by Kristie Cook
There were really just a couple of incidents that indicated to the world I wasn’t quite right in the head. But they were enough. The first time occurred several years ago at a book signing in New York City. I sat by the bookstore’s window and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man with sandy-brown hair walk by the store. I ran outside and took off after him, leaving a line of fans awaiting my signature. When he turned the corner and I saw the unfamiliar profile, I collapsed to the sidewalk bawling.
The second time, Mom and I were eating lunch with my publishing team when someone made a remark about the absence of my son’s father and suggested I start dating. I flew off the handle. Finally, during a televised interview, my mouth open in mid-sentence, I caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows off-set. For a moment, I thought I’d seen Tristan, that he’d made his homecoming a surprise. Then I realized someone had set down a life-sized, cardboard cut-out of a young Brad Pitt. I remembered the conversation of the actor’s character in Legends of the Fall the night of my first-ever kiss and burst into hysterical laughter. I couldn’t stop chortling, though the tears streaming down my face were those of grief. Someone finally dragged me off the set.
The first incident happened before I became too famous and the luncheon was private, so they were easily covered up. But the last one took place on live television, aired nationally. The country woke up that morning to quite a show. That was two books ago. The publisher took me off the circuit and I didn’t have to make any public appearances for the most recent book. Fine by me. I hated them anyway. I preferred this private life.
We would have to move again soon. People would notice Mom wasn’t aging. But, then again, maybe we could just switch places. She looked like how I should at my age—twenty-seven, rather than her true one-hundred-twenty-three years. And I didn’t look exactly a hundred years older, but I did look old enough to be her mother. As I ran, I thought about mentioning this idea to her. It would at least make her chuckle. I owed her that.
Owen indicated a left turn at the intersection we approached and I followed his command. What the hell? I don’t really care where I go. I just want to run! Though the sudden urge made no sense, the actual activity seemed like a positive action. It was probably Swirly messing with my mind, but I really felt like running was a rightness among all my wrongness.
But then Owen had to blow it and almost make me regret the whole thing.
“Rough night last night?” he asked once we turned the corner.
“You heard?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
I sighed. “Not your fault I’m messed up in the head.”
“It’s just hard to see you like this. I remember when you…”
Damn it, Owen. I interrupted him. “Let’s not go there. Please?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We ran in silence again for about half a block. Then Owen had an idea.
“See if you can keep up with me.” He lengthened his stride and I kept pace with him. Then he increased his speed again. I could start to feel the push this time, but I could do it. He went even faster and got away from me.
“You’re pretty fast,” he said after jogging back to me. “You’re sure you didn’t run before today?”
“Don’t you think I’d know that?” Okay, maybe not. I do have a few screws loose. “Just look at me, Owen. Do I look like a runner?”
He chuckled and, obviously a smart man, avoided answering.
“If you want to go, go,” I said. “Don’t hang back here on my account.”
“I’m fine.”
We ran through and around a park about a half-mile from my house. Georgia pines, surrounded by brush, lined parts of the paths, giving the feeling we ran in the wilderness, and other parts took us past soccer and baseball fields. As we approached the playground, I decided I should probably turn back for home. I didn’t feel out of breath—even though I’d been smoking for who knew how long (I seriously didn’t know; I had a vague memory of someone handing me a cigarette when I felt especially stressed during a book signing)—and my muscles weren’t sore. But I knew I would pay for this asinine impulse later and I saw no need to make it worse by continuing. Owen was about to head on for a longer run when I suddenly stopped as if I’d run into a wall.
There he is! He stood across the playground, about sixty or seventy yards away, and I immediately knew he was the same person who stood in my backyard yesterday. I could feel his eyes on me again. He stood a little closer now, but I still couldn’t see his face. His brown hair hung way past the shoulders and it whipped around in the March breeze. The shade of the large oak he stood under also concealed his face. Something, maybe the long hair, told me he was young. Just a boy. But his body looked more developed than a boy’s. Much more. No, a man. Too young for me, but definitely a man. Just like the day before, he felt…familiar. I started toward him again.
“Alexis? You okay?” Owen asked, after I took only a few steps. I turned and looked at him.
“Huh?” I asked distractedly.
“Are you okay? You look…odd.”
I looked back at the stranger. He had disappeared again. Damn it!
“I’m, uh, fine. Go on. I’ll see you at home.” I started jogging again, which seemed to be enough for Owen. He took off in the other direction.
I wanted to search for the stranger. I had to know he was at least real. But I had no clue in which direction he’d gone. Or if he really was just a figment of my imagination. Or wishful thinking. I walked home, mentally and emotionally feeling like crap again.
Physically, however, I felt great. Owen ran up behind me just as I walked up to the beige-and-brick, ranch-style house. He said he’d run another three miles to add to the nearly two miles we did together. Two miles? Oh, this is going to hurt. I wanted to do it again, though, and went to the store to buy my own running wear. Of course, I would probably be over this idiotic impulse by tomorrow and would never run again, but right now, it made perfect sense that I needed my own running shoes. Which was how Swirly operated—making the most irrational thoughts seem logical.
