What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  I blink back the sudden burning feeling behind my eyes and try to tame the embarrassment running through my veins. At least he’s unaware of how I’m pretty sure I’m being followed and my rapidly growing sense of paranoia. God knows I feel stupid enough as it is. No need to fan the flames.

  There’s been a lot of silence between the two of us since our first visit. This one feels different though. This one makes me uncomfortable and twitchy, and … and I feel judged. I guess that’s a good word for it. I can’t look up because if the sound of his silence is this loud, I don’t even want to imagine how much noise the look on his face will make.

  So I sit. And I wait.

  He lets his breath out slowly and I look up to watch him essentially deflate right in front of me. He rubs his hand over his face and tilts it back toward the ceiling. Letting his palm settle over his forehead, his fingers hide his eyes from view.

  “Can I just ask why?” He breathes it out like another long, deep sigh, and it pushes the guilt further into my veins. Because I can imagine what it feels like to have a secret, and spend so much time protecting that secret, and then have someone he doesn’t even really know, and certainly didn’t ask for, to come along and dig it up.

  “I think a part of it’s because I’m selfish,” I start, and that gets his attention. I give him a weak smile, but don’t watch long enough to see if he smiles back. “And I’m stubborn. So if I think there’s something that can be done to help prove myself right or get me the result I want, then I don’t give up. Or think of the negative consequences, apparently. Especially if I think they’re outweighed by the positive ones.”

  I can feel the burn of his gaze on my face, and withstanding the urge to look at him is too hard. I busy my hands with an attempt to push my hair back behind my ear. It falls right back into place, like I knew it would, and I watch as his eyes follow the path the curl leaves as it brushes over my cheek. I have to fight the urge to try again, my fingers twitching with the want, and my cheeks starting to heat.

  “It’s selfish of me to go after answers in whatever way I can. But you have to understand.” I stop, backtrack a little. “I want you to understand that those answers don’t just help me in the long run. I want to help you. I want to do whatever I can in order to help you.”

  “I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” he starts, and then pauses. I can pinpoint the exact second something clicks into place—he comes to a realization. I can also tell he won’t share whatever it is. Because as quickly as it comes, it’s gone. And his face is a careful mask, devoid of any expression. “I don’t need any help. I’m not… I’m not yours to help.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’m not yours to help.”

  It’s that stupid ‘what color is that’ thing all over again, isn’t it? If there’s one thing the boy knows how to do, it’s leave me with a line that both breaks my heart and sticks in my brain.

  I stopped by the check-in desk on my way out that day and canceled my already scheduled Saturday visitation. The officer behind the desk, the same one who let me into his hospital room, only nodded and gave a sad, small smile. I didn’t bother to return the gesture, but I don’t really think I was expected to.

  I’m stuck thinking it over as Beth and I devour our frozen yogurt. Honestly, I’m so out of it I barely even hear her when she says she’s running across the street to see Ryan for a second. I sit in the booth for nearly twenty minutes before I realize she isn’t just taking forever in the bathroom. And then I watch her from the window as she pulls Ryan’s face down by the lanyard around his neck to meet hers in a goodbye kiss I’m sure could be used in a damn movie.

  I’m not bitter. I’m not jealous.

  This is what I tell myself as I watch the pink blush bloom across her cheeks as she hurries through the crosswalk. Yeah, I know it’s a lie, too.

  As she passes by the front row of cars in the lot, my eye snags on, yep, a black SUV that seems pretty damn familiar at this point. It definitely wasn’t there when I pulled in, but I’m not sure when it arrived or if anyone has gotten out of it. I’d love to tell myself I’m being paranoid. That I’m too lost in this weird, my life is like some weird action/thriller/teen coming-of-age film mindset.

  I can’t quite bring myself to believe it, though. I don’t believe it.

  I also don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it. I didn’t want to admit the truth to Drew the other day—didn’t want to say his father might’ve already had me looked into. I didn’t want to admit to being so reckless, but maybe I should have. Maybe he would have known what to tell me. What to do.

  I keep thinking back to before I even had a feeling I was being followed—to the SUV that slowed down to pass by after I parked in front of the McCormacks’ house. For all I know they weren’t even following me there, but they most definitely took notice. Whoever “they” are. If they weren’t following me, does that mean they were watching the house? Or did they catch sight of me at the hospital and decide to keep tabs on me then?

  Shit.

  If I could go back in time, I’d pay attention to the damn license plate. I’d be more careful.

  “Sorry I took so long.” Beth startles me as she reaches over the table to gather her overabundance of bags. She tilts her chin over her shoulder and offers her weird, poorly executed version of a wink that always makes me snort. “Well, not really sorry, if you know what I mean. You ready?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and then shovel the last spoonful of froyo into my mouth in an attempt to hide a piss-poor attempt at a smile.

  The SUV is parked a couple of rows away, but I give it a glance as I climb into the driver’s seat of my car. I squint a little, trying to make out the shapes inside the tinted windows, but it’s impossible to see anything from this distance. I also get super paranoid that if anyone is inside, they’ll see me staring their way. I shake my head a little and pull out of the lot, following Beth to work.

