02 Awaken-The Soulkeepers

by Adams, Lori

  I smile and clutch the phone to my chest. As much as I would love to runs around my head, making me warm inside. I look back out the window before Bailey gets suspicious and grabs my phone. I love when Michael says things like that, and I know I can’t really be mad at him for leaving me. What worries me more about last night is his refusal to stop kissing me in time. He ignored the warning signs; he ignored me pushing him away. I’ve never seen him like that, so insistent, so demanding. So full of need that he put my life at risk.

  I know he must feel bad about it. But why won’t he apologize? He hasn’t even acknowledged it.

  I tap the screen and type: I have seen “As much as I would like to” firsthand. It put me in a dead faint, and I think it’s high time you explain yourself young man.

  The bus hits a lump of ice, and we’re jostled up and down. Bailey drops her phone and yells, “Son de la bitch!” She and the phone recover without further damage but Duffy shoots her a glaring look.

  “See that?” she whispers aggressively, and I nod. Duffy is giving both of us the stink eye. It seems to be catching because Jordan the Leerer, Pacer, Casey, and J.D are now staring. I can’t shake the feeling that they know something we don’t.

  My phone vibrates again: This hardly seems the time or place to discuss our lack of restraint, now does it? I’m sure we can find appropriate accommodations later, somewhere dark and quiet perhaps, to go over the issue in greater detail.

  Our lack of restraint? Our lack?

  Why, that little Casanova. He’s flirting about something that he insisted was dangerous. How can he be so blasé? So … unconcerned? I can’t wait to hear his excuse.

  Everybody starts talking about this week’s basketball game, and then Casey cranks up his iPod, and Duffy starts singing “Who Spiked the Eggnog” by Straight No Chaser. It sounds like a throwback from the forties, but Duffy whips it into a rap and the guys stand up, singing and clapping like rappers on a street corner. All the girls are laughing because they look like idiots.

  By the time we pull into the New Haven hospital parking lot, Duffy has changed his mind, seemingly irritated by the Christmas cheer he’s created. He sings homegrown lyrics in the key of Suck the Magic Dragon, and everybody groans. Bailey rolls her eyes and says, “Hoorah for the Hip Hop intelligentsia,” and we all file out and head into the building.

  We are introduced to the director, a severe-looking lady in a white lab coat who leads us down to the dark underbelly of the hospital and into the bowels of the morgue. It’s a cold, sterile place, but I can feel Michael walking some distance behind me as we trail through a labyrinth of long sanitary corridors. I’m glad he’s here, if only for some vague comfort. I don’t like this place. It reeks of disinfected death.

  Below us are gleaming white tiles and above are bright florescent lights that make our eyes squint involuntarily. I am a mouse inside the maze box. It’s claustrophobic, and I whisper to Bailey, “Exactly, why did we agree to this?”

  “Don’t you need to pad your college résumé?”

  “Like a preteen’s bra.”

  “That’s exactly why. Plus, I need to meet some seriously hot doctors.”

  We stop outside the autopsy room where the director tells us that we are looking at a state-of-the-art facility. “With negative pressure ventilation,” she says, and we all nod knowingly as though we’re impressed. Because we aren’t medical students, we can’t enter the actual autopsy room; we file into the observation room and peer through a wide window that takes up most of the wall. The director stands in the adjoining autopsy room and communicates through a speaker. She introduces Dr. Marks, who is youngish, good-looking, and wearing a blue surgical gown, blue gloves, and matching footies. I can hear Bailey purring so I elbow her and she stops. She grins with a look that says, He’s yummy, and I laugh. Then I feel a sharp tug in my chest that yanks me backward. I flail and J.D. catches me before I fall.

  “Sorry. Floor’s slippery,” I mumble, humiliated. I glare at Michael but he cocks an eyebrow that tells me he’d prefer that I not fawn over strange men wearing thin blue dresses.

  I wasn’t. Bailey was. Doesn’t he know by now that he’s the only one for me?

  I want to tell Michael to keep his emotional sensors to himself, but of course I can’t. Plus, Raph is looking at me so I’m forced to play it off with my Oh, silly, clumsy me laugh. I’m really starting to hate that laugh.

