The Vestige

by Caroline George

  Dad appears seconds after I knock. He gazes at me, face flushed, and slides into the corridor, sealing the door shut behind him. “Darling, what are you doing here?”

  “You left your lunch at home.” I give him the brown paper bag. His hands shake like they did at Sybil’s funeral. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “Yeah … you should leave now, Julie.” He touches my arm—something is horribly wrong. His grip is persistent, protective as if someone is threatening to steal me away from him. He’s scared. Why? Who is in his office?

  “What’s happening?” I stand on my tiptoes to get a better view of the very opaque panel, as if it’ll somehow become translucent and reveal its secrets. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Everything is fine. Thanks for the sandwich.” He kisses my forehead and reenters his study, leaving the door cracked an accidental inch. Standing around his desk is a group of middle-aged men, all high-ranking military. They talk in hushed tones and pore over maps. The most commanding is a man in his early sixties with an array of ornaments pinned to his uniform.

  He’s a general.

  ****

  Working is difficult without Missy, but Jack eases the discomfort. To see him sitting at his table every afternoon, reading tattered books, waiting for me, somehow makes my grimness disappear. Wednesday night, we stay in The Grindery past closing time, listening to an old-fashioned mixtape, discussing books and the allegorical concept of zombies. He forces me to participate in an espresso-drinking contest that ends with me coughing, chugging a bottle of water, and him laughing hysterically.

  “What are small infinities?” he asks as I swish the crema from my tongue.

  “They’re, like, the things that make life amazing such as fireworks, photo booths at the mall … and sunshine, you know, when it filters through the treetops and it’s so bright and electric, you can almost feel it saturating your soul.”

  Jack stares at me, soaking up my words with his eyes and smile, as if my response painted a picture worth admiring. He shakes his head and lifts his arms in surrender.

  “What?”

  “You’re incredible for noticing those sorts of things. People like you are my small infinities, Julie.” He lowers his voice to a dramatized whisper. “Thank you for making my life amazing.”

  “Cheeseball.” I laugh.

  Jack meets me after school. We lie in the green space between Randolph Hall and Porter’s Lodge, staring up at the sky’s grand Etch-A-Sketch. His hand finds mine, and immediately, my heartbeat is everywhere. It beats in the tips of my fingers, the back of my neck, everywhere. I look at him. He looks at me. We gaze at each other for what seems like hours, neither of us speaking. Conversation is a waste of words. I know him without knowing him, and he knows me fully.

  Jon resumes his role of being my big brother. It’s almost as if we were never apart. He comes to the Market, fusses when I leave my makeup strewn across the bathroom counter, and drives me to the drugstore when I run out of girly products.

  It isn’t long until Jack joins our clique. We become the inseparable three—sailing, attending sport events at the Citadel, fishing off the pier. In the evenings, we gather in the living room of my house to play board games. Jon wins every round of Twister, Jack is unbeatable at Chess and Battleship, and I somehow manage to be the champion of Pretty Pretty Princess. To see Jack and Jon draped in beads and tiaras causes me to laugh so violently, I fall down.

  Mom makes us popcorn and lemonade, and we huddle in front of the television, sharing a knitted blanket, to watch an episode of a Sci-Fi drama. I’m sandwiched between the men—protected, accepted, safe. Sybil watches us from her place on the wall. She’s remembered and included. After years of feeling like a broken doll wrapped in duct tape…

  I’m whole again.

  Chapter Six

  “Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.”

  George Orwell, 1984

  Today is the aftertaste of perfection. I lick my lips, savoring the heart flutters and burst of infinite things. Yesterday. The best day. At the beach. Joy cut me loose like a wildfire, and I ran ablaze with my boys. Jack and I buried Jon and sculpted the sand to make him look like a mermaid with ginormous, seashell boobs. We swam to a sandbar, and the patrolling lifeguard blew his whistle at us. From noon to dusk, we worked to enhance our sunburns, soreness, and laughter-induced stomach cramps. And once we were exhausted to the core, we piled into the Land Rover. Jack fell asleep during the drive home. He resembled a corpse, jaw gaping, cheeks sunken into his skull. I managed to drop four peanuts into his mouth before he lurched awake and turned my cheeks hot with his eyes. Then, he wrapped his arm around me, and I drifted off to the thud of his heart. Perfection.

