What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  I risk a lot, mostly my fingers, by placing my hand on the door frame.

  “It’ll only take a minute. I promise you. Then I’ll be gone.”

  Her eyes close for only a second, but in it I can see how tired she is. I think of her slumped shoulders and how small she looked as she moved through the hospital hallways earlier this week. I think of her hushed whispers and her fists hanging loosely at her sides as she stood at Jordan’s bedside. The strength of her stance and tone of her voice were so different when she initially begged me off, but it’s plain to her how easily she’s slipping back into a complacent state.

  If I press, I know she’ll give in. I normally wouldn’t take advantage of something like this, but I think the situation calls for it. I inhale deeply and the shaky exhale that follows is not entirely put on, but it can’t hurt my case when I look her dead in the eye and say ‘please’ one more time.

  She doesn’t say anything, merely nods and opens the door wider. I follow her down a short hallway and she leads me into the living room, saying she has to check on Blake, but she’ll be right back. I watch her as she goes, taking in the slight slump of her shoulders and the way her dark hair, shot through with gray, is falling out of the bun at the nape of her neck.

  She disappears around the corner and I take the opportunity to look at the room around me. Again, like the house itself, it’s very normal. Not so different from our living room at home, really. The couch may be a little older and more worn, and the television isn’t as over-sized and sleek, but there are warm, homey touches spread throughout. A soft-looking throw over the back of the recliner, a vanilla-scented candle sitting on a side table, and a large bookcase, with what looks like a shelf for each member of the family, against one of the interior walls.

  Everything is a shade of either ivory or gray. It hurts to think she must have to hide even in her own home.

  There are several picture frames on the top shelf, and I find myself in front of them before I know it. Most are group shots of the family during the holidays—tacky Christmas sweaters and the boys lounging on the floor in flannel pajamas with their new toys in front of them. Drew looks several years younger in all of them. His hair is still as messy and curly though, and there’s still that stupid damn dimple to contend with. Looking at Blake is like looking at a past version of Drew. Except for the eyes. Blake has his mother’s eyes—a deep, warm brown—I noticed that when he opened the door.

  I’m standing far too close to what must be Andrew’s senior portrait, a shot of him leaning against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, when Ms. McCormack makes one of those awful I-don’t-have-anything-in-my-throat-but-I’m-going-to-clear-it-anyway noises. She starts talking before I can turn around to face her.

  “So, how is it you and Drew know each other? He hasn’t mentioned a Libby.”

  And the strength she showed when she first opened the door is back with a vengeance.

  God, the only way this could get more made-for-television movie is if she had followed ‘he hasn’t mentioned a’ with ‘…Libby, was it?’. I brace myself and slap on what I pray passes for a smile.

  “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have. We didn’t meet until recently. A little over a month ago, actually.”

  I’ll admit, this woman has an outstanding poker face. There’s no way she doesn’t get what I’m trying to say, but the only indication she gives me is the smallest of twitches in her left hand. She gestures for me to sit and then crosses the room to lower herself into the recliner.

  She makes a funny little ‘hmm’ noise in the back of her throat.

  “I’m fairly certain you haven’t been able to see him since the…” She swallows and looks unsure of herself and how to proceed for the first time since inviting me in. “Since the incident.”

  I wonder if she means the incident that sent her youngest son to the emergency room, or the one that sent her oldest to a detention center. It makes me mad enough for a mean, almost nasty-sounding laugh to come out, but I don’t feel the least bit bad about it or the look it puts on her face.

  “Yeah, incident. I guess you can call it that if you want to.”

  “Now, wait just a sec—”

  I lose it for a minute. Exactly what I told myself I wasn’t going to do. I can’t hear anything but my own elevated breathing, or feel anything other than the sudden anger rising up inside of me.

  “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to let me get this out, because if I don’t say it—if I don’t get to ask you these questions—then it’s going to drive me absolutely insane. So, please, just let me…” I let go of the fistfuls of fabric I didn’t even realize I was clutching onto. I level my gaze the best I can and wonder if she can see I’m as surprised by my outburst as she is. “Just let me.”

  I take her silence as an agreement, a sign to go on.

  “Has Drew ever been a violent person, Ms. McCormack?”

  She looks down at her hands and sniffs. She’s also shaking her head. “No.”

  “Has he ever been in trouble? Any kind of trouble?”

  There’s no verbal response this time, only the continued shaking of her head and agitated fidgeting of her hands.

  “See, that’s what doesn’t make any sense to me. I won’t lie… I, I don’t know your son very well. Not yet. But it seems like whatever he’s been accused of, even if he did it, well… I don’t see how he can be considered guilty of anything. And he—God, he acts like he thinks he’s guilty of everything.”

  She looks up then, her hands still and it almost looks like she’s asking my permission to interrupt.

  “You’ve been… You’ve visited him?”

