by R. L. Naquin
As I retreated, I could feel him still watching me, his attention focused between my shoulder blades and searing me there like a branding iron.
* * *
The low light and near emptiness of the gourmet shop were a welcome reprieve after the crowded, noisy street. I took my time picking out an organic wedge of cheese and a bottle of local-label Pinot Grigio. Ahead of me at the register, a woman was buying an exorbitant number of portobello mushrooms and two containers of soy milk. When the woman proceeded to pay the cashier from a large, clunking bag of quarters, I concentrated everything I had on not tapping my foot with impatience. My headache held in place, neither increasing nor abating. Traffic in the store began to pick up and the door swung open and closed several times. I lowered my sunglasses from the top of my head to my eyes and turned away from the door. Even the weak light of the overcast day was a bit piercing in the store’s gloom.
Having gathered her bag of change and what had to be the makings of a very expensive vegan mushroom soup, the customer in front of me left. I placed my items on the counter.
“Paper or plastic?” The tattooed woman behind the register frowned at me. Both were the wrong answer, and I knew it. I was being judged inferior before I’d answered. I could feel the disapproval brushing against me like a cat rubbing against my legs—soft, but with the intent of tripping me the moment I moved.
I had no idea why it mattered, but it did. I was twitchy and shifted from foot to foot. I was cornered. I never got this question right.
Inspiration hit. “Just drop them in my bag.” I held out my purse. In my head I punched the sky in triumph. Not going to get me this time.
The clerk’s face relaxed in approval. “Did you find everything you need?”
I nodded.
“This is a good label,” she said. “Myron and I toured the vineyard once.”
I nodded again and glanced out the window, not bothered by who Myron was. Thick clouds rolled in, giving the sky a smudged appearance. The drive home would be cool with the windows down.
“…and left me alone with two kids and not a single bottle of wine from the trip.”
I was startled back to the conversation by a tightness in my chest. The clerk was near tears, chattering at me.
Anger.
Sadness.
Grief.
Loneliness.
They lined up like tin soldiers and pelted me with tiny shots of toy ammo.
I gave the woman a tentative, encouraging smile and touched her wrist. The contact sent ripples up my arm and into my stomach. I glanced at her name tag. “Selma, you-alone are so much more than you-with-him. You’re going to be better than fine.” I squeezed her hand. “Trust yourself.”
Her eyes were a little misty as she considered my words. She straightened her shoulders and her chin lifted. “I am better, aren’t I? Yeah. I am. Thanks.”
The tightness in my chest let go as Selma’s emotions receded. Her anger and sadness floated out like cottonwood seeds, and determination and self confidence blew in to settle over me. Time was the only thing that could truly heal her, but for now, she was stronger and less likely to lose it at the sight of a random wine bottle.
I smiled, paid for my purchases and walked out of the store.
This was not a new or bizarre occurrence for me, though it didn’t often turn so quickly. My mind had only wandered for a second and the woman had gone into a full meltdown. People often acted that way around me, and I had no idea why. I was a magnet for the over-emotional. Something about me triggered them into spilling their guts and handing over all their problems like a set of car keys. Often, like this time, I opened my mouth and words came out. I had no intention of speaking, yet whatever I said seemed to be what the person needed.
Maurice’s words about my mother echoed in my head. She was helping. That’s what she did—she helped. Just like you. Is that what I was doing? Helping? I didn’t mind helping, but a sick day now and then would be nice.
I had so few memories of my mother, but now I doubted what little I did know. I wondered if helping somehow got her killed. Or maybe she wasn’t dead after all, but was out there somewhere, still helping. I shook my head to clear it of thoughts I didn’t want to think. The motion rewarded me with a fresh stab of pain.
Whenever I had a migraine (which was way too often), I imagined a tiny man living inside my head, causing all the trouble. At this point, he was sprawled out with his arms pressed against the back of my skull and his feet firmly planted against my eyeballs. The pressure was building. I needed to get home before he called a few friends over for an impromptu exercise session requiring mats, yoga balls and those giant rubber bands that smell like a mixture of old tire and baby powder. The inside of my head wouldn’t tolerate that much activity any more than my body would.
Despite my pained, weakened state, I couldn’t miss the paramedic across the street. He stood with one foot propped up against the wall behind him, leaning his back against the bricks and drinking coffee from a paper takeout cup. His sandy hair was scruffy, and his gray eyes smiled at me over his drink.
He winked.
My cheeks burned hot. I gave a nervous smile, and he returned it with a crooked half smile of his own. He stood up straight, and my stomach churned. Was he coming across to talk to me? What was I doing flirting across the street with some strange guy as if I were sixteen?
His eyes, so friendly a moment before, lost interest and flicked to the street corner. I dragged my attention away from his face to see what he was looking at.
Nothing. Traffic moved through the intersection in its normal pattern. Pedestrians crossed with the light on one street, waited for the signal on the other. Apparently, I wasn’t interesting enough to keep his attention.
I pulled my purse higher on my shoulder and prepared for the trek to the car, now five blocks away. And then I saw it.
Time somehow became both frozen and supersonic. It was over in seconds with no room to react, yet it all happened at a sluggish crawl in which every detail was clear and sharp.