  I have known and seen them for real, cherished each millisecond so that when they leave me, I’ll have enough of them in my soul to last a lifetime. Close to quota. Not quite there yet.

  Clean portafilter. Grind nineteen-ounces of coffee. Weigh. Tamp. Flush. Pull. Steam.

  The coffeehouse is quieter than usual. Customers lounge in the main room. Jack’s at his usual table, drinking espresso and flipping through a copy of The War of the Worlds. He waves at me.

  I scribble onto a napkin and hold it up for him to see: Can’t chat today. Need to work.

  Jack smiles. He writes on a piece of notebook paper and lifts it into view: That’s okay. I can admire the view from here. Flirt. Goofball. My second-place best friend. How will I be able to return to life before him? Impossible. If a leg is chopped off, it doesn’t grow back. If someone has sex, they can’t get a virginity refund. Before Jack … I would never go back.

  Me: I don’t want you to leave.

  Jack: Me neither. I’m starting to like this place and the people in it.

  Me: You should stay.

  Jack: I can’t, which sucks because I don’t want to have to miss you.

  Me: Saying goodbye sucks.

  Jack: You can never love someone as much as you can miss them. He gestures for me to wait while he scribbles the rest of his message on two sheets of paper. And I’m going to miss you an awful lot. Let’s skip the goodbyes because I am determined to see you again.

  Me: Okay. See you soon then, Jack Buchanan.

  He holds up his last sheet of paper: Do you like me? Check yes or yes.

  I draw my answer onto a napkin: Yes.

  Like? Love? Something mad, honest, and real that gives the ability to throw seaweed and chase crabs with him, and nothing can embarrass or surprise me. What we have is better than any L-word.

  Do I have homework due tonight? Biology paper. I still need another resource—will the library be open after dinner? Ugh, these new baristas are so messy—Marguerite didn’t clean the steam wand. I really should call Missy after my shift. She was supposed to go shopping with her mom today—oh, I need to go buy a new dress for Dad’s military banquet.

  My cell phone vibrates with a text from Jon. He’s outside, standing on the other side of the road, dressed for our dinner date. The Grindery’s arching windows frame him like a pretty picture.

  “See you tomorrow, Jack,” I yell across the coffeehouse. Not professional, but Dax and Philip won’t care. “TV night. Don’t forget. Bring the sushi and orange soda.”

  “Burgers and coffee coming your way.”

  “I won’t let you inside.”

  “Of course you will,” he says and laughs, “because I’m fun to cuddle with.”

  “Nope. You’re banned.” I untie my apron and sling it onto the rack.

  “Love you,” he shouts as I walk out the door. Surely, he meant it as a joke.

  A crisp breeze lifts my skirt as I wait on the sidewalk across from Jon. I gather the floral fabric in my fists to avoid flashing the world a glimpse of my granny panties—that wouldn’t be a view I’d want Jack admiring. Pink puppies aren’t exactly trending in underwear patterns.

  “Am I going on a date with Marilyn Monroe tonight?” Jon gr
ins. He looks both ways and crosses the street, walking toward me with blithe strides. “No, that gorgeous girl is my…”

  It happens in a single, shattering moment—two seconds for my entire world to fall apart. I’m watching Jon cross the street. I hear a loud bump, splintering, crack. Now, I’m watching his body roll up the windshield of a car. I see him on the ground, in the middle of the road, eyes open and blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils. I hear screaming. It’s my screaming. I feel my legs lurch forward. I’m next to him, touching his face, feeling for a pulse, screaming. People gather around me. A voice shouts for help. It’s my voice. Someone pounds on my brother’s chest. They tell me he is dead. What? Who is dead? Not Jon. It can’t be Jon. No, they must be talking about someone else.

  Beep. Beep. Flatline. A static hum that resounds through my vacuum of distance where I’m a person in a movie theater witnessing an on-screen death, sad but without pain. Tears blur my vision—why am I crying? Agony slices through my chest as I hold my brother’s head—he must be playing a joke on me. The puddle of water beneath him soaks my skirt—why is the water red?

