Drift

by Amy Murray

  “Of course, you are,” I mumbled, dropping my gaze. Several things crowded my thoughts, many of them with exclamation points on the end, and my heart took on a nervous beat.

  “Will you look at me?” His voice was hypnotic and impossible and demanding and hesitant. I swallowed, my throat already dry, and glanced sideways in his direction. He leaned forward and studied me from beneath dark lashes.

  When he didn’t speak, my breath hitched inside my chest, and in a panic, I scooped up my folder and pushed myself from my seat. Before I could leave, James placed his hand on top of mine and squeezed. I pulled away, and my gaze flew to his.

  “I’m sorry. Don’t go,” he said, his eyes dark and searching.

  The door opened, and the professor entered the room and introduced himself. I looked from James, to the professor, to the exit, and then sat, realizing I didn’t have another option. For the next hour, I did everything in my power to keep focused on the lecture, but it wasn’t any use. I was hyperaware of James. Every shift in his seat had my nerves jumping, and with each second that passed, I wondered if this was the moment the vision would return.

  “That being said,” Professor Stalt stated, “I hope that you find an appreciation—if not a love—for Renaissance art. My office hours are posted on my website. If you need anything further, please feel free to stop by or email me.” He picked up his leather briefcase and gave the class a nod before walking out as efficiently as he’d come in.

  I shoved my things into my bag and stood.

  “Can we talk?” James asked, standing next to me.

  “I’ve got another class,” I said as I stepped around him.

  The hall was crowded and loud with conversations, but even through the chaos, I knew James was only a few steps behind me.

  “Abby, I just want a minute.” His voice was insistent and impossible to ignore.

  I veered into the stairwell where there was less traffic and an easy exit. When I turned, he was close enough that I had to look up to see his face, and in this small space, I could smell the faint scent of soap on his skin. Every part of me wanted to lean into him, but I shook myself and stepped back, giving myself some much needed separation.

  Staring at his black, V-neck sweater, I gripped the straps of my bag. His presence was overwhelming and consuming. It ate at the air around us and pressed against me in a way that shrank the room. Seconds or minutes passed, and the hall beyond became quiet.

  “I’m glad I ran into you today.” There was a pause. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again without having to involve Xander.”

  “You would’ve done that?”

  He shrugged. “If I had to. I wanted to see you again, and up until an hour ago, I didn’t know if I ever would.”

  I shifted my feet, unsure what to say. “I really can’t stay long. I’ll be late.”

  “Here. I wanted to give you this.” He held a glossy flyer in his outstretched hand. I reached to take it, and when our fingers brushed, an energy buzzed, thrilling and frightening before it pulsed painfully toward my heart. I sucked in a loud breath and stepped out of his reach, letting the paper fall to the ground between us.

  A curious expression crossed his face as he rubbed his hands together. “You okay?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think I am.” I squeezed my eyes shut and braced my hands on the stair rail for support. Images of James and me in that darkened alleyway surfaced with clarity. It was happening again.

  A pop rang out like a crack of thunder, sharp and distinct, but there was no light, no flash in the dark. Nothing to assure me that it was, in fact, an oncoming storm. I scuttled away from the moonlight reflected in the pool of water at my feet and sank into the shadows when the yelling began.

  I couldn’t distinguish the words; the shouts were too far away. When another crack sounded, this time closer, I jumped and could no longer hope it was thunder. This time I knew exactly what it was.

  James grunted from somewhere above me, guttural and low, and my heart dropped out of my chest when the unmistakable smell of gunsmoke filled my nose.

  “Tell me where it is,” said a voice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James said, his voice laced with pain.

  “Shall I have my friend here jog your memory?” A stranger’s boots crunched against the grimy concrete, and the sound of a bullet being loaded echoed in my underground hiding place.

  I pressed my hands over my mouth and tried to quell the scream rising in my throat.

  “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever it is you’re looking for”—James inhaled a labored breath—“I don’t have it.”

  There was a scuffle, and with a thud, James landed above me. An anguished sob ripped from my chest. He narrowed his eyes and gave me the smallest shake of his head.

  “Remember,” he mouthed.

  I choked on my tears and held my breath. He stared at me for a moment longer. A sad smile crossed his lips before he was jerked upright and out of my sight.

  My hands gripped the stairwell railing so tight that when I relaxed my fingers, the blood rushed back painfully.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” James said.

  I clenched and unclenched my fists as I backed away from him. The memory felt alive and lurking, like it was waiting for the right moment to engulf me.

  “Abby,” his voice was soft, but it carried a resonance that reverberated inside of every cell of my body. “I don’t know what I did.”

  He reached toward me but stopped just shy of touching my arm. There was fizz of connectivity that popped between us before his mouth pinched into a frown and he dropped his hand. Gunfire cracked in the recesses of my mind, bringing the memory of the vision to the forefront of my thoughts.

  This was why I needed to stay away from him. What happened on Saturday night, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, wasn’t because of the alcohol. If anything, what I felt now was stronger than what I’d felt then—as if the alcohol had only dulled my reaction.

