Between Seasons

by Aida Brassington

  He laughed again, louder this time. What would he even say? Gee, Sara, I’m in love with you and wish more than anything I could be alive for you. Uh, sorry I’m dead. Yeah, that would go over great. Maybe he should dig out that old pencil of his and hope Sara would sharpen it for him… he’d get right on penning that love letter .

  Still, even without it, he wondered what Sara would think when she found the stone. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice.

  The top step felt hard and cold under his ass as he sat and waited for her to come home. He didn’t want her to be unhappy, but he kind of hoped she wasn’t having a good time. How could she with Kevin the jerk?

  A few hours later, he watched his shitmobile pull up. He didn’t even open the car door for Sara, which pissed Patrick off. She was a lady, and she deserved someone to do gentlemanly things for her. He pushed his face as close to the glass of the front window as he could without moving through it –while he may not have wanted to witness what could happen when Kevin said good night on the front porch, he didn’t want to accidentally leave the confines of the house and wake up a few hours later.

  Oh, God. Please let this end on the porch. He’d seen some of the television shows Sara watched. Things were most certainly different now in the dating world. Not that he could imagine Sara letting this guy feel her up, but still .

  He watched through narrowed eyes as Kevin leaned in, letting out an excited, “Yes!” when Sara turned her head to let the guy’s trout lips land on her cheek.

  “… everything, Kevin. I had a really good time,” Sara said, pushing the door open.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Maybe we can go out again this weekend.”

  “Oh, uh, maybe.” Sara took a step back into the house, and Patrick stood directly behind her, wanting to wrap his arms around her and press his nose into her perfumed neck.

  “Yeah, later.” Kevin waved at her with two fingers before turning and heading back to his stupid car.

  The sound of the Sara’s high-pitched giggle was confusing, to say the least. Was she happy because her date had gone so well? Or maybe her jackass date had gotten her drunk. Was she drunk? Had he taken advantage of her? Patrick stepped around to her side, eyes raking her over, from her hair to the strappy black shoes on her feet. She looked okay. Well, she looked great… but her clothes didn’t look messed up, and she didn’t appear to be swaying.

  Patrick’s fingertip sank through the end of Sara’s hair, a shiver shaking her delicate shoulders as she snorted and rolled her eyes. Well, that was a good sign.

  “Oh my God!” she howled, bracing one hand on the closed door and leaning her body weight forward. “What the Hell was I thinking?”

  “I have no idea. That guy is a goober.” Patrick’s hands clenched, wanting to touch her again, wishing there was some way he could pry the details out of her. As it turned out, he needn’t have worr ied –a few moments later her laughter wound down as she hiccuped, and she straightened, heading toward the kitchen while doing her normal routine of talking out loud.

  “That was the worst. I can’t believe I let Jules talk me into going out with that guy.”

  “This was your sister’s fault?” Patrick kept pace with her, leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator.

  “Oh, and these roses! I know there’s no way he could have known, but I hate roses. Why not tulips or peonies or, Hell , even daisies?” Patrick made a note of that , adding it to the giant list of Sara facts in his head, although he didn’t know when it would ever come in handy since he couldn’t leave the house to pick or buy any flowers. “He made this ridiculous scene at the restaurant when he ordered wine, doing this bizarre chirping noise with his mouth when he sampled it. Jesus, Patrick!”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  The apartment was small, the living room barely wide enough to fit a miniature armchair and a short couch. Patrick navigated around the edge the couch, grinning when he banged his thigh into the coffee table –it had been a while since he’d had a physical reaction to something new –although he didn’t feel the sensation of his mouth mov ing . The smile died, though. He felt himself screaming, but it wasn’t him… his voice sounded gruffer and wrong. Off.

  A small, rectangular mirror over the thermostat caught his eye. The shock of seeing someone else’s face reflected there struck the pit of his stomach. This guy’s face was thinner and more angular, his hair darker and curly. Patrick felt trapped inside another man. He couldn’t make his body do anything, move… he was just along for the ride.