  Jon was hit by a car. He died in a flash, without awareness of the end. He wasn’t scared. His last thoughts were of me and one day, I might find comfort in that— No, no he can’t be gone. These people are overreacting. He’ll come back. He always comes back.

  “Get up … please … don’t you dare die.” I sob and cling to the fabric of his shirt. His skin is white. His eyes are empty. I shake him hard and hug him tight, screaming. My hands drip with blood, his blood. I press my palms against his chest and pulse. “One … two … three.” My voice slurs as I push my weight and every ounce of my soul into his sternum.

  The corpse has mangled limbs, a cracked skull, ribs broken and protruding from its torso like jagged spears. It doesn’t look like my brother. This must be a trick.

  Sirens blare in the distance. They’re going to take Jon away, like they took Sybil. Not again. It was too quick this time. I’m not ready.

  “Move.” Jack yanks me backward. He takes my place, pulsing until his knuckles are white, and then feels for a heartbeat. “Don’t do this, Jon…” He trails off and gazes at the sky with watery eyes. His face drains of color as the sirens grow louder. People crowd around us, and chaos swarms the crimson street and yet he sits in utter silence as if analyzing the situation, processing the hit-and-run, planning his next move.

  “Why’d you stop?” I yell. “Keep going.”

  “He’s dead, Julie.”

  “You just … have to keep trying. He’ll come back.” I beat on Jon’s chest, crying, and bury my face in his crease of his neck. His shirt smells of sunscreen and orange soda. Dust from a crushed sand dollar spills from his pocket. “Don’t leave me here alone, Jon. I need you.” He’s my world.

  Arms wrap around my waist and rip me from the body. I kick and claw until I ache with exhaustion. I fight as Jack drags me from the maelstrom and into the alley. Why is he doing this? The police needs to know what happened. We have to help catch Jon’s killer.

  “Stop, Julie.” He clamps a shaking hand over my mouth to muffle my wailing. His stare is stern, flooded with tears. “Get yourself together. Jon is dead. I can’t fix him. You can’t fix him. He’s gone.”

  Jon is dead.

  Intense sobs rattle me. I gasp, but the air is empty. Jack sinks with me to the ground and props my back against a trashcan. When he speaks again, he’s on the verge of breaking.

  “You’re not safe here.”

  Blood is on my hands, thick as oil. It sinks into my pores and stains me. Jon stains me. The world spins, and acid burns my throat. I vomit behind a pile of garbage, heaving until I expel my organs’ contents—there’s the orange juice I had this morning. “Get it off me. I can’t … get it off.” I tremble and show Jack my hands. Asphalt brands my knees with pebble marks when I scoot close to him.

  He removes his jacket and cleans the blood from my skin. “Jon was murdered and I’m sure whoever killed him is coming for you, too. I need to get you someplace safe.”

  Safe? I don’t care if a hundred trucks crush me. Someone has to explain Jon’s death to our parents, advocate for him now that he’s gone. Dead. The word tastes like poison in my mouth. Murder. Who would want to kill Lieutenant Jon Stryker?

  Jack squeezes my shoulders and stares into me with brute force. Tears slide down his cheeks, but his expression remains harsh. “You’re not safe anymore. Jon would want you to be safe. I don’t care if you kick and scream. I’m taking you away from here.”

  “Why does someone want to kill us? What’s going on, Jack?” Panic sends my heart racing to the moon and back. I have more to lose. If the Stryker family is a target, Mom and Dad are in danger, too. “My parents … they’re at home. We need to get to them before something bad happens. Please.”

  “There isn’t enough time. Keeping us alive is my number-one priority.”

  “They’re my parents. I don’t have anyone else,” I shout. “Leave if you want. I don’t freaking care what you do. I’m going home and you better not try to stop me.” My tear ducts run dry. I stand and stagger toward the street, dripping blood. Mommy and Daddy need me like I need Jon. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from loss, it’s that you lose what you don’t fight to keep.

  “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do. Jon was my best friend and he’d want you to be safe. Hate me all you want. At least you’ll be alive to do it.” Jack grabs and tosses my body over his shoulder. “I’m bigger and stronger than you, remember?”