On the corner facing me walked an average man wearing an average blue suit. His appearance was neat and trim, with the exception of his unzipped fly. With each step, his pants gaped open, giving the world a peek at his tighty-whities. Funny. I didn’t think anybody wore those anymore. I would have had him pegged as more of a boxer-briefs kind of guy. Good thing he wasn’t going commando, or he’d be flashing his sausage at all of Sausalito.
He appeared frazzled and consumed with the argument he was having on his cell. Without checking for traffic, he stepped off the curb.
Coming up the street past me was a Marin Transit bus. It was double length, attached in the center by a bendy, accordion-like connector. Its cheerful green stripe raced across the intersection en route to the next stop.
Man and bus didn’t see each other. I wanted to warn them both, but the slow motion of the scene had caught me, and I couldn’t move.
Brakes screeched in high-pitched agony a hair before the thunking crunch of a body being sent airborne. The man was tossed like a softball across the lane and into oncoming traffic. His limp form collided with the windshield of a silver Audi and flew back to the foot of the bus. Glass shattered, people screamed, cars braked and rear-ended the cars in front of them.
Fast and slow met in the middle, and time resumed its normal pace.
I blinked, and the paramedic was there, crouched over the body. Chaos hummed up and down the street as people climbed out of their cars and stepped out of shops, repeating the same questions in an ancient ritual of human emergency.
What happened? Did you see that? Are you all right?
The questions and panic washed past me as I watched the gorgeous emergency worker. He moved the back of his hand across the victim’s mouth. I had little first-aid knowledge, but I thought this
was an odd way to check for a pulse—though judging by the angle of the man’s head, no way was there life to be found. The paramedic pressed his ring against the bloody lips of the dead man and gave a slight pull. From across the street I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I could see something connecting the body to the ring. And then I couldn’t see anything at all as dead guy and hot rescue worker were swallowed up in the crowd.
Pain. Fear. Panic.
Emotions slammed into me from all sides.
Horror. Disgust. Grief.
My headache exploded, and the faces around me swam in a blurry haze.
Irritation. Guilt.
I turned to flee into the shop and walked into the arms of the strange man in the cheap velvet smoking jacket.
Hunger.
I had enough time to hope for a soft landing before I fainted.
Chapter Three
If a woman faints in the movies, she is often out for hours, usually waking on a comfy settee where someone is tending to her with a cold cloth and a glass of water or brandy. This is not how it played out for me.
When I opened my eyes, less than a minute had passed, and I was still marginally upright. Dark velvet that smelled like too much man-perfume encased me. I struggled to be released and stand on my own.
“Ah, here she is,” my captor/rescuer said. His voice was deep and rich like chocolate mousse. He loosened his hold on me, retaining a concerned grip on my elbow. “Are you all right to stand or shall I carry you?” A liberal dose of amusement mixed with his concern.
My head pounded and I was having difficulty stringing his words together into meaningful sentences. “I’m good. Fine,” I said, hoping that was the appropriate response.
He lifted my chin with one finger and looked into my eyes, searching. “You don’t look well yet. Why don’t we get a cup of tea in you to strengthen you up?”
His eyes were the green of freshly mown grass. His gaze shot into me, stroking me in places that shouldn’t be touched out on a sidewalk on a busy street. Flecks of gold danced across the irises, and I licked my lips. So hungry. Yes. Tea would be nice. If he wanted me to drink antifreeze, that would be fine too. I nodded my head once and took a step toward him.
“Excellent.” He slid his arm around my waist. “I’ll take good care of you. I’m Sebastian. May I have your name?”
My brain, caught in a sludge of erotic decadence, was slow to answer. I opened my mouth and the words felt like cotton.
“My name. Oh. I’m—”
“Natalie!” said a voice behind me. “Honey, I’ve been so worried. You look awful.”
A man I was fairly certain I’d never seen before appeared beside me, pulled me free from the smoking-jacket man—Sebastian, he said his name was Sebastian—and led me away.
“Thank you for taking care of my sister. She gets sick sometimes. You’re very kind. I’ve got it from here.”
Sebastian had no time to protest before this new stranger whipped me into an herb shop next door to the gourmet store. He locked the door behind us and flipped the hanging sign to say Closed.
“Okay, honey,” he said. “Let’s get you fixed up. That was a little creepy.”
This latest addition to my sudden male bombardment had shoulder-length hair close to the color of carrots. His eyebrows were so fair they nearly disappeared into his freckle-spattered face. His blue eyes were kind, though nervous, darting to the windows as if he expected Sebastian to break in. He was kind of short, maybe five-eight, but with a stocky, bulldog build to him. If anybody broke in, my money was on the bulldog.
As this stranger led me to a back room, I tried to protest. Even in my fog-drenched brain I knew enough to equate a back room with danger. My knees buckled, and he tightened his grip on my arm. Apparently protesting anything was beyond me at the moment.
“Whoa, you’re okay. Just a few more steps.”
My head was now one continuous throb.
“I’ve never fainted in my life,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m so embarrassed.”