  Dr. Marks says he’s ready to begin so we huddle against the glass wall. I put on my studious face, determined to focus and get the best out of this.

  The autopsy room is lined with shelves and countertops laden with strange saws and trays. There are carts serving an array of torturous metal devices, not unlike those at my dentist’s office. The room is dominated by a long stainless steel table on which lays a body draped with a cloth. I’m suddenly thankful for the wall of glass separating us, and I mumble to Bailey, “At least we can’t smell all the putrid stuff, right?”

  “Don’t tell me you have a weak stomach,” she says, and I shrug.

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  We pull out notebooks and pens in eager anticipation, like the sadistic little voyeurs that we are. This feels wrong and I realize how much I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here, and I wonder why no one else seems bothered.

  Raph slides in next to me and I look up at him. A moment is all he needs to sense my emotions, and so he offers a sincere smile. “Stop worrying, okay? Try to think of it in medical terms. An evaluation of disease. The extent of that disease into tissue and organs and so forth. Now, take a deep breath. Good. You’ll be fine.” He flips shiny blond hair from his eyes and smiles again, and I feel marginally better. I forgot Raph is gifted in the human anatomy area. He told me as much the day we met. Of course, I didn’t know then that he knew humans on a molecular level, not to mention being on friendly terms with the human spirit.

  The white sheet draping the body is removed by one of two assistants and there it is, the body. We are not told his name but Dr. Marks says he is a white male in his mid-sixties. I wouldn’t have guessed his age because any laugh lines have lost their humor. But he does, or did, have a full head of dark hair, a thin mustache, and a goatee. He’s as naked as the day he was born. This guy is so dead he doesn’t look real. Most of us recoil involuntarily but Bailey is craning her neck to see everything. Nothing seems to faze her.

  Dr. Marks begins his observation, and I clutch my pen, staring at the corpse. I pretend I’m on the set of “Grey’s Anatomy” and this is simply routine.

  The body is a bit paunchy around the middle, with a dull grayish pall. His head is resting on a block while his profile shows an aristocratic nose and strong chin. His skin seems waxy and dry at the same time. His lips are a thin gray line. Lips that once laughed and smiled are stilled forever. This is a man no longer, but an empty shell left on the beach. I can’t help wondering … Did he take with him the words he spoke, the love he gave, the cruelness he inflicted? Where is the heart of the shell?

  Looking at him makes me feel small and humble, as though I’m standing before the ocean. I realize that no matter what our age, we’re all just children with nothing but potential. No matter what we think we’ve accomplished or come to know, we’re naive and altogether basic. Not inconsequential but wholly unprivileged to the scheme of things. We are a grain of sand with the entire universe inside each one of us. We are the excess of our emotions. But aren’t we more than the nerves in our skin, more than the fluid in our spine, more than the blood in our hearts? The value must lie in our souls, not in our muscles.

  I remember the vision of Mom at the Borderlands, that in-between pathway between Heaven and Hell. It was there that she showed me the lost souls wandering aimlessly. They were sad and scared, afraid they would be swept up by dark forces and dragged to Hell. But still they wandered, searching for their answers and refusing to be escorted into the folds of Light. Of safety. They cried for answers, and I felt their pain.

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nbsp; I’m so lost in thought that I’ve missed the first incision. Dr. Marks has lain open the chest and is examining things on the inside.

  “Lung sections demonstrate excessive pulmonary vascular congestion with inflammatory cells …” The two assistants slide their gloved fingers into the area, and Dr. Marks fiddles inside and removes the heart, lifting it up for all to see. My gut spasms. A lovely wave of nausea rocks my stomach, and my muscles cramp. I lean my forehead against the cool glass pane and close my eyes. It feels too confined and hot in here. I can’t breathe.

  I feel Michael’s gentle tug on my heart, and I almost turn and say I’ll be fine, but I catch myself. I’m not thinking clearly.

  Two hands grip my shoulders and I feel relief; Michael has come to help. I force myself to look up but it’s J.D., not Michael.