  “You didn’t do anything,” I told him. “But, I can’t do this.”

  I needed to leave before the emotions clogging my throat escaped. I slipped past him, but he was there, bracing his hand against the cinderblock wall, and even though I could’ve easily stepped aside, I paused. His lips pressed together, and some internal struggle I wasn’t privy to caused his thick brows to fold down.

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but something happened just now.” He dipped to better look me in the eye. “It happened the other night. I want to know what it is.”

  I thought of my mother, of her condition—of my condition—and it was like being submerged in a barrel of ice cold water. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know, but there’s nothing to explain. Excuse me.”

  Instead of using the main door, I spun the other way, choosing to exit the building through the doors under the stairs.

  “Abby,” his voice was soft but sharp enough to make me stop with one foot outside, my fingers barely holding the door ajar. “There’s this thing I’ll be at Saturday night. Six o’clock at Reed Street. Will you meet me there?” The paper that he’d tried to give me earlier was back in his hand and extended toward me.

  I didn’t bother to take it. I knew I wasn’t going. Here, James was safe and whole, but in my vision, he was less than that. Broken, bleeding, and more than likely dead. I never wanted to see that again. If I was turning into my mother, I didn’t want him, or anyone else, to see me, either.

  I let the door fall closed between us. A crushing weight yanked at my soul and ripped it somewhere between here and that place I didn’t understand. Ignoring the fact that I had three classes left, I walked to my car and drove to the only person I knew who could help me.

  I pulled up in front of my father’s single-story house and turned off the ignition. We’d moved here when I was seven, and from the first moment, it had felt like home. I had imagined a perfect existence here, not re
alizing how horrible it would be toward the end of my mother’s life. Now, when I looked upon the neatly trimmed yard and wide front porch, I didn’t see the home I’d fallen in love with. I saw the place where my mother deteriorated.

  I was halfway up the drive when the door opened. My father’s smile faded when he saw me, knowing that something was incredibly wrong. He opened his arms, and I fell into them. The security of his embrace broke the dam holding back my tears, and just like when I was a child, he held me until they subsided.

  While he brewed a pot of coffee, I sat at the scuffed kitchen table where I’d had my last conversation with my mother. I traced my finger along some of the deeper nicks in the wood and tried not to imagine her sitting there staring at me with hollow eyes.

  My father didn’t ask any questions—he rarely did—but waited patiently for me to speak.

  “How old was mom when she got sick?”

  My father stopped mid pour and contemplated his answer. He took a heaving breath. “A few years younger than you. Nineteen, I think.”

  I frowned. “Y’all got married at my age. Didn’t you know?”

  He placed a heavy mug in front of me. “Yes, I did.”

  “Why? Why would you marry someone with her—condition?”

  He shrugged and took a deep sip from his cup. “Love. Your mother was an amazing woman. Extraordinarily kind. Generous. Giving.”

  “I don’t remember that.” Even my earliest memories were tainted by her sickness.

  He raised his brows and leaned back in his chair. “She wasn’t always sick like she was the last fifteen years. It got pretty bad there at the end, didn’t it?” He took another sip of his coffee. “She’s the reason I decided to pursue psychiatry. I wanted to help her, or people like her.”

  “How could you live like that for so long? I mean, she wasn’t even there most of the time.”

  “It wasn’t like she woke up one day in her worst possible state. You remember how it was. Most times the good days made up for everything else. After a while, the bad days outnumbered the good until—” He looked at me, the deep crease between his eyes deeper now. “Medication worked for a period of time—and then it didn’t. We were always adjusting, trying to find something that would help.”

  “Why didn’t it?”

  “Help?”

  I nodded.

  He shrugged. “Mental illness isn’t a bacteria, and it can’t be treated as such. You’re battling the mind. And the mind, even when injured like you mother’s, is still a very powerful instrument. It can create and destroy. Your mother was convinced the medicine wouldn’t help her. She refused to take it.”

  “Why didn’t you force her?” A mix of frustration and anger burned inside me.

  “I know that sounds easy, but it wasn’t. You have to understand, I did everything in my power to help her get better.”

  “There had to have been another way. When it first started. There had to have been something you could’ve done to keep it from progressing.”

  My father’s head tilted at my words, and his lips parted a fraction of an inch.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s really wrong,” he said.

  I think I’m turning into her, and I don’t want to. I want to stop these hallucinations before I’m wandering around lost inside my own head. I need you to tell me that I’ll be okay, and that I don’t have any reason to be scared.

  “I just miss her. I’m sorry.”

  My father’s footsteps were heavy as he rounded the table and pulled me into his arms.

  “I’m sorry, too. I wish things were different.”

  I don’t know how long we stood there, but by the time I got inside my car, the sun was a memory, and I was all alone with the thoughts I had hoped to come here and erase.

