Guardian (The Guardian Trilogy)

by Sara Mack

  I am mortified. Half of me wants to run away and hide; the other half wants me to run downstairs and apologize. To make it right. But I can’t do either. Instead I lean against the wall for support.

  “Why exactly are you here?” my mother demands. “Are you looking for an apology? Because you’re not going to get one. You can’t tell my daughter how to grieve!”

  “Okay!” my dad intervenes. I’m sure he’s placed his hands protectively on my mom’s shoulders by now. “I think we can all agree that everyone is on edge. Let’s not make things worse by arguing.”

  Mrs. Davis is brusque. “We want to know what happened.”

  “Details,” James’ father adds quietly.

  “Details? Of the accident?” my mother asks, shocked.

  I feel my body sliding against the wall until I hit the floor. I pull my knees to my chest.

  “Yes. We assume you’ve discussed this with Emma.”

  “No. She hasn’t said a word about that night.”

  “You haven’t asked her?”

  “Whatever for? So she can relive the pain? She’s barely eating and speaking as it is!”

  I hear Mrs. Davis huff. “She has to know something; some detail that would let us know what led to this.”

  “Carol,” my dad says softly. “Would any minute detail change reality? Emma wasn’t even with James that night. She was in her room. How could she possibly know much more than us?”

  Mrs. Davis’ voice wavers, as if she cannot control her emotions. “I know that my son is gone. I know that he spent more time with your daughter than anyone else on this planet. And I know that she knows something we don’t.”

  “That’s impossible,” my mother says with disbelief.

  No one says anything for a moment. Tension hangs heavy in the air; I can feel it all the way up on the landing. My parents may be retired and in their mid-fifties, but they’re active. They could take the uppity Davis’. Eric and Carol are soft. They play tennis and have a lawn service.

  Mr. Davis breaks the silence in a kinder tone. “We came here to ask you if you would let us know if she mentions anything. For our peace of mind.”

  “Of course,” my dad replies. “But I’m sure you can understand why we won’t push her.”

  My mother has had enough. “Are you finished?” she snaps. An image of her standing with her hands on her hips floats up to me, just like she would do when I was in trouble as a child.

  Footsteps head toward the door; one set marches with determination. I can only assume its James’ mother by the clicking of the heels. I hear Mr. Davis quietly apologize as he leaves. “I’m sorry. Things have been…difficult.”

  Tears stream down my face in silence. “I’m so sorry!” my brain screams at them, hoping they will hear it telepathically. I want to go back to my room and hide but it’s as if my arms and legs have forgotten how to move. I am a statue, sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest.

  I don’t know how long it takes my mother to find me frozen on the landing.

  “Oh! Emma! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” she asks panicked, kneeling down to take my face in her hands.

  I look through her. I can barely speak. “It’s my fault.”

  “What? What’s your fault?”

  Silence.

  “Honey? Did you hear our conversation with the Davis’?”

  Silence.

  “You did, didn’t you? Damn them.” She’s angry. “Listen to me, Emma, they didn’t mean what they said. They are in mourning. People say things they normally wouldn’t when they are hurting. They are trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “No, sweetie, believe me it’s not.”

  My eyes focus on hers. I find my voice, stronger now, determined. “It’s my fault!”

  “What is? What is your fault?”

  I snap. “The accident!” I yell. I yank my head free of her grasp. “The accident is my fault!”

  I land on my stomach, arms in front of me from my attempt to catch myself. I open my eyes and look around, letting my eyes adjust and trying to catch my breath. It’s dark. Night time. I can feel frost on the grass beneath my fingertips; the cool spring air bites my skin. I can hear the sounds of passing cars. I am outside.

  I glance around to get my bearings and see it. The Jeep is off to my right, upside down, the front end crushed against a tree. The radiator hisses and one back tire spins. Just beyond the truck is a small embankment; beyond that a two lane highway. I immediately know where I am.