  I tuck myself away in one of the back corners of the library with a book. I reread the first page probably a hundred times and still can’t tell what it says.

  I wonder if Drew still expects me to show up today. If he wants me to be there. I also beat myself up over why I’m still being so self-centered by wondering if he’s spending his time behind bars thinking about me.

  A thought enters my mind for a brief moment and I try to push it out as quickly as I can. Life at seventeen isn’t supposed to be this way. It isn’t supposed to be so unfair. My priorities should not be headlined by worrying about getting my also seventeen-year-old Soulmate out of lock up. I shouldn’t have to worry about child endangerment laws, or criminal sentences, or about trying to convince a grown woman her son’s future is worth more than the one of a man who beats her.

  Shouldn’t I be worried about other things? Stupid things? Things like the prom I’m supposed be helping plan and whether or not this guy with ridiculous color eyes thinks I’m cute or not? All right, so maybe I am worried about that last thing a little, but it’d be a lot easier without all of the other stuff. Stuff a freaking seventeen-year-old girl shouldn’t have to worry about, damn it.

  I don’t cry, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Or that I’m not sniffing like crazy from keeping the tears in. Or that Beth doesn’t eventually find me and send me to the bathroom to pull myself together and stop scaring the other library patrons.

  “That lady with the super-light blonde hair keeps looking at you funny. Like she thinks you’re about to off yourself in the Classical Lit section. Go get your shit together,” she says, shoving me off in the right direction.

  I glance to the left and the woman looks so disturbed by my behavior I’m tempted to apologize for apparently causing such a commotion, but by the time I make it out of the bathroom, she’s making her way toward the library’s exit. Deciding it’s probably time for me to head home as well, I wave to Beth, and head in the same direction. Any thought I’d had about offering an apology disappeared as soon we make eye contact across
the parking lot. The blonde woman tightens her hold on the keys in her hand and, after a few seconds, turns abruptly, climbing into a black SUV I’d bet my right arm was sitting in the parking lot of Frenchie’s only hours earlier.

  ****

  By Thursday, I can’t live with the not knowing. Not knowing of what exactly, I couldn’t say… Not knowing whether or not he’s really mad at me? Whether or not he can forgive me for acting without considering what he might think? Not knowing if his mother has decided to put on her big girl panties and do what’s right? Although as far as I can tell the last one is not something that’s happened. I feel like my father would have at least heard about that little bit of information.

  I’ve gone over it again and again in my head and even though she seemed vaguely familiar, I’m unable to place the blonde woman from the library. My life has been conspicuously void of black SUVs, and while it eases my mind a little, it doesn’t explain anything. Add that to the list of not knowing, I guess.

  So on Saturday I’m back. I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say. But I’m back.

  How I managed to forget in only a little over a week exactly how cold it is, and has always been, in here, I don’t know. I even have a big, chunky sweater thrown on over my dress today, and I’m still freezing. The line moves forward another person and I rock back and forth from one foot to the other as I wait my turn.

  The woman in front of me takes her time checking in, but I don’t mind. I’m too caught up in studying the sweater she wears, and the metallic thread woven in and out of its cream-colored fabric. I never realized there were so many different shades of white before. It’s funny how I think of it like that. Just… Before.

  Cream-colored sweater lady looks back at me as she moves out of the way and I smile the best I can as someone who’s been caught staring.

  Great way to start out this visit, Libby. Already embarrassed.

  There’s a new officer behind the counter today. An older man with a big bushy mustache that makes it hard to see his lips when they move. It’s gray, shot through with streaks of black and an odd red color, maybe auburn, that the hair on his head probably used to be. Again, I find myself so distracted by color I manage to embarrass myself even further as it becomes blatantly clear he’s repeated the same question to me at least twice now.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I have the good sense to apologize. “What was that?”

  He shakes his head a little in the way adults always seem to do around teenagers and looks me dead in the eye.

  “Your name, Miss.”

  Of course. The same question they ask every time anyone checks in for visitation. Every time.

  “Elizabeth Carmichael.”

  He gives a little grumbling noise, and looks down at the list in front of him. Then he glances back at me, and back down to the print out. I hedge the tiniest bit closer and try to look like I’m not attempting to sneak a peek.

  “It might be under Libby?”

  It shouldn’t be under Libby. I have to use whatever name is on my driver’s license. Or ‘government issued photo ID’. God, what’s taking so long?

  “Ah, I’m sorry Miss”—he glances down at the paper one more time—“Carmichael. Mr. McCormack isn’t available for visitation today.”

  “But it—it’s Saturday. He always has visitation on Saturdays.” I smile and nod at the older man, thinking surely being polite will make all the difference in the world.

  “Yes, that’s true, but he’s not available. Mr. McCormack has restricted his list of visitors, as is his right.”

  My face falls and the officer looks embarrassed for me as I take a step back.

  “Oh. Oh, okay. Um… Okay, thank you.”

  I turn and nearly take out the man in line behind me in my dash for the door.

  I climb into the driver’s seat, half tempted to drive straight to the other side of the Center, park in the employee lot, and have my father find out exactly what’s going on. I look at the clock on the dash and remember he got off probably half an hour ago and is most likely sitting in front of the television, watching football.