  Chapter Three

  My fingers thrummed against the steering wheel as I ticked off the minutes before heading toward the arts building. Eight fifty-two. One minute had passed since the last I’d checked the clock. I willed myself not to look again, but my gaze involuntarily flicked back. I’d planned to get out of my car at eight fifty-seven, which would give me exactly three minutes to get to class—enough time to make it before the lecture started, but late enough that James would already be seated.

  At least that was my hope.

  Resting my head on the upholstered seatback of my Honda, I tried to prepare myself. What would happen when I saw him again? Would the visions return? I planned to avoid him, to ignore him, but who was I kidding? James haunted me even when he wasn’t in the same room. I gripped the steering wheel and dropped my forehead against it. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.

  Grabbing my bag, I flung myself from the car and marched toward my art history class. My feet hesitated when I approached the door of the building, but I forced myself to move forward. I needed this class to graduate, and dropping it wasn’t an option. With a deep breath, I walked inside. Nothing, and especially not James, was going to make me miss my graduation.

  The building was warm, bordering on hot, but after slogging through the cold, it was a welcome change. I turned down the first hallway and reminded myself to breathe. I was only three rooms away from class when the door opened and out walked the one person I was trying to avoid.

  I stopped in the middle of the hall and fought with my conscience. Should I continue and pretend I hadn’t seen him, or should I turn and run? Through the crowd, James saw me, and his entire person became hyperfocused on me. He walked with purposeful strides, and there’d be no way to avoid him. I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned and walked the other way.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I chanced a look back and this time said it out loud. James was only a step behind me.

  “Are you seriously running from me?” He sounded incredulous, and my cheeks, traitors that they were, flamed with heat.

  I stopped walking but didn’t turn, praying the flush would fade before I faced him. Biting down on my lip, I tried to come up with a logical excuse, but my mind was a perfect blank. What was wrong with me?

  He’s what’s wrong with you. I shook it off and groaned with frustration.

  James took a cautious step and approached me like I was made of combustible things. His eyes roamed over my face, and the longer we stood, the less apprehensive he looked. I couldn’t say the same for myself.

  He let out a deep breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

  Someone bumped my shoulder and pushed me one step closer to him. My insides reacted with violence. Heat exploded under my coat, and something between panic and excitement paralyzed my body.

  With leaden feet, I stepped back. “I’m sorry. I know I’m coming across—rude—but this?” I gestured between us. “I can’t do this. Not with you.”

  “Do what? Talk?” He looked at me long and hard. “I’m not asking for anything else.”

  When he said it like that, it sounded so simple, like my body wasn’t about to implode and I could forget the visions that bombarded me in his presence.

  “Just talk?” I asked.

  He nodded. “We could go to the Center. Get something to eat?”

  “I’ve got class,” I said automatically.

  His lip twitched in a sort of smile. It was uncomfortable, and it was gone as fast as it had come—so fast, I wondered if it’d ever been there at all. “The one you were just running from, or another I don’t know about?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was running. Just…walking quickly in the opposite direction.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke. “You know, you can’t avoid me forever.”

  He had me there. James nodded to the door. His bold features softened when he held out his hand. Taking it seemed like a simple thing to do, but fear was a powerful thing, and it left my arms limp at my sides. I stared at the scars that mangled his skin and wondered what would happen if I placed my hand in his.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice flat
.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, and my gaze snapped to his. “I know. I didn’t think—” I swallowed and rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “I’m just nervous.”

  He contemplated me for a moment, his brow folding down, then held the door open. “Me, too,” he said.

  I glanced outside and back toward the classroom. “I really shouldn’t skip.”

  There was that almost smile again. “It’s art history, not neuroscience.”

  I nodded but warred with what to do. “I know as much about neuroscience as I do about art. I need this class to graduate.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’ve got me.” His smile was gone, his face serious. “Art and its history are kind of my thing. I won’t let you fail.” There was something about the look in his eye, or maybe in the way his lips formed the words, that made me believe him, and the part of me that was terrified of the visions he provoked faded into the background.

  “Okay,” I said as I passed through the door he still held wide. “But I can’t stay long.”

  “I know,” he said. “You’ve got class.” A hint of a smile played across his lips as he fell into step at my side.

  James and I didn’t speak the entire way to the Center. We didn’t talk as we grabbed a coffee, and even after we sat, we didn’t say a word until approximately three sips into our drinks.

  “So, I take it you’re not an art major,” James said. He sat with his cup between both hands, his forearms resting on the table.

  I smiled despite my nerves. “No, definitely not. I can’t draw stick people. I’m a psych major.”

  James raised his brows and leaned back in his seat. “Really? What do you want to do?”

  “Graduate school, first. I want to be a therapist. Help kids if I can.” I took a sip and James studied me. “What about you?” I asked. “What’re you studying?”

  “Graphic design and art.”

  “Double major?” When he nodded, I said, “Wow. I bet your stick people are more impressive than mine.”

  He didn’t smile, but his lips did purse together. “It would be an injustice to my subject to draw a stick person.”