealing between cars, but nothing else moved or drew his wary gaze. “Are you sure this guy won’t try anything?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Paul said around a mouthful of lo mein. He was at his office, having a late, take-out dinner. He took a noisy slurp of soda and added, “There’s no one in this city who knows this guy like I do. The thrill for him is in the conquest, the kill. He doesn’t hang around when he’s finished, admiring his handiwork. He’s moving on to stake out whoever’s next.”

  Jay let the blinds snap back closed and sighed wearily. He was being ridiculous, jumping at shadows. The wine at Jo’s house had left him exhausted, and he was still recovering somewhat from having resurrected her only days ago. Emma’s words

  He’s coming closer, Grandma said. He’s watching us.

  had left him unnerved at first, but now, with Paul’s reassurances, he realized just how silly he was being. Great, now I’m spooked by Emma’s nightmare. Next, I’ll be crawling into bed with her and all of her stuffed animals for the night.

  “Besides,” Paul said, interrupting Jay’s thoughts. “I’m not entirely convinced she was hit by my guy after all.”

  “What?” Jay blinked, startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Jobeth Montgomery’s husband,” Paul said, his words hitting Jay like a heavy punch to his gut.

  “What?” he asked somewhat breathlessly.

  “She didn’t tell you about him ?” Paul asked, munching again. “Oh, yeah. I found a string of restraining orders she’s taken out over the last three years against him. Her husband’s a meth-head. Methamphetamines, Jay. He’s been busted three times for possession and twice for aggravated assault and battery. Apparently, he likes to knock his wife around a bit when he’s high. Busted her nose once, some ribs, sent her down to Metro South for stitches. Even swung at her once with a butcher knife, cut her arm up pretty bad.”

  Jay’s breath escaped him in a long, slow sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, feeling the makings of a headache stirring there. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said.

  “You think it was him in the stairwell that night?”

  “He has a history of coming after her, Jay. I’ve got it right here in front of me, in black and white.” He paused for a moment. “You’re not planning to make a habit of seeing her, are you?”

  “No,” Jay said, thinking of how much he had enjoyed kissing her―and how guilty and ashamed he felt because of it. “No, of course not. No.” Not now, anyway.

  “Good,” Paul said, munching again. “If she’s got some speed-freak stalking her, you want to be miles away. Miles and miles, Jay. You don’t want that shit coming around your house―around Emma.”

  “Jo doesn’t do meth, Paul,” Jay said.

  “You don’t know that, Jay. You don’t know her at all. She’s got a high-stress job where she probably works a lot of crazy hours, and she’s got easy access to it through her dearly beloved. She’s a perfect candidate. I’ve seen it too many times not to know.”

  “She’s not on meth, Paul,” Jay said again, bristling more at the dearly beloved than any inference Paul had just offered.

  “Well, whatever the case, she obviously wants to put what’s happened behind her. She sure sounded that way to me. I say let her. Let it lie. Leave her alone.”

  “I am, Paul,” Jay said, sighing.

  * * *

  The next morning, he again woke to find Emma snuggled in bed with him. There was still at least an hour before she had to get ready for kindergarten, so Jay eased himself from beneath the covers without disturbing her. He started a pot of coffee and padded down the steps to the foyer to get the morning paper. Marie would be there shortly, and he hoped to have enough time to get at least one cup of coffee in him and read through the world news section before she arrived.r />
  He had tossed and turned restlessly much of the night, his mind and heart distracted with thoughts of Jo. Leave her alone, Paul had warned him, and from the sound of things, that was perfectly logical advice. Then why can’t I get her out of my head? he wondered. His hands felt strangely, an odd, tickling sensation in his fingertips, but he ignored it as he unlocked the deadbolt on the front door. Why didn’t she tell me she was married? Why did she invite me to her house last night? Is she separated? Divorced? Just screwing around?

  He opened the door and blinked in surprise to find a dead cat on his porch.

  Its neck had been broken somehow. Its head lay twisted at an unnatural angle on its neck, so that its chin, crusted with a drying mix of spittle and blood, rested on its shoulder. Its ochre-colored eyes gazed at a point somewhere behind it, fixed and glazed.