“You’re sure you want running shoes?” the pock-faced kid at the sporting goods store asked, his nose slightly crinkling. “I mean, we have walking shoes. Or my mom really likes these cross-trainers.”
He pointed to a pair of plain white shoes that looked like they belonged on a grandma whose idea of exercise was walking around the Wal-Mart.
“Are they good for running?” I asked, my annoyance clear. “I run.”
He gave me a doubtful look, but led me over to the running shoes. I couldn’t blame him…except for the part of making me feel as old as his mother. Stupid kid. What does he know? He couldn’t have been more than five or six years younger than me.
“There you go,” he said a while later, handing me a bag full of shoes, socks, shorts and sports bras. “Good luck with your, uh, running.”
Maybe he was being polite. Maybe a genuine smile stretched across his face. I didn’t know. With my deranged frame of mind at the moment, the grin looked like a smug smirk to me and his tone dripped with sarcasm. The switch flipped again.
I leaned over the counter, my face only inches from his. “Who the fuck do you think you are, treating me like a worthless bag of shit? You don’t even know who I am!”
He stared at me, his eyes bugged and his mouth wide open. I stared back. Did I really just do that? A couple of customers who’d walked in the door just in time to hear me stopped and gawked. Yeah. I did. I opened my mouth again and then shut it. Thankfully, I wasn’t so far gone to make sure they knew exactly who I was as I went completely whacko on the kid. I grabbed my bag and stomped out of the store before I could make a bigger fool of myself.
I stood on the gas, taking my anger out on my car, which felt bulky and sluggish. I forced myself to back off the accelerator because I already soared way above the speed limit. I aimlessly roamed the surface streets, first on the main roads, and then through a park-like residential neighborhood,
but the urge to go faster overwhelmed me.
As I sat at the red light blocking my turn to the highway, my phone beeped with a text message from Mom. She worried about my uncharacteristic absence.
“Where are you? Where did you go?”
I laughed out loud, a high-pitched sound that was just a little frightening, as I typed into my phone, “Crazy. Where else?”
I tossed the phone on the passenger seat, ignoring Mom’s replies. Once on the highway, I moved over to the far-left lane and floored the pedal. Speed. The faster, the better. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I needed. The speedometer held at ninety. It felt like a crawl. The loss of control at such high speeds usually scared the hell out of me, but I couldn’t go fast enough now. My Volvo sedan was designed and built for safety, not speed, which is why I had bought it. It was practical. Now I hated it. The car couldn’t give me the release I needed, so I headed home.
By then, a level of rationality had returned and I appreciated Rina for insisting I use a pen name. Although the Amadis council originally wanted me to publish under Alexis Ames, they finally decided to use the pseudonym A.K. Emerson. I didn’t know why that particular name and, honestly, didn’t care much. No one but a small handful of people knew my real name, protecting my privacy, especially against incidents like today’s. The clerk might recognize the name A.K. Emerson or Kat Emerson, which I’d used back when I’d made public appearances, but he wouldn’t be able to match it to the name on the credit card. Otherwise, I’d be in deep trouble with my publicist and I really didn’t have the mind to deal with her at the moment.
Chapter 3
Dorian, home from school by the time I pulled into the driveway, distracted me from my anxiety. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with him, Mom and Owen. We went to the park for a while and we all played with him on the equipment, like kids again. My eyes regularly scanned the area for the young stranger I’d seen earlier. I thought I saw him once, but he was gone too fast to know for sure.
“Tell me a story,” Dorian said later as he jumped onto his bed while I closed his window blinds.
“Hmm…about what?” I teased, already knowing.
“Dad, of course! How ’bout the boat trip?”
“Ah. Your favorite.” I sat on his bed, took a deep breath to settle my insides, and started the story with his dad’s thrill of fighting sharks.
At one time, telling these stories had been the hardest job of being Dorian’s mom, but it had become a little easier after a few years. They still tore at the pieces of my heart, but not as much as stirring up memories when I was alone. The stories provided a way to remember Tristan and the precious time we had together without completely breaking down. Perhaps this was my answer—hanging onto him by sharing memories with Dorian, while letting go in other ways.
Letting go…my breath hitched at the thought.
“I’m going to fight sharks one day, too,” Dorian promised me, not noticing the choking sound in my throat. I swallowed the lump as he wrestled his stuffed shark and put it into a headlock.
“Yes, I believe you will,” I said. “Now, do you want me to continue?”
“Yep!” He tossed the stuffed shark to the side and I told him about the leather-faced man who tried to rob us during our honeymoon in the Keys. Knowing the story by heart, Dorian moved his hands as if he fought the guy and shoved him off the boat.
“Okay, it’s time to settle down and say good night,” I said after finishing the story.