  I start running. I have to get him out! But no matter how fast I run, no matter how much adrenaline pumps through my veins, the further the vehicle seems to get. I can feel my lungs burning as I push my body to move faster. I start to panic. Get him out! My legs are starting to wobble beneath me, turning into Jello.

  “NO!” I scream as I fall to the ground, unable to run any farther. My legs will not cooperate anymore. I stare at the ground as I grab handful after handful of grass, grabbing and then pulling, grabbing and pulling, my legs dead behind me. Mercifully, I reach out again and see the Jeep just beyond my reach. My adrenaline soars as I realize that I’m close. I manage to get up on my hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way to the truck.

  “JAMES!” I scream his name.

  I make it to the side of the vehicle and look through the jagged glass where the window used to be. I see blood. Gallons of blood. All over the seats, on the dash, on the windshield, the floorboards – it’s as if the entire inside of the car is made of blood. I gag at the sight and the smell and cover my nose with my wrist. James is not inside. Why can’t I see him? Where is he? I know he’s here!

  Panicked, I half-walk, half-crawl my way around the Jeep searching for him. I step in something wet. Blood is starting to seep out of the truck on to the grass. It’s as if the truck itself is bleeding.

  “JAMES!” I scream over and over, my throat growing raw. I circle the Jeep again and again, searching. I cannot find him. Exhausted, my body threatens to give out on me entirely.

  Eventually I collapse, sobbing, next to the bleeding truck. I cover my face with my hands and realize they are sticky, covered in blood.

  “You!” I hear a female voice snarl at me.

  I look up and see Mrs. Davis coming from the embankment by the road. She’s headed straight for me; her face is twisted into a murderous expression. In accusation. I am terrified of her but my body will not move.

  When she reaches me, she growls, “This is your fault!”

  I can only cower.

  Her hands wrap around my neck, squeezing and cutting off my air supply. I choke and sputter and try to rip her hands away but my hands are slippery from the blood and I can’t get a good hold.

  “This is your fault!” she continues to yell at me.

  “Your fault!” My lungs are burning.

  “Your fault!” My eyes close.

  “Your fault!” I scratch at her hands as they grow tighter.

  “Your…!”

  “EMMA!” I continue to scratch and claw.

  “EMMA! Stop!”

  I think I hear my mother’s voice, but it can’t be. Mrs. Davis is trying to kill me and the Jeep is bleeding!

  “Stop! It’s me! It’s me!”

  I open my eyes and see my mother holding my arms by my wrists trying to stop me from clawing and scratching her.

  “It’s me!”

  I stop wrestling her, confused. I press my eyes together tightly and reopen them. “Mom?” I ask in a scratchy voice.

  “Shhh. It’s me.” She releases my arms and feels around my forehead. Worriedly she asks, “Nightmare?”

  I feel the pillow beneath my head when I nod and realize I am in bed.

  “Here,” she hands me a glass of water from the bedside table, then sets a small pill in my other palm. “This will help.”

  I put the pill in my mouth and she helps me swallow a few sips of water. I lay my head down and close m
y eyes. As I stare into blackness, I try to think of absolutely nothing. The nightmare felt so real. I could feel everything, smell everything. A chill goes through my body as Mrs. Davis’ face reappears in my mind. Please, I beg myself. If I dream anymore don’t make it a nightmare.

  “I love you Em,” I hear my mom say as the door closes.

  My body starts to relax and I wonder what type of pill she gave me. My mind starts to drift. No nightmares. Please.

  My subconscious listens to my silent plea and rewards me with a perfect rendition of James’ voice.

  Chapter 4

  “I love you.”

  “What?” I look up at him, confused.

  “You heard me.”

  James and I are lying together on the couch in his living room. We were supposed to go out but decided watching a movie was better than riding mountain bikes in the rain, even if it is August and the light shower will cool the mugginess.

  I turn my attention back to the movie. Did he just say what I think he said?

