The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1)

by Fernando Rivera

  A noise draws me to the kitchen, where I find my mother holding a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “You’re up,” she exclaims. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great. Hungry.”

  “Here.” She hands me the rest of her food. “I’ve had about as much as I can stomach.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Milk?”

  “Sure.” I devour the sandwich before she can pour me a glass. “Did you hear the music, too? I thought I heard someone playing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Made me think of Dad.”

  She smiles at my paternal reference. “You remember that?”

  “Every night.”

  “You know why he liked that song so much?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you remember Miss Maggie?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, before you, she used to take care of your father, and he said he remembers she would sing ‘Amazing Grace’ to him whenever he was sad or upset. And it stuck with him. Which is why he would sing it to you.”

  “I never knew that. Cool.” I think. “Damn, how old was Miss Maggie?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” she laughs. “But she’s been with James since the beginning.”

  “James?”

  Mom’s eyes widen. “No, not James. Your father. Isidore,” she fumbles. “Sorry. I meant to say Isidore.”

  Her slip-up gets my mind racing, and I remember Nicholas’ last comment about the “rightful son.” Also, now that I think about it, if Miss Maggie helped raise James, it would coincide with the time she stopped working at Stockton Estate. And this house is so big, it wouldn’t be hard to hide one toddler from another.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “About what?” Mom responds.

  “About James. Something I should know?”

  “Like?”

  “Like is he really my uncle? Because he and I look too much alike. And we’re about the same age. Is it possible he’s my — ”

  “No, Manny. James is not your brother.”

  “You can tell me the truth. I’m not gonna freak out if you and Dad had another kid I don’t know about.”

  “What makes you think we had another son?”

  “Well, the way James acts around me. And how he acts like he knows you.”

  “Because he probably feels like he does. I’m sure your father talked about us all the time.”

  “And why does he call you Mina?”

  Mom laughs. “It’s what Isidore used to call me. When your father and I first met, his Spanish accent was horrible, and I used to tease him about how he pronounced Minerva. So he would call me Mina for short. James must have gotten used to hearing him use it.”

  “But he looks so much like Dad.”

  “Because they’re half brothers,” she laughs.

  “And me.”

  “Because you’re related, silly. You’re family. Of course you’re going to look alike. He’s your uncle. That’s the honest-to-God truth. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Come on.” She links arms with me and leads us back to our rooms. “How do you like it here?”

  “It’s all right. I guess.”

  “Just all right?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Would you ever want to stay here longer?”

  “Permanently?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would I do that? My life is in San Diego. My job.”

  Mom scoffs. “Come on. You know you don’t need to work anymore if you don’t want to. You’ve got plenty in the bank. And wouldn’t it be nice to spend more time with your family? And with Lucy?”

  “I guess.”

  “And if you’re dead set on working, I’m sure Micah would be more than happy to find a position for you at Stockton Farms. You may even be better suited for the business than your father was. It could be fun.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You hated what the business did to him. Why would you want me to get involved?”

  “Because you’re not your father, Manuel. It wouldn’t do to you what it did to him. And being here has also made me realize how foolish I was for keeping you away for so long. But I was young and impulsive at the time. I panicked.”

  This is the first time she’s ever mentioned regretting taking me to the States. It’s bizarre. But it does parallel what Micah told me about Mom being defiant in her earlier years.

  “What about you? Would you stay, too?” I ask.

  “I would if you did.”

  This is so unlike her. She hates to travel almost as much as I do. “Did Grandpa put you up to this?”

  “No. It’s just an idea I had. After seeing all the work your father did and the lives he’s touched, I would hate for you to miss out on his legacy.”

  There’s that word again: legacy.

  “So what do you think, Manny? It’s your decision.”

  Quitting the university wouldn’t be a problem. But I kind of like my job, despite being surrounded by incompetent program directors. Plus, who would Andrew have to talk about university gossip with? And Micah’s fine as a grandfather, but would I really want him as an employer? Or James as a coworker? Would they take offense if I refused a position and decided to live off what my father left me? But then what would I do for work? I can’t live like some trust-fund baby. That would be disgusting. I’ve always had a job.

  The only bright side to a more permanent stay is Lucy, but that’s stupid, to stay because of a crush. That’s what idealistic people in cheesy movies do, not real people — not logical people. Also, there’s no way I’m seeing more of Lucy without seeing more of Henry.

  “No, I wanna go home. I belong in San Diego.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  Mom sighs. “Okay. If you think that’s best, then so do I.”

  Good.

  The sound of “Amazing Grace” leads me down the spiral staircase, and even though it’s dark, I can see every step in perfect definition. I reach the bottom landing and push open the door, inhaling the familiar scent of camphire. My vision adjusts to the new lighting, and the giant map on the opposite wall comes into focus. So does my father.