  “Put me down!” I beat his back, cursing and screaming as he walks in the opposite direction. If I don’t find Mom and Dad soon, they’ll be dead and I will be alone. Worse fate than death.

  I bite Jack’s shoulder, clenching my teeth until he cries out in pain and loosens his grip on my legs. Then, I’m free, sprinting across Broad Street, through traffic and toward home.

  “Life is a constant battle, an unceasing war that sometimes keeps us alive and sometimes threatens to destroy us.” Jon’s voice echoes through my head as I race through downtown Charleston. “Don’t give up, no matter what happens.”

  ****

  East Bay Street is a stagnant wasteland, void of movement—not even the palmettos sway. It’s as if a bomb detonated and all that remains is the shrapnel of a life half-lived. Memories—Jon teaching me to ride a bike on the cobblestone road, Mom showing us the nest of baby robins in her gardenia bush—everywhere like ghosts. I sprint through them, past their smiling faces. Maybe I should stop and stare at them for a while, until they disappear into forgetfulness.

  I smother my sobs with a scream when our house comes into view. The windows are covered with plywood. Caution tape circles the perimeter, along with no trespassing signs. A large red ‘X’ has been spray-painted on the front door. Who did this? Where are my parents? Why is this happening?

  Knees buckle. Legs stumble forward. Fists bang against the door. I pry the wooden slats off the nearest window with iron from a flower box and use a discarded brick to shatter the glass. No one is here. They’re gone. Why am I climbing into the foyer? They’ve been taken. I’m too late.

  Tears pour from me as I search the building. Adrenaline and fatigue morph into a cocktail of drugs that gives a hazy high. Emptiness. Destruction. Shambles. The furniture is broken. Mom’s paint smears the floor. Dad’s office has been cleaned out. Papers, books, photographs—it’s all gone. We’ve been erased. No. Our lives were fine a few hours ago. Dad stayed home from work to grade papers. Mom made oatmeal for breakfast. I fussed at Jon for slurping his milk, and he joked about my relationship with Jack. We all sat at that table, by that window. There are dishes in the sink—proof. Whoever killed Jon and took Mom and Dad didn’t blot us completely. Here. We lived here.

  Jon is dead.

  Pain floods my chest cavity, an emptiness that seeps into my spirit and destroys it. I open my mouth to wail but all that emits is a silent puff. I collapse in the center of the li
ving room among tattered canvases and ripped pillows, and wrap myself in the blanket Jack, Jon, and I once shared during our TV binge sessions. Their arms are around me. Warm. Safe. But I’m alone. They aren’t real.

  The bad guys took Sybil from the wall. Why? She wasn’t a threat to anyone. Couldn’t they at least let me keep her? Alone—I’ve been given a worse fate than death.

  A prickling sensation spreads through my limbs. Why can’t I move? Maybe this is a bad dream. Maybe I’ll wake up. Sleep—that’s what’ll bring them back.

  When my eyes close, the pain fades into a manageable ache.

  Jon and I are on the sailboat, drifting toward a magenta sunset. He says everything will be okay, and I believe him because he never lies to me. His laugh rings fresh. His smile inspires hope in a brighter tomorrow. Home-sweet-home. Safe in the same. Happiest place in the USA…

  I’m woken by the slam of a door, followed by hands shaking me.

  “Dammit, Julie. You could’ve gotten us killed.” Jack yanks me up, quivering with rage. His shoulder is bleeding—my teeth must be sharp. “Are you crazy? The people who killed Jon are coming for you next. They could’ve been here…”

  “You did this,” I squeal. Body rolling up the windshield, blood on my hands—it all comes rushing back. Not a dream. “If we’d gotten here sooner, Mom and Dad…”

  “There’s nothing we could’ve done.” He cups my face in his hands, steadying me. “Listen. I will explain everything later, but right now, we must leave. Do you want to die?”

  No is the right answer, but I can’t say it. If everyone I love is dead, why should I live?

  “We have to go. There’s a van waiting outside that will take us someplace safe. If not for yourself, do it for Jon. Come with me.” Jack offers his hand as an invitation, and I take it because he’s the only person I have left in this crumbled paradise.