by Dee Willson
“He’s hot, Chickpea. Like blow-your-mind hot. And single. You didn’t think to mention you’d had a moment with the guy?”
A deep breath whistles past my lips. A moment? Ha! A mental breakdown is what it was, pure and simple.
“There was nothing to mention.” Nothing I’m willing to spill.
She’s trying to be serious, but there’s a sneaky look to her eyes. “He asked if we’re friends, you and I. He wanted to know about you and of course—”
“The guy looks like trouble, Karen.”
“I was curious to know why he wanted to know. He said he found you intriguing. Oh, and alluring.” She rolls the word like a red carpet. “He asked if you were the Tess Morgan, the artist.”
Fish on a hook. I sit straight up, almost knocking the nail polish off the tub.
“He recognized my work?”
“Apparently he’s a fan of your Wings series. He loved your showing, the one you had a few years ago at the Landmark Gallery in Oakville.”
That show was amazing. I sold almost a dozen paintings including my personal favorite and the inspiration behind the Wings series, a massive, seven-by-seven-foot canvas titled Crimson Spirit.
“Bryce didn’t meet you the night of the show,” Karen says. “Apparently you were sick. He met Meyer though.”
Abby was the one sick that night. An hour into the show, Grams called to tell us Abby had spiked a fever over a hundred and four, and I panicked. Meyer thought I was being silly, that Grams had it under control and Abby would be fine. But I couldn’t stand it, not knowing, being so far away. What if Abby needed me? What if she felt alone or scared? I was home nearly twenty minutes before I realized I’d left Meyer at the gallery.
“Bryce didn’t know about Meyer’s car accident.” Karen stares at the sponge-like substance sprouting around her ankles, and Romi, thinking it’s her cue, lifts Karen’s feet out and wraps them with a towel. “I’m sorry,” Karen mumbles.
So am I.
“Come to the party with me.” Karen pouts like a kid who’s about to lose the battle after giving it all she’s got. “Please. Frank won’t go, and I need a wingman.”
Romi taps my leg, drawing my attention. She’s painted my toenails red.
“It’s the color of exuberance, fun, and seduction,” Karen purrs. “The perfect color to move you forward.”
I let Karen bask in her theory. It’s the least I can do since she’ll be flying solo at the party. With any luck she’ll get sidetracked before we head next door for tea and I can forget about this entire conversation. I grab my purse and slide my feet into sandals, trying not to ruin Romi’s paint job.
I picked red because it reminds me of autumn, my favorite season.
And for some reason I don’t care to think about, Bryce Waters.
We fumble next door: me walking awkwardly in flip-flops, Karen’s three-inch heels getting stuck between stones. The pilfered magazine burns hot in my pocket. It’s been years since I swiped something, but old habits don’t die. And I couldn’t leave it to rot with the likes of beauty tips and greasy oils. I need to read more.
The café is quite large, in the shape of a giant L. The smaller section up front has a set of glass showcases displaying pastries and baked goods. The smell of almond and custard sweetens the air. Massive chalkboards hang from the ceiling by chains. The bulk of the place is a stretch of street-facing windows featuring floating tables with backless stools. The sun is bright, setting patrons aglow. Wobbling to the end of the café line, I scan the signage for something good. There is an endless list of organic white teas and natural lattes. Not sure what makes a latte “natural,” but what I really want is a drink, something strong or straight up.
Did I mention old habits?
Karen nudges me. “I actually saw Bryce with Sonia a few weeks ago, at the Olive Twist next door. My sister and I were having dinner with the kids, and Sonia was at the bar, hanging all over him.”
I sigh. I can’t help it. “I care because . . .?”
“It’s a big deal. Well, sort of. It could be. The police don’t think it’s a big deal, but you never know. You gotta report this stuff, right?”
Karen picks a long silver hair off the jacket of the lady in front of us in line, and the woman turns and glares.
“You talked to the police? Why? And who the hell is Sonia?” I ask, peeking at my cell. I can’t be late getting Abby from school. Karen’s kids are older and don’t need to be walked home. Two are in high school, Frank’s from a previous marriage, and one is in her last year at Carlisle Elementary.