  “I have.” I nod. I want to ask why she hasn’t. Surely she didn’t think his request for her to keep quiet extended to not speaking to him. I want to ask why she’s thought it better to go and keep a vigil over the bedside of a man who doesn’t even want to claim her as his Soulmate, but I’m not that level of angry. And it’s not my place. I can’t take it that far no matter how badly I want to. “And he seems to think he’s some kind of monster because of whatever it is he’s done. And it also seems like no one’s told him he’s not one. I don’t know exactly went down between the two of them that day, any more than I’m guessing you do, but even if he did put Officer Jordan in the hospital… God, even if he did, we both know there’s only one monster in this scenario.”

  My voice is shaky and she’s starting to look pale.

  “Drew is not that monster. He thinks he is, and I just—I cannot find it in myself to understand why you’re not correcting him.”

  She stands so abruptly the recliner rocks back and forth for a good ten seconds. I flinch, but she turns toward the window instead of me. I can hear another television somewhere else in the house playing the theme song to some kids’ show, and I try to distract myself with it while waiting for her to talk.

  “When Benjamin was put in the hospital, the world around me went back to black and white.” She grips the curtains in one hand and looks at me over her shoulder. “I thought I was going to lose that. I thought he was going to die. You can’t understand how terrifying that is.”

  I wonder if she’s simplifying things out of respect for her son’s wishes—if she’s protecting his desire to protect her. Or if things are really as cut and dry as she’d like me to believe.

  I don’t blink and my voice comes out stronger than I think it ever has.

  “I do understand though.”

  I know it’s time for me to get out of here when her chin starts to wobble. I can’t be around for whatever kind of breakdown she’s about to have. I’m starting to think I’m long overdue for one of my own. So I stand, and I cross the room to head back to the hallway. I turn to make my way to the front door, but can’t resist saying one last thing.

  “I’m sure you know Drew was put into the hospital earlier this week. And I’m sure you realize his father,” I spit the word out like a bad taste, “is the one who most likely made sure he was
put there. That makes two of your sons he’s sent to the hospital in the same number of months. He may be your Soulmate, Ms. McCormack, but Drew? Drew is a part of you. And Blake is a part of you. And you’ve got to stop this before that man destroys every single piece there is. Because that’s what he’s doing, and he’s not going to change, but it doesn’t mean you can’t.”

  I close the front door of the McCormack house behind me softly and wait until I get to my car before letting myself cry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s obvious to everyone in the room that I checked out of this meeting pretty much the moment it started. Well, everyone except for Taryn. I honestly can’t see how she still thinks I have even the smallest sliver of interest in this committee. In prom even! Let’s face it, I’m constantly distracted, very rarely have an opinion of my own, and never, ever speak unless asked a direct question.

  Yet she still insists on doing her best to drag me into the conversation. Current topic of discussion? Theme. Because somehow we’ve decided on the budgeting, the music, the food, the venue, and have somehow even touched on decoration … all without even having a theme.

  Kill me now.

  It’s been exactly one week since I visited Drew in the hospital. Exactly one week and my father sent me a message right before this meeting started, letting me know he’s finally being transferred back to the Center this afternoon. Apparently monitoring inmates with concussions is something they feel is better handled at an off-site facility. I’m unclear as to what that means. The hospital seems like an unlikely place to keep someone who is technically considered a ward of the state—too expensive. If the Center has a separate facility for medical purposes alone, I don’t know anything about it. I could have asked my father, but he’s been especially cagey lately and has yet to share any other information with me, so I didn’t want to risk it.

  I’ve been just as cagey knowing Drew’s father was so close to him this entire time. The thought makes me sick, but I can’t exactly share that knowledge with my father since he warned me to stay away from the man entirely.

  At any rate, right now all I can think of is how Drew is, if he’s already back at the Center, and if he’s going to be safe there. I’ll admit, my thoughts are centering pretty heavily on his mother as well. Whether or not anything I said to her actually sank in.

  I wonder if she’s even thought—

  “Libby, what do you think?”

  What do I think about what?

  “Uh…” I rub my eye with the back of my hand with some vague hope it makes me look like I have a headache. Or something. Something that will excuse my blatant disregard for everything regarding this stupid meeting. “Sorry. What do I think about what?”

  Taryn doesn’t look impressed, only sighs and turns to point to the white board on the wall behind her. In the middle, in big, bold print, and even underlined is Prom Theme Ideas. Well, yeah, I got that part. Scanning lower, I see a short, but varied list of suggestions. Each one worse than the last.

  Starry Night

  Casino Night

  Under the Sea

  Midnight in Paris

  Garden of Good and Evil

  Christ. These are bad. Like, really bad. The last one could get the entire school district in trouble, but apparently no one thought that far ahead. And Under the Sea? There are approximately a billion different species living in the ocean—don’t quote me on that estimate—and I can almost guarantee about ninety-five percent of them? Not black, white, or gray. Which is precisely the color scheme we’re undoubtedly going with.

  And yeah, that part makes sense, but why waste such a colorful idea when the landscape—or is it seascape?—can’t be done justice?

  “I don’t know…” I narrow my eyes a little to give the illusion of actually thinking it over. “The last one probably won’t go over well with the school board.”

  Taryn stiffens beside me and I guess it was her contribution and have to backtrack immediately.