  “You okay?” he asks with genuine concern. Bailey looks over and now she’s worried, too.

  “Yeah. I just need some air.” I head for the door and glance back at Michael and Raph. They step forward but I shake my head, telling them I’ll be fine.

  I move into the corridor and inhale deeply. It smells like antiseptic so it doesn’t really help. I hate being the first to wimp out but I figure if I can get some water, I’ll be fine to return.

  Around the corner is a vending machine, and I insert a couple of bucks. Finally, I’m chugging down water and giving myself the internal pep talk. I can do this. There’s hardly any blood. And since when did I get so squeamish?

  I feel a little better, and then I turn around and spew water. I embark on a coughing fit and nearly drop the bottle. Not ten feet away is a man in a funky burgundy coat—one of those smoking-jacket things—and black silk pants. He has thick black hair, a thin mustache, and a goatee. He’s a bit paunchy around the middle. I recognize him instantly, and my hands begin to shake.

  “Fancy a chat?” he asks pleasantly enough, but I just stare impolitely. Then he gets irritated and snaps at me. “Well? Who are you? How does this work?”

  “I’m uh … uh … but you’re …” I point in the direction of the autopsy room.

  “I should think so,” he says. Aside from the British accent, he sounds annoyed and rather condescending. He steps closer and I wheel backward, slipping on the water I’ve spilled and going down hard. He continues, so I do the backward crab walk to get away. He stops. I stop. He starts forward again and I start backward again. “Oh, for the love of God! Get up!”

  I scramble away and race into the women’s restroom and bolt the door. Shit! What the hell! Okay, this was stupid! I should’ve run to Michael! Now I’ve locked myself in.

  “Ahem.” The man clears his throat and I whirl around. There he is, standing by the sinks. I gasp and fumble with the lock. “Really?” he says and I stop. “I mean, really? Are we going to do this … really?”

  I consider, and then force myself to calm down. After all, I’ve dealt with angry demons and a temperamental guardian angel boyfriend. Surely, I can handle an insolent apparition.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket but I ignore it. My mind searches for something to say but the man speaks first.

  “Well, who are you?” He is very impatient.

  “I’m, uh, uh—”

  “Yes, we’ve already established that you are uh, uh. Let’s move on, then, shall we? Tell me how this works?” He flips his wrist at me and peruses my clothes like I’m a reject from Project Runway.

  “How does what work?”

  “Well, my goodness, love, don’t tell me I’ve got to explain this to you.” He puts his hands on his hips and gives me a haughty attitude.

  This guy is really starting to piss me off.

  I step forward, and we circle each other, both curious and slightly concerned.

  “You’re dead, right?”

  “Don’t be cheeky. Of course I’m dead. You think I’d consort in the women’s toilet if I weren’t?” He snarls like he smells something bad. “Now tell me how this works. You can help me cross over, yes?”

  My heart jumps a beat, and I stop and stare at him. He thinks I can help him! I’m excited beyond words but also confused. This shouldn’t be happening yet, right? I’m not ready.

  “Well, I—wait—why do you think I can help you?” Maybe he knows something I don’t. Maybe this is how it all begins.

  “Because you can bloody well see me!” he yells.

  “Oh.” Damnit. That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. “But when you died, didn’t you see anyone, you know, hanging around that could—”

  “You mean like an angel? Yes, well, I did. I just wasn’t …” he mumbles the rest and then shrugs and inspects his nearly translucent fingernails.

  “You weren’t ready to go,” I finish for him. This is where spirit walkers come in; Michael explained that some souls are reluctant to let go. They think they have unfinished business and demand to stay behind. Even after death, there is free will. Michael’s father jokingly calls them free radicals. They inhabit the spirit world but are in more danger now than when they were alive. One touch from a soul seeker and the apparition is dragged to Hell. And, of course, there is always a reaper’s snare to be wary of. If they can’t find a spirit walker to help them cross over, they are left to wander and hide from evil entities. Honestly, I’m surprised this guy is still here.

  “You have unfinished business?” I ask, and he nods. He’s become quiet; dare I say, humbled, by his predicament?

