The Vestige

by Caroline George

  “Oh … okay.” What a weirdo. Why do the hot ones have to be crazy?

  “I’m really not a weirdo. I see the concept of zombies as a metaphor.”

  I choke on a wad of saliva. Is he a mind reader?

  “There are two types of people in this world: dead and alive, corpses versus the living. Just because someone’s heart is beating doesn’t mean they’re alive—at least, not really. To truly live, one must feel and experience new things, find joy, connection. Zombies are depressed, lonely people caught in routine, void of emotional ties. It’s easy to be infected by the dead, but we must put up a fight. We must always choose life.” His eyes narrow to squinty lines. “You’re staring at me like I’m crazy.”

  “No, I just … I’ve never heard that perspective before.”

  He laughs, drinks from his cup, and gazes into me a few seconds longer than what is socially acceptable. “You’re pretty, Julie, and I know stating my observation aloud is considered fresh, an indiscreet come-on, but frankly I think more people should hear the truth about themselves. Screw what society thinks, right?”

  A huff of laughter escapes my throat. Pretty? Me? He must be weird and crazy. How can something that was once deemed ugly become beautiful?

  Jack’s smile stretches into a full-fledged grin. “Wow, that’s more than a pretty face. What I’m looking at now is painstakingly gorgeous.” When my eyes widen, he waves his hands as if they’re white flags in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I have a tendency to be awkward around attractive people. It’s a problem I’m trying to fix.”

  “You didn’t freak me out,” I say and rub the heat from my cheeks.

  “Then why won’t you look at me?” He leans forward to connect our line of sight. His pupils meet mine with searing intensity. “That’s better.”

  The butterflies in my stomach morph into a stampede of horses, tsunami waves ramming against the cliff face of my emotions. Boys sense fear and they also sense attraction, the little devil that springs from poor girls’ hearts when they meet an awkward, endearing guy who buys their coffee and talks about zombies. Sadly, I have both fear and attraction—Jack’s hit the mother lode.

  I cough. “So, do you live in Charleston?”

  “No, I’m here on business.” His smile has yet to fade, bright and reticent as if he knows a profound secret. He could easily be the poster boy for a toothpaste company or a Calvin Klein model in town to shoot a spread for next season’s fashion line.

  “You’re in the army, aren’t you? I caught a glimpse of your ID tags.”

  “I was but … I’m not anymore. Things happened and it became clear to me that I needed to choose another career. I’m a freelance researcher nowadays,” he says. “Would have been a biochemist, but college takes too long. Even thought about becoming an artist, that is, if I didn’t completely suck at art.”

  A moment of silence passes between us, offering a polite escape. I snatch an empty cup from a nearby table to make myself appear busy. “It was nice meeting you, Jack. I better get back to work.”

  “Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?”

  My legs freeze, and I spin around to see if he’s kidding. His eyes shimmer with sincerity—he really does want to have coffee. With me. Why? This must be a joke. Hot guys don’t flirt with average girls unless they have a hidden agenda, a dark secret, or believe average equals easy. I’m not easy. I won’t be hurt. Not by him. Or anyone.

  “Sure, you work at this coffeehouse but even a barista must enjoy a cup of coffee every once in a while. I’m not a total freak. Let me prove it to you.”

  “What would we talk about? How you think I’m pretty?”

  Jack laughs. It’s a deep, infectious rumble. “No, we’ll find something we have in common.” He motions to his half-read novel. “Do you like to read?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I bet there’s a stack of books on your nightstand right now.”

  “Are you a stalker?”

  He smiles and leans back in his chair. “I’m good at pegging people.”

  “Oh, really? How would you peg me?”

  Jack leans against the window and scratches his chin. “Barista Julie, you aren’t as complex as you think. Let me guess. You’ve lived in Charleston your entire life…”

  “Yes. Not hard to guess, though. I have a distinct accent.”

  “Don’t give up on me yet. I still have to impress you,” he says with a snicker. “Okay. You didn’t go to a normal high school. I can tell this because of the way you talk, articulate and with confidence. But you aren’t confident. You don’t see yourself as beautiful, which is a bummer because you are stunning. And although you dress like a 1950s pin-up girl, wear more makeup than you need, and try to make it seem like you’ve accepted yourself, you haven’t.”