  “Not that it’s not a great idea! I can just see how some of the more … non-religious students might not appreciate it.”

  I’m lying through my teeth. It’s a terrible idea and I can also see a night full of poorly executed woman led astray by a snake jokes. Jokes Taryn probably wouldn’t get in the first place, so I keep that thought to myself as well.

  “They’re all good.” Another lie. “But maybe we should try to go for something less … overdone? And maybe not as colorful as ‘Under the Sea’?”

  Even saying the word colorful makes me think of Drew. Something I’ve been steadfastly trying not to do because it’s going to end up driving me insane.

  “Hmm.” Taryn hums and rocks back onto her heels while contemplating the choices on the board. “Well, if you actually think of something that meets the criteria, be sure to let us know.”

  I nod even though she can’t see me, and keep my trap shut for the next fifteen minutes.

  ****

  I hole up in my bedroom, making serious headway on my mother’s dress and looking up possible conviction sentences online, until it’s time for dinner. All of the hours I’ve spent trying to come up with something concrete have been pretty dismal, I won’t lie. There are so many variables, and unknowns, and possibilities that I can barely keep it all straight. I have a notebook practically filled with notes I’ve jotted down, crossed out, and then added back in again pages later after discovering something new or that completely cancels whatever made me cross it out to begin with.

  I asked my dad a couple of days ago what his best guess on the whole thing was. His response was he’s not a prosecutor or a judge, and all we can do is hope for the best. I know he’s right, but a little lying for the benefit of making me feel better wouldn’t have been unappreciated.

  I’m about this close to saying screw it and baking a cake with a file in it.

  Not that they’d let him have some random cake.

  Or that I could actually bake a cake.

  Ugh.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  I look up and Dad’s standing in the open doorway, leaning a hip against the frame and watching me. I briefly wonder about what’s keeping me up at night.

  I don’t even bother to minimize the window I have open on conviction laws for minors when he walks into the room.

  He sits down on the bed beside me and I lean my head onto his shoulder. The curls falling over my face bounce around on the air of my exaggerated sigh. We stay quiet for a minute, me leaning on him and him running his hand over my hair. His fingers get caught in the mess a couple of times, but I don’t complain. His chest expands with a deep breath which I know means he’s about to say something important. I sit up straight and look to him expectantly.

  “I was able to get you back on the visitation list to see Andrew.” He smiles and his shoulders shake a little as he goes on, holding back a laugh. “Without having to lie and risk not only my job but your eternal damnation.”

  It’s funny, but I can’t quite find it in me to laugh.

  “Soulmate Status?”

  “Soulmate Status.” He nods. “It’s unusual for juvenile offenders, but not unheard of. It can’t be finalized until his release, but I pulled some strings.”

  I nod. I found an article stating as much not long after I visited Drew for the first time, and it’s really nothing more than a piece of paper, but one would have to have parental permission in order for it to go through if he or she is under eighteen.

  “Find out anything about Officer Jordan?”

  I started out asking every day, but slacked off to every other as the week’s gone by. He shakes his head slowly before I even finish the question.

  “I’ve tried, sweetheart. Jordan’s not listed on either child’s birth certificate as the father and he and Andrew’s mother never filed for any kind of Soulmate Status, so it’s going to be hard to find out, much less prove, anything. Without testimony there’s nothing linking the two of them to one another before the incident.
That makes it nearly impossible to build any kind of solid defense.” He runs a hand through his hair, and then over his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Jordan’s saying he found Andrew trying to break into his apartment and Andrew was able to get the jump on him while he was going for his badge. It’s going to be his word against the boy’s. Even without any prior offenses, it’s going to be hard. It… It doesn’t look good, Libby.”

  I nod again, staring down at my hands. He stands and squeezes my shoulder, reminding me dinner is in a few minutes and leaves the room.

  I sit quietly for a moment, thinking things through. I don’t think trying to prove Officer Jordan is Drew’s dad is a necessary move. It shouldn’t have to be. If he’s done something wrong, like I know in my gut he has, it shouldn’t matter. Plus, it’s obvious how Drew doesn’t want to claim the man any more than Jordan wants to claim him. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to know if he were my father.

  There has to be some way to prove he isn’t the man he appears to be. There has to be some way to prove he’s lying about thinking Drew was breaking into his home. There has to be… Wait.

  I grab my phone off my nightstand and tap out a quick message to Beth.

  So, Ryan is good with computers. How good are we talking?

  It takes her less than thirty seconds to reply.

  Beth: You’re kidding, right? He got you MEDICAL RECORDS for Christ’s sake.

  Fair enough. What about security camera feed?

  ****

  Halfway through our meal, I decide my mom has been more than patient with me, and with my father, and with our shared sense of secrecy concerning Drew. For Christ’s sake, pretty much the only thing she knows about him is the fact his name is Andrew.

  I drop the bomb without warning my dad first, and I can tell from the tight smile she gives him when he tries to interrupt, I probably should have tipped him off. Then again, my decision to tell her is so sudden even I’m not prepared for half of the questions she asks me.