I was marginally relieved when our progress halted at the back of the store and not in some dark, bead-curtained room beyond. I was deposited on a caramel sofa with dark brown pillows. He was gentle but insistent in forcing me to lay back with a cushion propped under my feet.
“I’ve seen you around town,” he said. “Mind you, the way you dress, everybody’s seen you around town. You look good today, though I’d rethink the big flower on your belt. Sometimes you go overboard, which, really, is half the fun in watching for you. Except for that car wreck of a purse you take everywhere.” He winced. “Sorry, ‘car wreck’ probably isn’t the best way to describe anything right now. But we really do need to find you a purse that doesn’t say ‘homeless person,’ don’t you think?”
I clutched my bag to my chest. “What’s wrong with my purse? Everything fits in it.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “It’s a tragedy, sweetheart. A damn tragedy.”
I closed my eyes and watched the bright colors of my headache dance like a moving Picasso against the backdrop of my eyelids. I heard the banging of lids on jars and quiet shuffling of feet on tile. It was soothing, and for the first time all day I began to relax.
Green, piercing eyes flashed at me through the swirling colors. My skin flushed in a heady mix of fear and desire.
My lids sprang open, erasing the image, which left a residual burning sensation behind. What had I been thinking? The guy gave me a case of the screaming willies, and I’d been about to walk off down the street with him. Willingly. Like a bitch in heat. I shivered.
Something small tugged on the fabric at my hip. Tiny, dull claws gripped me for leverage, yanked twice as if gearing up for a leap, then plopped across my stomach in a heap. I peered down at my belly and two small black eyes peered back. A cat? A dog? Whatever it was, it had the most enormous ears I’d ever seen, each one the size of the animal’s head. It was a tawny gold with a fluffy, black-tipped tail, and the intensity with which it stared into my eyes was both endearing and unnerving. The head twitched in a micro-sneeze, then it buried its nose in my neck and flopped flat on my chest. Tiny wheezes tickled my neck as it dozed.
“He doesn’t usually do that with strangers.” The shop owner carried two steaming mugs of tea over and placed them on the coffee table next to me. “I’m Andrew and I’ll be your server. Today we have a delightful blend—an intoxicating mix of homebrewed goodness guaranteed to cure what ails you. At least until we get you sorted out so the migraines stop happening.” He helped me dislodge the animal on my chest—was it a deformed Chihuahua?—nudged me upright and placed the mug in my hands.
“Zoey.” I blew into the hot liquid to cool it off. “Thank you, Andrew. Really. Thank you.”
The odd animal made a squeaking protest at having been moved and leaped back to my lap. He turned twice, wrapping himself in his tail, and went back to snoring.
Andrew looked amused. “That’s Milo. Apparently, you now belong to him.”
“I feel stupid for asking, but what…?”
“Fennec fox. Exotic, but tame. Though not usually this tame with people he doesn’t know.”
I ran my fingers over the stiff fur. A fox. Of course. Big ears, bushy tail. Now I really felt stupid.
I took a sip of tea. The flavors lined up and came through in groups. It was spicy, like Christmas cookies, then flowery like perfume. A nutty flavor threaded its way through, and the whole thing ended on an aftertaste that made me think of gym socks left over the summer in a high school locker. I pinched my nostrils shut with fingers.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can’t do anything to disguise the aftertaste. You’ll get used to it.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes while I sipped. There was no pressure to talk, and it felt right to hang out quietly. Before long
, I noticed my shaking had stopped and my headache was receding. My eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Better?”
Years of doctors and useless prescriptions, and the answer had been tea. “What’s in this?”
He shrugged. “Stuff. Stuff for pain, stuff for nerves, stuff for nausea. I assumed your stomach’s not doing so hot either.”
I nodded, noticing that the tidal motions in my gut were also subsiding.
“I have a knack for knowing what to throw in. I should really write it down in case you run out. You’re taking some with you, whether you think you need it or not.”
While we drank, my eyes roamed the strange little shop. Bottles, jars, boxes and bins lined the walls and counters. Overstuffed bookcases stood side by side, their shelves weighted and bowed with teetering piles of books. Stacks of empty vials, containers, funnels and eyedroppers shared space with brass bowls and marble mortar and pestle sets. Unfamiliar smells mixed in a heady but not unpleasant incense that permeated everything.
“I suppose that happens all the time to people like you,” Andrew said, motioning to the fluffball in my lap.
“People…like me?”
“Empaths. You know.”
“Empaths.” Repeating what people said to me was the order of the day, apparently. I really needed to get some of my own material.
He slouched in his chair and became still, staring at me for a few moments. He sat that way long enough for me to become self-conscious. “When you meet people, do you feel what they’re feeling? Anger, sadness, that sort of thing?”
“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?”
Andrew threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, honey, no wonder you’re so mucked up. No, people do not normally feel what everyone else is feeling. You’re an empath. It’s part of you. And it’s a rare gift, not a fact of life. The rest of us only feel our own feelings.”
I was certain this nice man was off his rocker. I gave him a blank stare that said everything and nothing. “But how can people communicate? If they don’t know what the person next to them is feeling, how do they know what to say? It would be like trying to drive at night with your headlights off.”