  Seen and changed. Seen and hurt. He undressed me, sliced off my skin to peer into my heart and soul. He’s a Know-It-All with a Pretty Boy attitude. Why should I allow his few observations to affect me? I’ll be the bigger person and walk away like I usually do. But why am I still standing here?

  Jack’s smile vanishes. He shakes his head and mutters a self-aimed curse. “Gosh, I’m sorry, Julie. I just … have a habit of putting my foot in my mouth, especially around people I don’t know. You seem to be a nice girl and I promise, I’m not a horrible guy.”

  “Would you like a biscotti with your espresso?” the passive aggressive southerner in me asks. Love when I hate. Compliment when I insult. Hug those who stab me and hug when I stab back.

  “I can tell you’re strong,” he says before I have a chance to leave. “You are a survivor and even though you look fragile, you are unbelievably strong.”

  “You’re sounding more and more like a flirt.” Sugar and venom fill the words. Maybe they’ll shut him up. Maybe he’ll get the hint and leave my insecurities unexplored.

  “Nah, I’m not trying to flirt with you. There’s at least a five-year age difference between us, along with other conflicting details.” He pauses for a second and then emits a reluctant sigh. “I have the habit of saying what I see because it’s easier to point out other people’s flaws and perfections rather than let them notice my own. Besides, why withhold a compliment from someone who might be in need of it?” His grin flickers into place. “By the way, I can be normal. I’m not sure why I’ve been creepy today.”

  Raw, unfiltered honesty—that’s a new concept. Around here, people douse the truth with butter, sugar, and elaboration because no one wants to break a commandment by hurting their neighbor’s feelings or reveal their own dirty sins. Instead, they are honest in private where the truth can’t hurt anybody. I’m one of them. Holding my tongue has kept me safe from a lot of pain, but it’s also caused a rift between who I am and how others view me. To be fully revealed is to be fully vulnerable.

  Maybe that’s okay.

  Maybe I am ready to be seen.

  Chapter Two

  “There is no ideal world for you to wait around for. The world is always just what it is now, and it’s up to you how you respond to it.”

  Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies

  Tires grind asphalt when I swerve to a stop in front of my home on East Bay Street, otherwise known as Rainbow Row. It’s a yellow building—tall and narrow with blue shutters. Grandpa bought us the house, at least, that’s how Dad interprets his inheritance. He says colonels don’t make a lot of money, and we should be grateful. Grateful for the creaky pipes. Grateful for the lack of decent air-conditioning. Grateful for the neighbor’s demonic cat. Sure, there are a gazillion good things about my house, but without Jon and Sybil, it seems empty, almost eerie. I still use a nightlight.

  “Mom, I’m home.” I cross into the foyer and toss my purse onto the grand piano, next to a stack of colorful paintings. Gardenias fog the air with a perfume that smells of The Citadel in springtime, strolls along the Battery, and antebellum rooms.

  “How was your day, sweetie?” Mom shouts from her stud
io.

  Weird. Invasive. Humiliating. Filled with Know-It-All strangers, gossiping college kids, and a pushy best friend. “Same as usual. Any word from Jon? He was supposed to call us today.”

  A voice drifts down the spiral staircase—Mom forgot to turn off her audiobook again.

  “Not yet.”

  A painful knot twists my stomach, makes me cringe. Why hasn’t he called? Has something happened to him? No. He’s fine. Maybe the government assigned his platoon a lot of work today or something. He will call. He will come home. Like always.

  I saunter into the living room. Unlike the rest of my house, photographs clutter these walls. It’s the one place Mom and Dad have left personalized, untouched since Sybil’s death. Paintings hold no memories. It’s easier for them to replace the vestige of their past happiness with insignificant, aesthetic artwork. I understand but sometimes I want to remember the pain. It’s the only way I can remember her.