  His feet kicked at the layers of old newspaper strewn across the floor, a smear of something on the wall leading to the kitchen. The place was a mess, and his mind raced , a cacophony of thoughts bouncing off the inside of his head. They weren’t his thoughts, though. Voices bellowed, making him wince.

  She wants to kill you.

  Look at the eyes! They’re triple-seeing, purple haze. Cut them out. Do it now.

  Cover the windows!

  They jumbled together, talking over each other. It continued on, rising and falling, his feet and hands twitching. He stumbled into the kitchen , jerking the blinds closed over the window above the sink and clutching at his ears to block out the ripping noise it made. The knife lying in the sink. Big. Shiny.

  She knows.

  Take the knife.

  Patrick woke with a start, foot kicking through the wall of Sara’s bedroom. He grimaced at the viscous and heavy, cold sensation . He groaned, rolling onto his stomach. He hadn’t meant to sleep t here last night, but Sara had been talking to him –to him! –s aying his name over and over. It was Heaven and Hell . Having someone actually acknowledge his presence was a feeling he couldn’t explain. Bubbles rippled over his skin every time the word left her mouth, but at the same time he felt empty and sick. What did it matter if she said his name? So what if she had admitted to having feelings for him that one time? She couldn’t take him seriously. How could she? Her feelings meant nothing. Well, not nothing . It meant everything to him. It was just bumming him out that he loved her and couldn’t ever have her.

  No sane person would choose someone who couldn’t be touched… who couldn’t hug her back. How couldn’t be with her.

  It was probably just some kind of a game. He wasn’t real to her, and he never could be.

  He pushed himself to his knees, staring at his hands against the grain of the dark wood floors. Sara stirred in the bed to his left, yawning loudly and rustling the bed covers. Patrick peered over the edge of the comforter. She sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him, the sun shining in from the window casting the lines of her body into silhouette. She had fewer sharp edges than she used to, but she was far from fleshy. The light glanced off the soft edges , making her glow as she stretched and yawned. Her hair looked like it was alight from his position –she was a fiery demon, terrible and awe-inspiring.

  The memory of the knife flashing from his dream tore his gaze away from her. The vestiges of the manic feeling clung to his brain, an uncomfortable and itchy sensation pricking at him . It was odd, almost like the anticipation of waiting for something awful to happen. Patrick climbed to his feet.

  “Good morning, Sara.”

  Silence returned his words, and he glanced back toward her, noting the way the dust in the air swirled around her when she arched her back and twisted her neck from side to side. Without any warning, she pulled the hem of her nightshirt up over her head and tossed it in the corner of the room, leaving her in nothing but small purple underwear and a pair of socks that reached just over her knees, although Patrick’s eyes were focused nowhere near that spot .

  A voice in his head told him to go… to shut his eyes or turn around. He was violating her privacy, her personal space. He shouldn’t be ogling her small, barely-there ass or thinking about the way he could just see the curve of her boob. The sudden rush of lust racing through him freaked him out, but the fact that he couldn’t make himself look away from her skin was worse.
It was so wrong.

  She stretched again, pushing herself off the mattress to stand and reach toward the ceiling, the muscles of her bare back flexing and bunching. Patrick stood, rooted to the floor, feet not budging even as he desperately directed them to walk out of her bedroom. Her slight waist gently curved away at the hip, and a small, round mole in between her shoulder blades drew his attention. He wanted to touch it, circle it with his thumb to feel the texture.

  Leave. Go.

  Sara turned and grabbed her robe, giving Patrick a view of her nipples. She was small through the chest, even after gaining a few pounds, but her breasts were pert. Even though he and Ginny had gone all the way on more than one occasion, they’d both remained covered for the most part –Ginny had kept her shirt on when they were in the back seat of his car in case they had to make a quick getaway from a nosy cop, and the few times they’d done it in a bed, they’d been under the covers in the dark. He’d never seen a live woman’s body this naked in the light, and the fascination overcame his need to be respectful.