  “So?” he prompts.

  I manage the lamest response possible. “So…what?”

  “Really?”

  I stare up at him stupidly.

  He frowns and looks away.

  Damn. I’ve hurt his feelings and I didn’t mean to. I straighten up so that I’m sitting by his side and face him. “Hey.”

  He’s focused on the movie now, his mouth set in a hard line.

  “I’m sorry.”

  No response.

  “I really am.”

  He says nothing.

  How do I fix this? “I just didn’t expect, you know….so soon…” I can’t form a sentence.

  He still says nothing.

  We sit in silence for countless minutes. His focus is on the television, mine on my hands that are clenched together in my lap. There’s an uncomfortable tension between us. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want him to be angry with me. Maybe I should just go.

  I unfold my legs and start to leave when suddenly he pounces at me, grabbing both of my shoulders and pushing me on my back against the couch. My breath comes out in a whoosh. “Hey!”

  He hovers over me on his knees, his hands holding my shoulders against the furniture, pinning me. I look up at him and he’s smiling like this is the funniest thing ever.

  “Caught ya,” he smirks.

  “Oh, now you’re speaking to me?”

  He laughs.

  “It’s not funny!”

  He rearranges his face to be serious but his eyes are still laughing. “You’re right. It’s not.”

  I struggle against the pressure of his hands. “Let me up.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Not until you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Like you don’t know.”

  He wants me to say I love him? I buy time. “And if I don’t?”

  His blue eyes light up at the challenge. His hands leave my shoulders for a split second and he collects my wrists in one hand, leans over and pins my arms above my head. “I’ll make you talk,” he says and goes for the most ticklish spot on my body with his free hand – my ribs.

  “Stop! Don’t!” I yelp. I try to squirm away by twisting my body from my waist but it just gives him easier access to my side.

  “Give up?”

  “No!” I laugh and try to move in the other direction.

  He continues my torture and I can’t speak through my laughing fit. I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

  “Give up yet?”

  “No!” Tears start to stream down my face.

  “How about now?”

  “Can’t….breathe…” I gasp.

  “I can do this all day,” he teases me.

  I feel like I’m going to pee my pants. “Okay! Okay! Stop! I’ll talk!”

  He stops tickling me but doesn’t let go of my wrists. He leans in so we are nearly nose to nose. “Well?”

  My breath catches. At first I think it’s because I’m recovering from my hysterics, but the tingles that float over my skin tell me it’s for other reasons. “Um…”

  “Um what?” he grins.

  I can’t help it. That lopsided smile gets me every time. In one quick motion I lift my head and catch his mouth with mine. It takes him off guard and lost in the kiss, he releases my wrists. The thought crosses my mind to use my freed hands to push him away and escape, but my body has other ideas. One hand wraps around his neck while the other tangles in his hair, holding him in place. Our kiss deepens and I pull him close, deciding I want to stay here indefinitely.

  After a few moments James rests his forehead against mine. “Nice try.”

  “I thought it was nice.”

  “Stop trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?” I joke.

  He lifts his head to look at me and his face is serious but not angry. He pushes himself back so he’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch. He offers his hands and I take them. He pulls me up so we’re sitting facing each other.

  “Maybe I did this the wrong way,” he says, nervously running a hand through his disheveled hair. His sandy brown locks have turned a little blonde from the summer sun.

  I shake my head. “No, you’re fine, it’s me. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  He sighs and looks down. Neither of us knows what to say; it’s uncomfortable for both of us.

  I suddenly become interested in picking at my cuticles while my mind races. I know he loves me; he didn’t have to say it. But he did. And I know I love him. So why can’t I just say it? Is it because we’ve only been a couple for a few months? He’s been my best friend since forever. If I didn’t love him as a boyfriend I would most certainly still love him as a friend but then you don’t randomly tell your friends you love them…

  The rambling in my head is cut off when James reaches out and gently lifts my chin so we’re looking at each other. Staring me straight in the eyes he says, “I love you. I’m about 99% sure you love me too. So you don’t have to say it right now. No pressure.”