  “Jesus,” Jay whispered, shying back in the doorway. There were no other marks or wounds on the animal, no indications as to what might have happened to it. He looked around quickly, but saw nothing unusual.

  He squatted, wrapping his arms around his middle, keeping his tingling hands away from the cat. It looked like the yellow tom he’d seen creeping about the night before, with orange tabby stripes cutting haphazard diagonals through its fur. It had a brown leather collar on it, affixed with a rabies tag and a little nameplate: SKITTLES.

  Looks like you ran into the wrong end of a moving bumper, Skittles, Jay thought. Dead animals had never had the same effect on him as dead people. Maybe because they were smaller; maybe because they were more simple in mind and spirit. He could almost resist the urge to touch and resurrect them.

  Almost.

  He reached out and brushed his fingertips through the cat’s fur. A sharp sensation raced up his arm .A quick flash of light flared, as if he’d been statically charged and shocked by the cat, and he jerked his hand back.

  He leaned back against the doorframe, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow, feeling lightheaded and momentarily dizzy. Animals took less out of him than people, but still, the effort left him feeling drained.

  Skittles, the unlucky tabby, suddenly sucked in an audible gasp for breath. It blinked its eyes and shook its head, snapping its broken neck back into proper place. It gasped again, its voice escaping it in a warbling, hoarse croak, and then it moved, its paws wiggling slowly. After a moment of this disjointed effort, the cat seemed to regain its senses. It squirmed, getting its legs beneath it and then stood. It spared Jay a glance, hissed, and scampered off, darting beneath the nearest parked car.

  “You’re welcome,” Jay muttered, struggling to rise to his feet. He stumbled back into the brownstone, closing the door behind him. He limped up to the living room and crumpled face-down onto the couch, lapsing immediately into sleep. He was still so weak from having resurrected Jo. The cat had been too much, too soon.

  * * *

  “Daddy?” Emma shook his arm, stirring him. She sounded frightened, her voice tremulous, and he struggled to open his eyes. “Daddy, somebody’s knocking at the door.”

  Why in the hell would Marie be knocking? he wondered. He opened his eyes briefly, blearily and blinked at his daughter. “She…she has a key…” he murmured, his eyelids drooping again, his mind submerging into darkness once more.

  He slept again until he felt the cool press of fingertips against the side of his throat, settling against his pulse, and Jo’s voice, soft and soothing; he was dreaming of Jo.

  “Jay?” she said. “Jay, can you hear me? Open your eyes, Jay.”

  Because she sounded concerned, just as Emma had, Jay forced himself to oblige. His eyelids fluttered open and he blinked dazedly up at her, realizing this was no dream. Jo was there somehow, in his living room. His vision was murky and blurred, but as it cleared, Jo’s face came clearly into view. She knelt beside the couch, her auburn hair caught back from her face in a ponytail. She was wearing her winter coat, and beneath its hem, he saw her white uniform pants.

  “Well, hi,” Jo said, canting her head slightly and smiling to meet his sleepy gaze.

  He managed a smile. “Hi…yourself,” he whispered. She smiled back at him, gently, and moved her hand, stroking the cuff of her knuckles against his cheek.

  “Are you with me?” she asked, and he nodded. “Can you sit up?” He nodded again, but she had to slip her arm around him and help ease him upright. The movement sent a spiraling wave of nausea through him, and he groaned, pressing his hand against his forehead.

  “How…how did you get in?” he asked, his voice cracked and hoarse.

  “Your daughter,” Jo replied, nodding toward Emma. The girl stood nearby at the edge of the couch, still in her pajamas, with Mr. Cuddles clutched against her chest.

  “Daddy, are you okay?” Emma asked, her voice warbling, on the verge of tears.

  He nodded once, forcing a feeble smile. “I’m fine, lamb,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

  “He’s been sick,” Emma said, ignoring his reassurances to the contrary and looking directly at Jo. “Ever since you came to visit last time. Uncle Paul and Marie said he was sick.”

  “I’m fine,” Jay said again, his voice stronger now. The nausea passed― without, thank God, him vomiting in front of both his daughter and Jo―and the cobwebs that clouded his mind were at last lifting. He reached out, stroking his hand against his daughter’s disheveled curls. “You need to get ready for school, Em. Go brush your teeth and pick your clothes out, okay?”

