Aftermath

by Sandy Goldsworthy

  Father Richard Cornwell waved as I locked the borrowed silver Mercedes. He was the local priest assigned to Holy Name for over thirty years. He recognized my mid-forties disguise from frequent visits here when I searched for Elizabeth all those years.

  The evening air was cool for late August. I walked the short distance to Rusty’s Anchor on the harbor. My new assignment was a vacation compared to what Molly and I worked before. Serial killers, drug dealers, and other unsolved crimes were common missions for us. We aided victims and directed authorities to the culprits. We were decorated agents, a team with more tenure than any other officers on the force had. Most worked shorter assignments and lost interest after their loved ones joined our world. Not us.

  Molly and I were the exceptions. She didn’t have any loved ones to think about, and I spent years searching for Elizabeth, only to realize I missed her transition.

  The last few years, however, were different. It was at a much slower pace. Commander E understood and concurred, allowing Molly and me to spend the next two years in Westport.

  “I can’t afford to lose my top agents. If you both need some downtime, consider this an extended R and R,” he said after the call came that Elizabeth had been found.

  With that, plans were made, staff was assigned, and backstories structured. Molly and her fake parents, Grant and Ava Preston, moved to Westport from the East Coast a year earlier. At least, that was their cover story. Her parents were staff Sleeper Officers. In my world, that meant dormant duty. To me, that meant boring.

  SOs, as we called them, infiltrated society, held jobs, owned houses, and participated in normal everyday life, except they were not human. They were dead, like me.

  Dormant officers were in every city, ready to engage when called upon. Most spent their days like ordinary humans. Contracted for a decade or two, they were nurses or doctors, teachers or police officers. Empty nesters, they traveled in pairs, a husband and wife team. It allowed their term to be extended if needed, though most officers dreaded the aging disguise. It meant they had to be conscious of their appearance on a daily basis. Adding a wrinkle here or there, packing on a few pounds, and graying their hair, all little by little each day, so no human noticed a drastic change.

  Dr. Grant Preston took a position at the county hospital. Ava Preston was a science teacher at Westport High School. Both were strategically placed where their special talents could be put to use.

  For the next 730 days, I would be an SO, too.

  Rusty, Jr. nodded when I walked into the bar and grill. I was disguised like a typical customer, middle-aged and well dressed. Rusty’s Anchor had been around for generations. I took a seat at the bar and pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills. Rusty was the original owner’s son. At fifty-eight years old, he wasn’t in great health. He smoked, drank, and ate like shit, too many bar burgers and not enough exercise.

  “Whadda’ll ya have?”

  I ordered a gin and tonic, and he hurried off to mix it up. It was a slow night, even for a Monday, eighteen minutes past nine o’clock. Small towns had a way of shutting down early, and Westport was no different. Aside from two rough-looking guys shooting pool and a man in his seventies paying his tab, the place was dead.

  Rusty put the drink in front of me and made small talk. Was I in town for business? How long was I staying? Where was I from? I responded with made-up answers fitting for my designer silk shirt, trousers, and expensive penny loafers.

  Time ticked away, slower on earth than where I was from. Minutes were seconds back home. I glanced at the clock behind the bar when Rusty filled a pitcher of beer for the tattooed man in the sleeveless black t-shirt.

  Six minutes until Rusty’s heart attack.

  I sipped my drink and watched the football game on the TV above the bar. At least there was some entertainment to pass the time.

  Rusty was oblivious to what the future held. He washed a few glasses and wiped down the counter. The cook and waitress checked in with him on their way out. I read their minds and his. Good workers, he thought. Dedicated.

  Three minutes left.

  The job of a Sleeper Officer was easy. Wait and observe. Observe and wait. It was nothing like the missions I worked all those years waiting for Elizabeth. This was simple. All I had to do was bring Rusty back to life. If it weren’t for one of my kind, Rusty would die tonight. But it wasn’t his scheduled time. His transition was set for 2024.

  Two minutes left.

  When the Chicago Bears scored, Rusty groaned. “I wanted them to lose.”

  I nodded. We were in Packer territory, after all.

  “Ready for another?” He noticed my drink was almost empty.

  “Sure.” It would give him something to do.

  One minute left.