Karen glares at me. “You really need to get your head out of your ass,” she says, shaking her head. “Do you not watch the news? There are posters at the school.” She notices I’m not getting it. “Sonia, you know, the blonde bombshell with the two-inch waist. My neighbor’s daughter.”
I don’t know anyone named Sonia. I step to the counter and order a decaf tea and bran muffin then turn back to Karen. “I thought your neighbor was the old guy with the blind parrot.”
“The other neighbor,” she hisses.
Karen orders a double latte with extra skim milk, heavy on the foam, three sugars, and two lids.
I shake my head. “Two lids? Really?”
“Burns my lips,” she says, smacking her lips. She taps her fingernails on the glass showcase, directing the barista to the pastry she wants. He pulls out a chocolate donut oozing orange gel from various holes and places it on a plate, handing it to Karen.
I snicker with distaste.
“The neighbor farther down, to the right,” she says. “The house around the bend. The ugly one with puce siding.” Her eyes bug out: puce siding. “Sonia has been missing since Wednesday.”
“Shit,” I say, a sudden knot in my gut. “I hope she’s okay.”
“She works at the restaurant next door, the Olive Twist. Cops found her car out back, but she never came home from work.”
We move down the line, waiting for Karen’s latte.
“Her parents must be freaking.”
That has to be every parent’s worst nightmare, without question, no matter the age.
Karen hums. “That girl has always been trouble; heavy drugs, drinking, a revolving door of men. Her mother isn’t much better. The woman spews profanities like a trucker. Sonia probably ran off with some badass biker. They’re always gunning it up her driveway, shooting rocks.”
I take a bite out of my muffin and look away.
That was me. When I was thirteen, we landed in Toronto and I fell in with the wrong crowd. I had good marks and went to school enough to fly under the radar, but nights were spent drinking, smoking anything I could roll, swiping necessities, and having sex. My mother never brought men home, but her suicide only made things worse, and by eighteen I was out of control. It took an unexpected pregnancy to set me straight. That and a school counselor who insisted I had talent and should enroll in art school. The baby didn’t survive past the first trimester, but by then I’d gotten my head straight, straight enough to know what I wanted when I met Meyer two years later.
Maybe Sonia wasn’t so lucky.
“If I was twenty-one and having the time of my life, I wouldn’t call home either,” says Karen. “She’ll turn up. Someone must know where she’s run off to, and they’ll tell the police.” A sly smile lights her face. “Secrets are hard to keep in a small town like this.”
“Every day, Karen, every day I thank my lucky stars you and I get along.”
Karen bursts into laughter. “We’d get along better if you’d come to the party with me.” She waves a ten-dollar bill in my face. “Gotta pee. Grab Frank a caramel brownie to go.” Her laugh tapers off as she heads to the bathroom.
The café is busy so I organize our stuff on a tray. I turn around to find a seat and instantly my body goes into shock, my mind fighting to rationalize what it’s viewing. The entire room falls away, the hum of chatter gone. The sensation of nausea rises in my throat. Somewhere in the depths my
gut instinct screams run, but I can’t move.
It’s a man. He sits, one cheek on a stool, leaning slightly forward, his weight supported by a foot firmly planted on the floor. His other foot casually rests on the bar around the stool base. Every muscle on his perfectly chiseled body stirs with flourishing, almost elegant movements. I can see every detail—he’s naked. Not a no shirt, no shoes, no service kind of naked, but a run from the place screaming exhibitionist naked. In his arms is a woman. She’s nude, wearing only a pair of high-heeled black leather boots and tiny black lace panties. She’d be beautiful if she didn’t look so . . . stoned, drunk, drugged. He is fixated on her, his hands ravaging her ass and back. His face is buried deep in her neck, her head tilted back like a ragdoll’s.
He moans and she shudders, her face turning toward me.
Holy shit! Sonia! My intuition screams this is Sonia, the missing girl. She looks familiar, I think, until she shimmers like her form is a hologram, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus. My hands are shaking, the tray held tight in my grip.