  Now I want to say it. To make him feel better. To make things easier.

  “I…”

  “Don’t say it just to say it.”

  “But I…”

  “Emma.”

  “Listen! I...”

  “Emma. Seriously.”

  “I am being serious!” I slap both my hands down on his hard chest in exasperation and lean in to get in his face. “Listen! You know it takes me a minute to process things. I’ll admit I choked earlier. But I want to say it. I want you to be 100% sure. I. Love. You.” I enunciate each word.

  He considers this for a moment. “You’re not just saying it?”

  “No. I mean it.”

  His face relaxes.

  “You really had doubts?” I ask.

  “Well…”

  I frown. “I would think that kiss would’ve made things clear.”

  James gives me a sly smile. “Maybe you should kiss me again just to make sure I get it.”

  My eyebrows jump. “Really? You think so?”

  “I do.”

  I pretend to mull it over for a moment and then I smile. “Nope. I think you get it just fine.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t.”

  “You do.” I try to lean away but he wraps his arms around me before I can get very far.

  “Honestly, I don’t get it,” he says as he attempts a sad puppy dog pout.

  I laugh. “If you keep that up I may never kiss you again.”

  “You will,” he says leaning in to me.

  And I do.

  “Em, wake up.”

  I try to open my eyes, but they feel like weights have been tied to them.

  “You’ve got to get up.”

  I turn my head in the direction of my father’s voice and try to speak, but my mouth won’t move. I want to tell him I’m tired and I can’t open my eyes and to leave me alone.

>   I feel him sit on the bed and gently shake my shoulders. “Emma?”

  I try to open my eyes again. Why won’t they open?

  “She’s been sleeping for hours,” he says to someone. I can hear the worry in his voice.

  “It’s okay Dad,” I want to say. “I like this sleep. There are good memories here.”

  “She’ll wake up when she’s ready,” my mom says.

  “Are you sure you didn’t give her too much?” he asks.

  “I only gave her one of the sedatives Dr. Morris prescribed for my insomnia.”

  My dad sighs. “If she doesn’t wake up soon I’m calling the doctor. I feel like we’re not doing a very good job. Maybe we should call a professional.”

  “Dale, we need to give her some time to work through this.”

  “Do you think she needs some friends around? You know, people she can talk to?”

  I think I hear my mom move closer. “I’ll give Shel a call in a few hours. Maybe she can pay Emma a visit.”

  Ah, Shel, I think. I miss her.

  “Come on, let’s leave her be.”

  My dad leans over, kisses my forehead, and the smell of Irish Spring soap lingers in the air. I feel the bed move as he stands, and I hear them leave. My eyes still feel heavy; will I ever open them again? Whatever that sedative was, it’s powerful. Since I can’t open my eyes and fully wake, my thoughts turn to Shel. Shelby. The only best friend I have left.

  An image pops into my mind and I try to smile at the memory, but my mouth won’t cooperate. Shel and I are crouched at the end of James’ driveway in the weeds. It’s hard to contain our giggling. We’re holding rolls of toilet paper, cans of shaving cream, and a couple bars of soap. Devil’s Night is a beautiful thing.

  “Okay,” she whispers. “You start on the trees down here. I’ll head up to the cars and start with the cream and the soap.”

  I nod. I watch her creep up the driveway looking like a mugger. Her black sweatpants and sweater conceal her enviable curves; her ski cap hides her straight brown hair and bangs. I try to be stealthy in my identical ensemble, and crouch low. I make it over to the side yard where I throw a roll of toilet paper into a nearly leafless maple tree. It catches on a branch and unravels as it falls to the ground. I grab it and toss it back up, grab it and toss it, trying to be speedy. Once this tree looks full, I move to another one a little farther up the drive and get started.