  A picture of my family hangs over the couch. It was taken eleven years ago on John’s Island before Sybil’s leukemia was discovered. Jon was thirteen at the time, I was seven, and Sybil, only five-years-old. Life was okay. Nothing was broken … yet.

  Weeping. Sobbing. Sybil is intubated, eyes closed. My parents slump over her sallow figure, crying and praying. But their begging doesn’t change God’s mind. An eternal beep—the heart monitor flatlines. My body slams against the doorframe, then my butt hits the floor. Where are our mountains, the red notches that belonged to Sybil and me? She said her heart was creating a new world for us and through the monitor, we could catch a glimpse of it, a sketch of what our heaven will be. Did she go to our world without me? Why can’t I go with her?

  A loud shrill bursts from my mouth and echoes through the sterile halls like an ambulance’s siren. Nurses try to hush me with soothing words, but I continue to wail. Tears stream my face. Anger explodes out of my mouth. I kick and claw as Jon throws me over his shoulder and drags me away from the threshold.

  “She’s not dead,” I squeal. “We have to fix her. Let me go.” The pain of infinite heartbreaks cuts through my chest like a dagger. Beep—mountains. Beep—castles and princesses and no more cancer. Flatline—Sybil is gone.

  Jon carries me into the empty waiting room and collapses on the floor. His warm t-shirt absorbs my tears, and my I Heart Nick Jonas tank-top soaks up his jagged sobs. God could’ve taken me—why didn’t he take me instead of her? The doctors said Sybil wouldn’t get better, that she only had a short amount of time to live. I didn’t believe them because accepting that my sister was dying would be like giving permission for her to go.

  “It’s not fair,” I say. “Why did she have to die?”

  “We all have to die, Jules. Nobody can live forever,” Jon says in a broken whisper. “Sybil just … wasn’t given much time. But she’s better now, no more doctors and chemo.”

  “Is she in heaven?”

  “Yeah … she’s in heaven.” He pulls my knees into his lap and rocks me back and forth. “I don’t fully understand why people live and die. It’s a stupid, screwed-up system, and if I could, I’d change it all, but I can’t. We are going to die too someday, which means we’ll see Sybil again. She’s not dead to us forever.”

  “You can’t die too, Jon.” I press my head against his chest and squeeze him tight. If I let him go, I may never get him back. “Do you think Mommy and Daddy will be okay?”

  “They’ll get better over time, but for the next few months, we’re going to be on our own. They are really sad. We have to take care of them, be strong when they’re not. You get that, don’t you?” When I nod, he hugs me again. “You’re brave. We can face this together. I promise.”

  Sybil’s death stunned my family. For years, we lived in what felt like silence. Dad retired from the military, spent his time in local bars and rarely came home at night. Mom locked herself in her studio and stared out the window, speechless and distant. Jon took care of me. He drove me to school, made my meals, and kept me hopeful. Then one day, my parents came back to life. We resumed our daily routine and slowly healed back into a family. Things weren’t perfect, but we survived.

  Mom uses the tip of her foot to push open the studio’s door. She smiles—blue paint specks her teeth. “There’s peach tea in the fridge, if you’re thirsty.” She sits in front of her easel, working diligently on a portrait of Charleston Harbor. A blue sailboat is anchored off the watercolor shore. After Sybil died, sailboats took precedence over her other muses.

  “I brought home tonight’s rations.” Colonel Stryker appears in the foyer, wearing his professorial Citadel uniform, with an armful of takeout. He winks at me. “Guess what’s in these bags.”

  “Sushi from downtown.” His wink and the chopstick stabbing through a bag gave away the answer. Eel rolls, soy sauce, miso soup—saliva fills my mouth. “You’re the best, Dad.”

  “Let’s eat on the patio tonight.” Mom jumps up from her workspace and rushes to the kitchen. Within a matter of minutes, the three of us are seated outside beneath strings of lights, talking about college, Dad’s students, and Mom’s commissioned painting of the USS Yorktown. Exams with grades. Faceless names. Inanimate objects. My sushi is more personable than them.