  The step he took put him a few feet closer to Sara, and he reached out a hand, intent on feeling the heaviness of her flesh. It wouldn’t feel good, not like really touching her, but he wanted the sensation. Needed it.

  Sara turned away from him before he could make contact, breaking him out of the spell.

  “What am I doing?” he muttered. He lowered his eyes to the carpet while she put her robe on, feeling like a perv.

  She hadn’t bothered to tie the robe closed, the curves of her still visible. Avoiding her bedroom and the bathroom when she first woke up as he had been doing seemed suddenly like both the wisest and worst decision ever. He was a Peeping Tom now, but he couldn’t deny he wanted nothing more than to see her half-naked again… or all the way naked. The hard-on tenting his corduroy pants was a testament to that, but the strange mix of shame and greedy desire ruin ed the moment for him.

  Singing a song he’d heard from her speakers a few days ago, she stutter-stepped in his direction, and he scrambled to get out of her way. The disgust he felt over spying on her, trying to touch her like that… she couldn’t know he was here. He couldn’t give her even the slightest indication. She would hate him, and he couldn’t blame her.

  She passed by him, still singing. The compulsion to stretch his hand toward her made him scuttle back, his legs moving through a stool. His lips turned down into a grimace. He’d never get used to that feeling, and it somehow seemed worse because he felt like shit in the first place.

  The bathroom door stayed open a few inches behind her to reveal the sound of the water stutter ing on, beating on the tile of the shower wall. Patrick stood, hand flush against the door but not touching the wood, eyes staring pointedly, wishing he could see through it just as easily as he could walk, but at the same time feeling grateful he couldn’t.

  He imagined Sara stripping off her long, striped socks and wiggling her toes before slipping the underwear down her legs. His hard-on was back, something he couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need he felt for her. It w ould probably be more frustrating if he tried to jerk-off since he couldn’t really finish – that he know of –and it would make him feel like a creeper to have his dick in his hand outside the door, listening to Sara shower.

  It probably wasn’t any worse than standing there while fantasizing what she looked like without underwear, though. This was likely the reason he wasn’t in Heaven –it was probably his perverted mind. Too much jerking off, too many dirty thoughts before he’d taken that header down the stairs . Father Thomas had warned them when he visited the youth group that one time, but everyone had thought it was a big joke. Patrick had used rubbers, too, probably sealing his fate as far as God went . No wonder he was being punished like this.

  So far, Catholics were the only religious group he’d found that had real rules about birth control. Well, as far as his book of religion went anyway. There was probably some African tribe somewhere who worshipped rubbers and stuff, some religious sect the writer didn’t know about. Maybe they had their own theories about death, this tribe… about the afterlife. Something cool, like you did your fifty years on Earth after you die and then you win a million dollars and become king of the underworld. He didn’t need a crown, though; he just needed Sara.

  He turned away and stomped down the stairs, wondering if it was too late to repent. Maybe he should start moving stuff around the house, floating his records through the air in front of Sara –maybe she’d have a priest over to bless the place. Did it count to confess to a priest if he couldn’t hear the confession? Patrick didn’t have a rosary, but he could still recite a couple of Our Fathers and Hail Marys, right? Maybe it would make a difference. Or maybe the blessing would force his spirit or whatever the Hell he was to move on. Even though Jules’ blessing hadn’t done a thing, maybe a professional would be more successful.

  The wall felt reassuringly solid behind his back as he slid down and slumped in the corner of the living room and stared out the window. From his vantage point, the second floor of the neighbor’s house was visible. No one was up except maybe the squirrels running across the phone lines. Hell , he’d even be happy to be reincarnated as one of those tree rats. If he remembered correctly, that would still mean he was being punished –didn’t the Hindu thing depend on being rewarded by reincarnation into something better? Then again, almost anything would be an improvement.

  He changed his mind immediately the second he saw Sara descend the stairs. Her feet snapped against the wood, her hand pulling at her wet hair. Thank God she’d gotten fully dressed. Her laptop gleamed under one arm.