He moves, slowly, running his fingertips over her stomach. She drops back, her body falling into a dramatic arch. Her long blonde hair sweeps the floor. She lifts her head, her chest rising and falling, grappling for air. Her nails hold tight to his sides. His skin is dark, tanned, and his jet-black hair hangs chin length in disheveled curls. Tattoos of intricate wave-like symbols cover large portions of his body, the sun providing a radiance that nearly gives life to the raised contours.
I can’t believe this is happening. How is this happening? I scan the room, frantically searching the faces of people within view, but no one looks in their direction. No one cares at all.
My muscles lock in place, stunned motionless. I can’t take in enough air and my chest heaves in protest. I try to scream. Only a gasp escapes my lungs.
He looks at me, his eyes an unnatural shade of blue. For a moment he seems to stare right through me, as if I don’t exist. Then his lips part and he belts out a snarl, displaying two rows of thin, needlelike teeth.
Holy shit. What the hell is he?
My eyes grow wide and my heart quickens to a dangerous rate. A deafening ring vibrates the walls of my skull and the tray trembles in my hands. All this, yet I can’t look away. He radiates evil, and I have the sense to know I should be afraid. I am afraid. But I’m scared for the woman in his arms. What the hell is he doing to her?
“What’s up?”
My gaze flickers to my right, where Karen stands beside me with her arms crossed, a concerned expression on her face.
“Don’t you see it?” I shriek. “Them?”
“Them who,” Karen says, stepping back. “The guys in the suits? The tanned one is rather hot, although long hair doesn’t do it for me.” She shelters her eyes with her hand. “Cool stools.”
This is insane! She doesn’t see him? Them?
“Is it Sonia? The woman with him, is that your neighbor’s daughter?” I search Karen’s face for a sign, anything to show she sees what I see, that I’m not imagining it, but it’s blank.
“Right there.” I scream and point, but when I look back they’re gone. “What the hell?” I turn in circles. They’re nowhere. “They’re gone! Gone!”
Karen pries the tray from my fists and sets it on a ledge then turns to cup my cheeks in her hands, forcing me to look at her. “Tess, you’re scaring me.”
“They were there,” I say, my voice a whisper. “I swear.”
Karen moves to inspect my face. “Who was there, honey? Customers?” She looks around. “There’s a lady with a baby, an older couple eating bagels, some business men huddled for a meeting. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I squeeze my eyes, holding them tight. My fingernails gouge my ribcage, now throbbing from a lack of oxygen. This can’t be real. He wasn’t real. I must be seeing things.
I peer past Karen as the men in suits rise to leave. The guy with dark skin and the slightest hint of a tattoo showing around his collar looks in my direction before walking out the door. It’s him. I think. It looks like him. Sort of. He doesn’t seem to notice me.
“He’s normal, and his eyes aren’t blue. And where’s the girl, the one in his arms?”
“Whose eyes, Chickpea? What the hell are you talking about?”
I move to stand by the door, watching them walk down the street through the glass, four men in business suits, not a woman around.
“Where is she?”
Holy shit, I’m having a serious mental breakdown. This is it, the moment I’ve dreaded my entire life, the moment I become my mother. Meyer’s death pushed me over the edge. I need help. I need a doctor. I shake my hands out, panicking. Abby. Who will take care of Abby?
I search for Karen and spot her talking to someone behind the counter. She turns and walks toward me, a foam cup in each hand. “Here,” she says, handing me a cup. “It’s a double shot latte. Kill the caffeine ban.”
I take the cup. “Air, I need air.” I open the door and step outside.
Karen follows, sliding in beside me. “Did you see someone who reminded you of,” she leans close, “Meyer?”
I focus on a piece of broken sidewalk, keeping the amount of air I intake equal to the amount I exhale, allowing no room for stale air to linger in my lungs. I need to think rationally. What did I really see? Nothing, it had to be nothing. I’ve never even met Sonia, so why would I think the woman was her? She wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. It was a daydream, a vivid daydream.