  Hey, I shouldn’t complain. At least they’re talking like normal human beings instead of wobbling around the house, grunting and staring into space. I’m thankful, really. The silence was killing me. What hurts now, though, is worse. It’s what comes after a war, that devastating aftermath where soldiers dwell in numbness, terrified of the day when they might have to refight their battles. We’re all living in a universal tragedy where people die, love fails, and wounds run so deep, they can’t be healed. The trick to surviving such a pessimistic reality is to build walls around our hearts so we won’t be in pain, or we could live life to the fullest. I’m not sure which option is more beneficial.

  Jack’s bleached smile and blue eyes appear on my plate. Did I forget to eat lunch? Yes, I only had an apple. If I eat more sushi, maybe he’ll disappear. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about him, what he said, the crema glistening on his upper lip. There’s something strange about him, as if he knows a dark revelation that will change everything, but as much as I want to forget about our meeting, I can’t rid myself of the unsettling feeling that our lives are somehow intertwined.

  “May I be excused?” I ask midway through my parents’ conversation on the building project downtown. “There’s homework I need to do.” This excuse always works with Dad, whose greatest peeve is late homework.

  “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll put your leftovers in the fridge.” Mom pours herself another glass of wine. “Remember, you’re going to the Market with me tomorrow morning. We leave at seven o’clock, okay?”

  “I’ll be ready.” I stuff two pieces of sushi into my mouth and go upstairs.

  Polaroids dangle from wire over my wrought-iron bed. Shelves, brimming with books, cover the crimson walls, along with my collection of vintage typewriters. What Jack guessed about me is true—there’s a stack of novels on my nightstand.

  Words have the potential to build exquisite cathedrals of syntaxes, illustrious syllables and picturesque verbiage, but also have the power to start wars and drive men to suicide. I’m addicted to their dynamism like a junkie to cocaine. I write. I read. I listen. I speak.

  If words were wine, I’d be an alcoholic.

  Makeup-removing wipes are antagonists. When I press them to my face, they steal what I have of self-esteem and transform me into a clean canvas—bare, vulnerable, and honest. For months I’ve told myself that if I dress like I’m beautiful, I’ll feel confident. So I cover up my figure with retro dresses and cosmetics, all in a desperate attempt to fix my ego.

  It doesn’t work.

  There’s a fat girl in the mirror who looks an awful lot like me. She’s thirteen-years-old with braces, pimples, and mousy hair—someone the boys called ugly, the girls told to sit alone. I touch the curves of my waist, the flatness of my abdomen. I’ve c
hanged. I’ve grown up. Why can’t I see myself in the glass? Where are the flat stomach and slender thighs?

  Jon told me there isn’t a single person in this world persuasive enough to convince me of my worth, not even him. He said the day I fully accept what I see in the mirror is the day I free myself from the past. He’s probably right, but how can I accept a lying reflection? I don’t like the girl I see.

  Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts appear in my television screen, lounging on a London park bench. She’s pregnant. He is reading. And they are in love. Oh, romance movies, you strike again.

  I change into pajamas and collapse onto my bed with a handful of dark chocolate and nail polish. The film fades to black and the credits roll, interrupted by a commercial I’ve seen a million times, one of those obnoxious advertisements for Charleston residents.

  “Meet the Jones Family,” the narrator says when a suburban, ranch-style home materializes on the screen. A father with gelled hair and a mustard sweater vest pushes a lawnmower across his pristine yard. The mother has her locks twisted into a bouffant and hovers over a flowerbed, sprinkling plants with her watering can. “They understand the value of stability and hard work.”

  A little girl and boy play hopscotch in the driveway. They giggle, wave at the camera. “Home is swell,” says the kids. “We do not wish to leave such a neat place.”

  “Dinner is ready.” Mrs. Jones pulls a meatloaf from an oven and sets it on the kitchen’s Formica table. Her smile dazzles white against a mint-green backdrop. Then, the camera zooms out to showcase the family. They all grin as if they’re high on Prozac.

  “Golly, darlin’. The food looks terrific.” Mr. Jones tucks a napkin into his shirt collar and pecks his wife on the cheek. “Why travel when we live in the happiest town on Earth? Home is our vacation.”