  “Tea and then writing,” she said. “Maybe…” Her mouth twisted, and she lowered her voice. “Don’t be an idiot. Stop flirting with your pretend ghost boyfriend.”

  Patrick snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, okay – and I’ll pretend not to be your ghost boyfriend. Hey, Sara?” He waited a moment, fantasizing that she’d answer, Yes, Patrick? Of course, there was nothing but the sound of her humming, so he continued. “I’m sorry for being a jerk this morning. You are beautiful, though.”

  She turned her back on him and padded into the kitchen.

  “I don’t blame you for giving me the silent treatment. I was an ass to check you out like that.” He felt pathetic pretending Sara was pissed off at him simply so he could hang on to any feeling of normalcy he could - her not talking to him on purpose was a nicer thought than his complete invisibility.

  The sound of a cabinet door opening and closing filtered through the open doorway, along with the clinking of ceramic against ceramic, a drawer sliding out and back. A few minutes later, there was the sound of a kettle whistling shrilly and more bangs. Sara emerged with cup of tea and a plate of toast, settling them both on the coffee table before sliding onto the couch and crossing her legs under her.

  “What’s this?”

  The green sea glass on top of his book winked in the light coming through the front window. Sara reached over and picked it up. Patrick l ooked from her hand to her face .

  “I left a gift for you. I wanted you to have something of mine… well, something I gave you.”

  “That’s so… but where did it come from? Weird.”

  “Found it down the shore one day… I’ve had it forever.” Patrick could still feel the smoothness of the glass in his palm, so he could imagine what it felt like for Sara, the warmth of her hand heating the stone as it once did when he had held it. It made him feel closer to her to know they could share the experience.

  “Look at that – it’s almost… it’s heart-shaped.”

  “You have my heart, Sara,” Patrick said, feeling like an idiot even as the truth of the words coursed through him, “in more ways than one.”

  “This is really… but…” She looked toward the stairs and back at the glass. “I’ve never seen this before, so how did it get on top of that book? Kevin sure as Hell didn’t leave it. He would have left a condo
m or a picture of himself.” She chortled and rubbed her thumb over the surface.

  “Goddamn it,” Patrick muttered, pounding his fist into his knee. How was he going to tell her it was from him? Did he want to? She’d only be freaked out. Deep in his heart, he wanted her to know.

  She balanced the glass on her knee and seized her laptop, opening it on her legs, the glass staying precariously situated. “I should put you on the table, but you’re so pretty.”

  Patrick grinned crazily. Only Sara would talk to a rock and make it seem normal. The tapping sound of her fingertips on the keys lulled him, his eyelids drooping. He didn’t want to sleep, so he moved to the front window, watching Megan pack her daughter into the car, smiling an d talking to her husband as they ducked into the front seat. The car backed out of the driveway and sped off down the street. Jimmy wiped sweat from his forehead while cutting his mother’s grass next door. Patrick still couldn’t get over how old Jimmy looked and wondered, not for the first time, what he’d look like if he’d lived. His dad had grown that balding horseshoe pattern on the top of his head –would he be missing his hair like that by now too ? He thought of Ginny and how her appearance had changed, but there was so much of her that was the same too.

  “I watched her leave with him,” Sara’s voice intoned from behind him. He turned toward her –her forehead wrinkled, her eyes scann ing the laptop. “Everything about the guy was awful –she couldn’t have dated a guy more wrong for her, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  She continued reading what Patrick assumed she’d written, his eyes growing wider with each word. She was recounting what had happened last night after she left with Kevin, describing how he’d dug out his box of collected rocks from under the insulation. Baring the depth of his feelings for her, the longing in his heart. It was mortifying, yet fascinating. How had she come up with it? He hadn’t even been thinking about it… at least not while she was writing. There hadn’t been even a moment when he tried to telegraph his thoughts about giving the piece of glass to her, but she’d somehow picked up on it and exposed every last detail, even subtly getting across the feeling of walking through the attic door.