Karen guides me to a bench. “Talk to me,” she says. “Did someone look like Meyer, sweetheart?”
What do I say? Should I tell her the truth? Like that would go over well. And Karen can’t keep a secret. Grams will freak if she hears I’m hallucinating.
“Yeah, Karen, he looked just like Meyer.”
“I didn’t notice anyone who reminded me of Meyer.” Karen speaks softly, every word pronounced as if consoling a child. “There is a phenomenon where someone recognizes a facial pattern or something like that, and I suppose hallucinations and flashbacks are a normal part of the grieving process, a stage.”
That’s it. A stage, a sleep deprived daydream and nothing more. I’ve been under a lot of stress and my body is reacting, like when I lost all that hair.
“You should speak with someone, you know. A doctor or grief counselor. Frank could recommend a good therapist, someone to help you through the rough spots.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I have to be. There is no way I’m telling a doctor this shit. He’ll say I’m nuts and take Abby from me. It’s the very reason my mother, with all her faults, didn’t seek the help she needed. Death was a lesser fate.
Karen grins. “Maybe a shrink will tell you to get laid.”
A chuckle escapes me. I take it Grams never mentioned BOB. I fiddle with my wedding ring. I’ve lost weight, and it slides on and off with ease. Physically anyway.
Maybe Karen is right. Maybe I’ve been cooped up too long. Maybe I need time outside my head, a little adult interaction. Maybe I should go to that Halloween party.
How bad could it be?
Trick or Treat
October 31st, Halloween
Some scientists believe Earth’s first civilization, the Lemurians, were the Adam and Eve of mankind. Little is known about Lemurian culture, most tangled in ancient myth predating the written word. This theory, even when substantiated, is not popular. In fact, it borders on forbidden.
Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists
Abby is so full of pulsating energy she has difficulty sitting through dinner, and her eyes dart to the clock every few minutes, which is funny since she can’t tell time. Peas lie scattered across the kitchen table, shot in all directions by anxious little hands having trouble holding a fork. The juice has been tipped over twice. I can’t bear another minute, so I excuse her from the table, smiling as she makes a beeline for Gramps, Keds in full throttle.
Grams and Gramps wouldn�
��t miss tonight for the world. Since Abby was a baby they’ve planned their annual Florida migration around Halloween. They usually spend winters there, to warm old bones, Grams says, but I suspect this year’s escape has more to do with Meyer’s death than their eighty-year-old bones. Gramps has always been a proud man, a quiet man. So much so, I used to think he didn’t like me. But he had a hand in making Meyer the good man he was, having raised him when his parents died, and no man wishes to outlive two generations of sons. He’s barely uttered a word since Meyer’s funeral, and Grams is worried.
I stab peas, three and four at a time, popping them into my mouth. I’ve given up trying to collect them with the cloth as they keep rolling to the floor. I should get a dog, a self-propelled food vacuum. I track Grams, currently the big bad wolf, chasing Abby around the living room.
“Ahhhh,” Abby screams, launching herself into the couch.
“I think I’ll eat an angel for dinner tonight,” Grams growls, hands over her head in a menacing pose. The threatening look is thrown off by laugh lines and tight silver curls. She looms for dramatic impact then drops her hands to Abby’s belly, spurring massive strings of uncontrolled giggles. Arms and legs flail about haphazardly.
“All right, you two, that’s enough.” I playfully swat Abby in the rump. “Get ready to head out, baby. It’s candy time!”
As much as Abby loves to be tickled, she loves trick-or-treating more, so she swiftly slides off the couch and runs upstairs for her wings.
Grams collapses, taking Abby’s previous spot on the couch. “Her costume is adorable,” she says. “Perfect choice.”
“Abby picked it out. You should’ve seen how excited she was when we found it.” I can’t bear to repeat what she’d said at the time, Now I’m an angel, Mama, I can visit Daddy. It took everything in me to keep from bawling in the middle of Walmart.
Abby bounds into the room. “I’m ready!”
I look and my heart stops. She’s slipped Meyer’s hockey jersey over her costume.