  Okay. Okay, I’ll go home instead. And he can tell me if he knows anything. He can tell me if something has happened between the time I set up today’s appointment on Thursday and this afternoon that he knows about. If there’s something that’s happened, other than my being an insufferable busybody that would make Drew want me to stay away.

  Maybe Drew uses phrases like ‘insufferable busybody’ to describe me. How should I know? Since apparently we don’t know each other.

  God, I’m such an idiot.

  Wait. Actually, I take that back. I’m not an idiot. I’m pissed off. I am pissed off, and I’m confused, and I’m going to either get to the bottom of this, or give up completely because I don’t have time for people who don’t want me around.

  Because, I think as I bounce over the speed bumps leading out of the parking lot a little too fast, I am a good person to have around. I’m kind, constantly putting others above myself—and even if this situation didn’t start out like that, it sure as hell ended that way—I am a good listener, a good friend, and sometimes I’m even funny. I am a goddamned delight.

  Yeah, a delight who is actually losing it and laughing at herself while trying not to cry because honestly, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. I never lose it like this, though. So I let myself fall apart a little on the way home and spend a minute or two in the driveway, pulling myself back together again.

  “Dad!” I yell into the house as soon as I get the door open. “Dad, I need to talk to you!”

  I hear the television turn off and round the corner into the living room. My father is putting the remote down on the coffee table and turns to look at me with a smile on his face.

  “Hey, sweetie. Did Drew tell you?”

  I stop, letting my coat slide off my shoulders and nearly drop to the floor. His face falls as he takes in what mine must look like. I catch the coat at the last second and lay it on the chair behind me, taking a steadying breath before I answer.

  “Did he tell me what?” I let out a nervous laugh, but rein it back in before it can sound too unhinged. “Whatever it was, I’m going to go with no considering how he took me off his approved visitors list.”

  My father sits down on the arm of the couch and I can tell he wants to pull the ‘oh, sweetie, are you okay?’ card, but knows me better than that. I don’t want pity, or worry, or any of that stuff right now. Right now, I only want answers. Answers! It’s starting to seem as if I’ll never have enough to stop from wanting more. So he tells me what he knows.

  “His mother set up a visitation with him earlier this week.” He puts a hand out and stops me before I can say anything. “I didn’t hear anything about it until this morning. Otherwise, I would have told you first thing. You know that, Libby.”

  I nod because I know it’s true.

  “There’s talk about her meeting with Chief Watson.” He takes in the blank look on my face and answers the question I don’t even have to ask. “Jordan’s commanding officer. Word is Jordan’s being questioned and Drew’s family is being moved into protective custody. I don’t know if it’s for sure yet. I, um, I thought maybe Drew would be able to tell you himself today.”

  I fall heavily on the couch and press my hands together between my knees.

  “When will they be moved if it is true? Will the charges be dropped?”

  And what does any of it have to do with him refusing to see me today, I want to ask. Not the time to make this about me, though, I can understand that much.

  “It sometimes can take a few days to set up. Soon though, I would imagine. If the charges are dropped, he’ll join them there once he’s released.”

  I nod again, letting it really sink in. Or trying to anyway. It’s hard to believe the same woman I basically yelled at in public only a week ago decided to take action. The same woman who looked terrified by the very thought of doing so. And it’s ha
rd for me to believe maybe something I said got through to her, and it might not even be true, but right now I’m feeling so … so low, I’m going to cling to that tiny bit of hope. I’m going to let myself have this for now.

  “But he…” I glance up at him and swallow hard before lowering my eyes back to my lap. “Why wouldn’t he want to talk to me? Why wouldn’t he want to tell me?”

  My dad stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. My head feels so heavy I choose to look up at him through my lashes instead.

  “Just give him a little bit of time, sweetheart.” He squeezes my shoulder. “These things take time.”

  ****

  These things take time.

  Well, guess what? Lots of things take time, I thought as I tossed and turned in bed last night. And I was still thinking it when I woke up way too early this morning.

  And I’m thinking it even now as I pull out of my driveway and head toward the other side of town. I pull onto the bypass and absently count the exits until the one I need to take. Because there are other things I think take time. Like moving a house full of stuff without having anyone there to help. Which I have a sneaking suspicion is exactly what’s going on at the McCormacks’ today.

  I keep my eyes on the moving truck parked at the curb as I park in a spot across the street. Angela McCormack has her hair pulled up in a messy bun and is dressed in worn jeans paired with a scrub top, complete with thermal underneath. She tries to carry two boxes at once and her youngest son looks more interested in scribbling on box tops and his arms with a fat, black magic marker than he is in helping.

  I look down at my own clothes as I step out of the car and think maybe I should’ve prepared myself a little more as far as wardrobe is concerned. At least my shoes are sturdy?

  She nearly drops the box in her hands onto her foot when she sees me walking up the path to the front porch. I cringe and then give an internal sigh of relief when I see it’s marked with the word ‘towels’. It’s probably for the best if all collateral damage caused by me is lessened by even that small amount. I lift my hand to wave, and she pushes the box out of the way with the toe of her shoe.