  “But, Daddy…” Emma began, clearly not convinced that he was recovered. Her eyes remained round and bright with worry, her small lips pinched in a frown of concern.

  Jay stood up, stumbling slightly, but managed to regain his balance before Jo could move to help steady him. “Marie’s going to be here any minute,” he said to his daughter. “Go on, Emma. It’s school time.”

  Emma glanced at Jo and then hunched her shoulders, the crease between her small brows increasing slightly with begrudging concession. “Yes, Daddy,” she grumbled, turning on her heel and shuffling off toward her bedroom.

  When she was gone, a brief awkward silence settled between Jay and Jo. He kept thinking about what Paul had told him, replaying his brother’s words in his mind. I found a string of restraining orders she’s taken out over the last three years against him… Her husband’s a meth-head… Apparently, he likes to knock his wife around a bit when he’s high… Even swung at her once with a butcher knife, cut her arm up pretty bad.

  “You should sit down,” Jo said.

  He shook his head. “I’m alright.”

  “What happened?” she asked, reaching for him.

  “Nothing,” he said, shrugging away from her. “I just…I’m still weak, that’s all. I’m alright.” He forked his fingers through his disheveled hair and shoved it back from his brow. He realized for the first time that he was still in the t-shirt and sweat pants he’d worn to bed. And still in desperate need of a shower and shave―not to mention a tooth-brushing, to judge by the tacky, shitty flavor permeating his mouth. He nearly groaned aloud thinking of how late to work he was likely to be.

  He glanced at Jo. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work first shift today,” she said. “Seven to three. I thought I’d come by on my way in. I remembered the way from…before.” She looked away momentarily, her gaze dropping almost shyly toward the floor. It might have been a trick of the lights, but he could swear that she blushed. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened then…and what happened last night, too.”

  “You mean, you want to tell me about your husband,” he said. “Now, about…” He glanced at his watch. “…twelve hours too late.”

  Jo blinked at him, visibly startled. “I…h-how…?” she began, her voice sputtering.

  “Paul told me,” Jay said. “He found records of the restraining orders you’ve filed against him. He told me your husband uses methamphetamines.”

  “My ex-husband,” Jo said, her brows narrowing slight
ly at this firm emphasis. “Rich and I have been divorced since last year, and yes, he used methamphetamines. I’m sorry, I didn’t see a good time to bring that up during the course of our conversation last night.”

  “Do you still see him?” Jay asked, and the furrow between her brows crimped more deeply. Her entire body had grown rigid with sudden, nearly tremulous, tension.

  “No, I don’t still see him,” she snapped. “We’re divorced. He’s a drug addict. And he’s in―”

  “Paul told me he used to beat you,” Jay said, and the color drained from her face, leaving only twin patches of angry, humiliated color ablaze in her cheeks. “He said he attacked you once with a knife.”

  His point suddenly occurred to her, and her eyes flashed hotly. “And now you both think it was Rich who stabbed me at the mall?”

  Jay sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what to think right now, Jo. But I’ve got a daughter, and I just…I can’t take a chance on something happening that might affect her or get her hurt somehow.” He met her gaze. “I think you should leave.”

  She balled her hands into fists and spun around on the heel of her surgical clog. “Fuck you, Jay. Fuck you and your cop brother.”

  She slammed the door behind her as she left.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jo promised herself she wouldn’t cry, and to her credit, she almost made it to the beginning of her rounds. She had sat quietly in the staff lounge, stiff-backed and stoic, pretending to listen as the third-shift nurse gave her a report on her patients for the day. Her mind was elsewhere; the other nurse’s words dissolved into a wordless garble of sounds to which Jo would occasionally offer a nod or a murmur by means of acknowledgement. At last, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She felt like she would either choke or burst into tears like a fool, in the middle of the staff lounge. She rose abruptly and, without an excuse or word of apology, darted out of the room.

  She made it to the linen room and sat down on the floor, surrounded by wheeled carts stacked with freshly laundered bed sheets. Jo leaned her head against a pile of folded sheets and began to weep. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the sound, but couldn’t prevent the miserable shudders that racked her narrow form.