  Or is it James?

  I only see his reflection. He’s young, like in the photo from church, sitting at a desk facing a large black window. He’s deep in concentration as he traces something on his left wrist with a pointed brush, humming to the tune of a record player in the far corner of the room.

  “Dad?”

  He looks up. Our eyes connect, only now I’m on the opposite side of the window looking in, floating in a tank of icy-cold water. But I still hear the music loud and clear.

  My father puts down the paintbrush and stands, smiling. His fingertips are stained with black ink, and an inscription on his wrist reads 919. He turns away from me, and as he does, a spike bursts through his back, splattering the window with blood.

  No!

  Then a crushing pressure surrounds my throat, like I’m being choked, and water rushes into my nose and mouth. I thrash my legs and claw at my neck as the liquid floods my lungs.

  My father continues to struggle with his attacker. They bump into the record player, causing the last verse of the song to repeat: “But now I see — But now I see — But now I see — ”

  He cries out in pain, tilting his head back as his body is lifted several feet off the floor.

  “Just breathe!” someone finally shouts.

  James leans over my bed, his hands wrapped around my neck. “Breathe, damn it. Breathe!”

  “Get off me!” I push James away. He slams into the wall.

  My mother bursts into the room. “What the hell is going on?”

&nb
sp; I jump out of bed. “I was asleep. And he was choking me.”

  “I was trying to wake you,” James insists. He turns to my mother. “Manny was screaming in his sleep that he couldn’t breathe.”

  “Because you were trying to kill me.”

  “Enough. Both of you.” She examines my neck. “Oh, my God. Did you do this?”

  “Mina, he was doing it to himself.”

  “Manny, leave the room. I need to speak with James. Alone.”

  “I’m not gonna leave you alone with him.”

  “Now, Manuel,” she demands. “And shut the door.”

  I leave the room and check my reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Bruises are starting to form around my neck. I place my hands around my throat, shocked to see my fingers are a perfect fit over the fresh marks. Could James have been telling the truth?

  There’s a knock from downstairs — the front door. I wait for someone else to get it, not wanting to leave the vicinity of my room. But the knocking persists, so I run downstairs and answer. It’s Lucy, fresh-faced and beautifully dressed. “Good morning,” she says.

  “Hi.” I reply, embarrassed to be caught in tattered pajamas.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing” — except for James trying to kill me. I look back toward the stairs, impatient.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Uh-huh. Did you need something?”

  “No.” She’s hurt by my terse remark. “I wanted to say good-bye before you leave. But if you’re busy…”

  “I’m sorry. I just had a weird interaction with James.”

  “James?” She grows alert. “What kind of interaction?”

  “A misunderstanding,” James replies. He descends the stairs, with my mother close behind. “Manny’s imagination got the best of him.”

  “I wasn’t imagining it.”

  “Imagining what?” Lucy asks.

  “That I was trying to strangle him,” he laughs, “which is completely absurd.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “It was a dream, Manny. That’s all,” my mother insists, “just another one of your bad dreams.”

  Lucy taps my arm. “Can I speak to you about something?”

  My eyes stay glued on James.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” she assures.

  “Go ahead, sweetie,” Mom says, acting like this is a typical morning. “I’ve already finished packing.”

  Lucy leads me outside to walk the perimeter of the estate, fidgeting with her crucifix every few steps. We return to the bench by the lake and sit. She unties her ponytail and shakes her hair loose, filling the air with its sweet, hypnotizing scent. “I heard about last night, with Edith Dunstan. Are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah. Up until a few minutes ago.”

  “Anything you’d like to share?”

  “It was just a bad dream or something. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Your father. I don’t know how to tell you this, but…Isidore had very specific plans for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He thought it would be in your best interest to join the business.”

  Edith, Micah, Nicholas, Mom… “You know, you’re the fifth person who’s commented about me taking my father’s place. Why is it so important to everyone I get involved with Stockton Farms? And tell me the truth.”

  “Because, Manny, it’s a family company.”

  “So?”

  “So, the Stockton brand is only strong if there are Stocktons behind it.”

  “Now I get it. Unbelievable…”

  “What?”

  “This is all about some stupid company image.”

  “A company image?”

  “Yes. God, I’m so blind for not realizing this earlier. Nobody cares about me staying because I want to. They want me to stay so they can boast about how the business is ‘in the family.’ It’s Marketing 101, so cliché.”

  “That is not what this is about. Isidore cared about your future.”

  “Really? Because Isidore didn’t know me, Lucy, and aside from the guilt money he sent, he never tried to know me. So how could he possibly know what’s in my best interest?”