  He takes his time, telling me his name is Colin Firth, to which I choke out a laugh. “Of course, not that Colin Firth,” he says. “Everybody loves him.”

  I detect a note of cynicism but tell him to please continue. He briefly describes his life in London as a theater actor. He came to New York for a while, appeared in various productions, and was playing a part in the New Haven Theater when he suffered chest pains. He refused to go with his guardian escort because he wanted to return to England with his body. As a policy of the hospital, a routine autopsy is performed, and he’s been stuck waiting around.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Firth,” I say with all sincerity. “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” I explain about my training as a spirit walker, or lack thereof. I tell him I haven’t a clue how to help him but that he must be very cautious until he finds the right spirit walker. I believe he’ll know them by the light in their palm. “It’s called a Chelsea Light, and it will distinguish spirit walkers from the evil entities trying to trick you.” I look at my palm, remembering the light I saw there at the Borderlands. It’s never reappeared and this has me worried.

  Colin Firth nods sadly, and I offer to introduce him to Michael and Raph. He refuses. “That train has left the station, I’m afraid. There is nothing anyone can do. My fate lies in the next spirit walker I find, I suppose.”

  All I can say is “I’m sorry.” I feel horrible for failing him, and angry that I haven’t been trained yet.

  My phone vibrates again, reminding me that I should head back before they send someone to find me. I unlock the door and Mr. Firth walks me out. Michael and Raph are waiting in the corridor and I stop when I see them. They identify Mr. Firth as an apparition, and I wait for their reaction. When no one speaks, I make the introductions with a brief explanation of Mr. Firth’s dilemma.

  Michael says, “You should get back now, Sophia. Mr. Wagner is asking about you.” I frown and make a swift gesture toward the apparition that says, Don’t be rude, at least say hello to the man.

  Raph strolls over and says, “Hey, what’s up?” to Colin Firth, and then looks hard into my eyes, assessing me.

  Mr. Firth smoothes out his lapels and appears forlorn. “My mistake, mate. I thought perhaps the young lady could help me cross over but she’s indicated that she is unable.”

  I flush with humiliation and feel like a complete loser. Raph understands my distress and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Sophia. I know how much you want to help. When you’ve become a spirit walker, you’ll get to help lots of lost s
ouls. Just be patient.”

  I smile tightly and peek at Michael. He is glaring at me so I repeat what he’s told me: “Michael said it probably isn’t going to happen now. That sometimes the process just doesn’t come to fruition and …” I feel myself choke up. I don’t think I knew how much I wanted this until now. Until I felt this insatiable need to help someone and couldn’t.

  Raph turns on Michael. “Why would you tell her that?” he demands.

  Before Michael can answer, Mr. Firth clears his throat. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but would someone kindly direct me to the best place to hail a spirit walker so that I might begin my journey home? I feel my time is running short.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Raph says, keeping his eyes on Michael. “But stick around, if you can. Sophia may be able to help when she is ready.”

  “No she won’t,” Michael says, pushing away from the wall he’s been leaning against. “She’s not experiencing the Awakening anymore. So if I were you, Firth, I’d get the hell out of here. A hospital morgue isn’t the safest place to hang out. You’re on your own.”

  “What’s with you?” Raph snaps. “First last night and now this?” He gestures toward me.

  “What about last night?” I ask, and the guys fall quiet. I move between them, looking at each one in turn. “What happened last night, Michael?” He won’t answer me and his eyes are locked with Raph’s.

  “He almost lost a soul,” Raph says, and I gasp. I can see the truth in Michael’s tight expression. Why didn’t he tell me?

  “He’s gotten careless lately,” Raph continues accusingly. He seems to be purposely inciting Michael’s temper. They’re so mad that I think they’re going to fight, but then they quickly back down and a second later Bailey comes sashaying around the corner.

  “Man, you guys are missing the best part,” she says, and then stops and assesses the situation. I look at Colin Firth. He shakes his head. Bailey can’t see him. He walks straight through her, and I give a soft yelp of surprise. Bailey shoots me an odd look. “What is going on out here?” she asks and then shivers. “Damn, it’s cold. C’mon, Soph, you’re fine, right?”