I picked up the framed picture on Dorian’s nightstand. It was the only picture I had—the one Owen had taken with his cell phone at our wedding. Camera-phones were cutting-edge then, but the technology seemed old by today’s standards, and the enlarged picture was grainy and unclear. But Mom’s cottage and the bookstore had been torched shortly after we left that fateful August and all we had were the few belongings we’d taken with us. The picture was mounted in an expensive silver frame. I had one just like it, lying in my nightstand drawer—if I left it out, on top of the nightstand, I could stay up all night staring at it and not get any sleep. I trailed my fingers over our beaming faces and then kissed the glass over Tristan’s. Dorian kissed it, too, then embraced the frame in a hug.
“Good night, Dad,” he said softly. “I love you.”
I inhaled a jagged breath, my lungs feeling heavy and thick, as if liquid grief filled them.
“He loves you, too, little man,” I whispered. “And so do I. Very much.”
I held him until he fell asleep. I knew I should let him fall asleep on his own at his age, but holding him like this was the closest thing I had to holding his father. I would probably keep doing this as long as he let me.
Exhausted from playing all afternoon, he fell asleep quickly. As I headed for the door, two small lights in the window caught my eye. At first, I thought I saw a reflection. No, they’re outside. Two little fires. The dream from the other night flashed in my mind—the vampire and his red eyes. A chill ran up my spine. Then my pendant suddenly heated against my skin. I picked it up between my thumb and forefinger and glanced at it, then back up. The lights were gone.
I stared at the window. I had closed the blinds earlier. I thought…. Had I done both windows? Surely, I had. So how was one open now? I rushed to the window, my heartbeat spiking. I peered outside. Nothing there, but Owen’s truck in the driveway. Not a creature stirred. No tree branches even waved in the air.
I let out the breath I’d been holding, checked the window’s lock and closed the blinds. I watched them for what felt like several minutes. They didn’t move, of course. You’re imagining things, is all. Of course, that was all. No big deal to be seeing things. That wasn’t weird at all. Not irrational or anything.
I shook my head to clear it. The lights were probably just a bizarre reflection of headlights ricocheting off Owen’s truck and other surfaces. The blinds…I probably just forgot to close them. I held onto those sane explanations, feeling Swirly trying to creep in.
“You shouldn’t tell him those things,” Mom said as I stepped into the hallway, making me jump.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The stories about fighting. It only encourages him.”
“Oh,” I breathed as I shut Dorian’s door. “Well, he needs to know about his dad. It’s not like I have tons of stories to tell.”
I turned for my room, but Mom stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Owen and I need to talk to you. Can you come sit with us for a minute?”
I could hear a slight strain in her voice and I didn’t think it had anything to do with Dorian’s fighting. Something else bothered her. Probably my recent behavior.
I sighed. “Mom, I know I’ve been acting crazy. Crazier than usual, I mean. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I am really trying….”
She took my hand and tugged me down the hall toward the family room. “I know, honey, which is why we need to talk. It’s more important than you realize.”
Owen stood at the bank of windows in the family room, staring out at the darkness of the backyard. He seemed to be deep in thought—and not good thoughts. The corners of his mouth turned down and his brows pushed together, creating three vertical lines over his nose. When he looked at me, the frown disappeared, but the smile replacing it looked more like a grimace.
Mom led me to one end of the sectional sofa and pulled me down to sit next to her. Owen sat on the ottoman in front of us as Mom took my hands into hers and studied my face. Her own expression looked concerned as she seemed to struggle with what she had to say. This was so unlike her.
“Just say it, whatever it is,” I finally said.
She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Honey, the council is growing concerned.”
I nodded.
“Because I’m acting like a lunatic.” It wasn’t a question. I was well aware of my demented behavior and now, apparently, so was the Amadis council. “Did that kid at the store figure it out and go to the media?”
>
“What are you talking about? I haven’t heard anything.” Mom narrowed her eyes. “Did you do something?”
“Um…no. Not really. I was just a little rude….” I didn’t feel like giving a full account. I was embarrassed by my actions, but right now I felt too much on the defensive. Something about their attitudes and their expressions bothered me. “Then did you and Owen tell the council about my insanity being worse than usual?”
Mom shook her head. “No, honey. We haven’t said anything. Not even to Rina. We know you’re going through something right now, but like I said the other night, I can feel the truth that things will get better. Sometimes they have to get worse before they get better, though.”
I studied her face and knew then the expression she held. Owen had the same look. It wasn’t the usual concern or empathy. They pitied me! The poor woman who couldn’t get on with her life. What did I expect? I’d been wallowing in self-pity for years. I tore my eyes from hers and stared at the black windows.
“What is it then?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “What has them so concerned?”
Neither of them answered at first. I finally looked back at them. Owen leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs.
“They’ve been asking about you,” he said. “How you’re doing…if there have been any improvements. They’re actually kind of…freaking out, really.”
“Why? What did you tell them?” Anger and a hint of hysteria edged my tone. I didn’t know much about the council—nothing, really—but knew they had no problem making decisions for us. Only Rina had the power to overrule them. Only the matriarch wasn’t controlled by them.