  “Because he was your father.”

  “By birth. As far as I’m concerned, the only connection I have to him and this power-hungry family is my last name. So if that’s the most important factor behind getting me to accept some position in this company, everyone can back off and give his legacy to another son.”

  “Another son?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure James wouldn’t mind getting my slice of the business. That way this can be his problem instead of mine.”

  “Your problem? Isidore’s work was never a problem.”

  “Not to you, it wasn’t. You seem to be doing just fine for yourself.”

  She scoffs, at a loss for words.

  “So was that it? Are we done here?”

  Lucy doesn’t answer — that’s my cue — so I begin the long walk back to the estate.

  “James was right about you, you know.”

  My gut tightens. “Right about what?”

  “It doesn’t matter what he said now, does it? You’ve washed your hands of us. So you can run along.”

  The pressure in my gut skyrockets to my head, and my thoughts boom in my mind before exploding from my mouth: Us?/“Us?” …What us?/“What us?” …There’s no us…/“There’s no us, Lucy.”

  “Yes, there is, Emmanuel. We’re mates. I care about you.”

  My words continue to erupt in tandem, first in my head, then from my lips: Now you care…/“Now you care about me?” They catch up to each other with every passing second: What about…/“What about twenty years ago?” Finally, they explode in sync, as if uttered from a megaphone: “Did you care about me then?”

  Lucy shrinks back, embarrassed. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  I take a breath to steady my temper. “Do you know how hard it was leaving everything behind? How alone I felt and how much it would have meant to have gotten one, just one goddamn letter from you?”

  “Manny, if you knew how much I wanted to write you…”

  “Save it. Just save it, Lucy. It’s water under the bridge. And you’re right, you’re so right. We’re mates, nothing more. So thank you for clarifying that after twenty years of suspense. And for making it a hell of a lot easier to say good-bye.”

  “Manny — ”

  “Good-bye, Lucy.”

  “You’re behaving like a child.”

  “I’m cool with that.”

  “You can’t just walk away.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “Because your father didn’t die of a heart attack.”

  “What?”

  Lucy approaches, lowering her voice. “Not a normal one, at least. It was physically impossible. Isidore was too strong.”

  “What are you saying?” I lower my voice, as well. “You think he was murdered?”

  She beckons me closer. “Manny, do you believe in God?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the question. Do you believe in God?”

  That’s a loaded question. I believed in God when I was smaller because I was told to, and I occasionally go to church to please my mother. But truth be told, the older I become, the sillier it is to imagine some omnipotent being sitting up in the sky, judging my every move. It’s like Santa Claus for adults.

  I’ve never said “I don’t believe” out of respect for Mom, but I’m sure I stopped believing in God a long time ago. I’ve just been too afraid to admit it.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “You’re not being serious?”

  I look Lucy square in the eyes. “I don’t believ
e in God.”

  Her smile fades, and she shrinks back, hurt. “Emmanuel.”

  Well, you asked… “Now tell me what that has to do with you thinking my father was murdered?”

  “It doesn’t. I mean, I don’t.” She dabs the corners of her eyes and laughs off the notion. “I’m sorry. I think I’m having a more difficult time accepting that he’s gone. It’s a lot to process, seeing as how close he and I were. You understand.”

  “Sure.”

  “I didn’t mean to get you worked up. Your father had a heart attack. May he rest in peace.” Lucy clears her throat and tucks her crucifix into her blouse. She wipes her eyes one last time and fashions her hair into a tight ponytail. “Take care and have a safe flight. It was a pleasure catching up with you.”

  “Right. You, too.”

  She extends her arm, and we shake hands. “Farewell, Emmanuel.”

  “Farewell, Lucille.” I leave her by the bench, never looking back.

  When I’m within a few yards of the estate, my phone buzzes with a notification: New Text Message — The Magician.

  Finally. Text from Dr. Kris: So sorry for the missed messages. Had to replace my phone. Please take the Ovisang ASAP.

  “Do you want the window seat or the aisle?” Mom asks as we settle onto the plane.

  “I don’t care” — as long as we get the hell away from here.

  A flight attendant’s voice sounds over the intercom: “Ladies and gentlemen, due to slight maintenance work on the loading ramp, our departure to New York is on a ten-minute delay.” Really? “But not to worry, this will not interfere with any of your connecting flights out of J.F.K.” Thank God. “However, we do apologize for the inconvenience and appreciate your patience.” You do, do you? “Please let us know how to best accommodate you prior to takeoff, and as always, thank you for choosing United.” Blah, blah, blah.

  Mom unbuckles her seat belt and turns to face me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing” — I’ve just had about as much as I can take of Devil’s Dyke.