  The tough-looking guys were busy chugging beer and watching the game, in between shooting pool. Rusty put the drink in front of me, reached for my money on the counter, and turned toward the cash register. He never made it. Rusty slumped to the ground as the Bears scored again, and the tattooed man cheered.

  I walked behind the bar and heard Molly’s voice in my head.

  Need any help?

  I shrugged. Why not? I always enjoy your company. She was the sibling I never had.

  I placed the palm of my hand on Rusty’s chest, just above his heart. Molly slipped through a portal and crouched beside me.

  Molly, you just can’t pop in like that. There are some guys over there. I nodded in the direction of the pool players, though the bar blocked our view of them.

  They can’t see me. Besides, you wanted my help!

  I rolled my eyes and lifted my forefinger, tapping it gently on Rusty’s chest. I felt the gentle start of his heart under my hand.

  Once it was beating at a steady pace, I looked at Molly.

  I thought you were here to help. I waited for Molly to breathe oxygen into Rusty’s lungs. Or did you want me to do it?

  She shook her head. No, I got it, she said, and then hesitated, wrinkling her nose. Man, he smells like an ashtray. What the hell?

  What the hell? I mimicked her words slowly. You sound like a teenager.

  And you put me in this role, remember? She tilted her head and blinked her hazel gray eyes at me.

  I chuckled aloud, accidentally.

  The tattooed guy and his buddy heard the noise and called, “Hey, Rusty?”

  Molly, you gotta get out of here. I don’t feel like explaining your sudden presence, since you didn’t walk through the door. Even though we were out of view, I knew it was a matter of time before someone peered over the bar and saw what was going on.

  Hold on. She leaned down, about two inches from Rusty’s face, and gently blew air toward him.

  Ten seconds to disclosure, I said, knowing the tattooed guy was headed our way.

  He’s not breathing yet, Molly replied.

  I stood up. “Call 911! Rusty had a heart attack.”

  The guy with the tattoo pulled out a cell phone, while his buddy finished his shot, as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

  Rusty opened his eyes and looked at Molly, then at me.

  I held his hand, flooding his mind with my thoughts. This is your second chance. Make the most of it.

  He blinked rapidly. Thank you.

  You’re welcome, I answered, happy for a simple assignment.

  Chapter 8

  Emma's Story

  My room used to be my sanctuary. Now it reminded me of what I lost.

  Framed family photos lined my dresser. Ticket stubs from my first Chicago Bulls game were posted on the bulletin board next to my last birthday card from Mom. Brochures from colleges Dad and I toured were scattered on my desk. Printouts of applications and essays rested on top, including the form for Dad’s alma mater. I told him I didn’t want to attend Wisconsin. I wanted to go to Northwestern, like most of my friends.

  That seemed trivial now.

  When I noticed the flyer for the senior trip at La
ke Bell, I remembered the argument with Dad. Tears flowed as I punched the feather pillow on my bed and buried my face in it. I hated this. Why did this happen to me?

  Chester nudged my limp arm about an hour later. I must have dozed off. Rolling over, I stared at the ceiling. Chester lay beside me on the bed and rested his head on my stomach. We heard muffled voices coming from downstairs. Neither of us moved.

  I glanced at the picture of Dad and me. It was taken on Lake Bell at Aunt Barb’s house earlier that summer. Dad and I went Jet Skiing while Aunt Barb made dinner. It was the first time Dad let me drive a ski myself. Aunt Barb scolded him for being so protective. That was probably the only reason he gave in. I remembered his lecture about not speeding on the lake. I was impatient as he walked me through the instruments and attached the kill switch cord to my wrist.

  Now, I’d give anything to have him lecture me again.

  The buzz of my phone distracted me. I sat up and read through a handful of texts, most from Melissa. Where did u go? Were you really talking to the cops? What happened? WHERE R U? Text me back.

  The last one was from Matt. Did you leave?

  “Well, Chester… what do I do?” He tilted his head to one side, his dark ears slicked back. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to tell them.” Chester put his head down, letting out a loud sigh.

  Formulating the words in my mind was easier than speaking them aloud. I typed, my dad died, and hit send.

  Aunt Barb knocked gently on the door, opening it before I responded. “Just checking to see how you’re doing.” She looked better than before. Her eyes weren’t as red and puffy.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Neal and Lisa picked up Chinese. Come downstairs and join us.”

  I nodded and followed her to the kitchen. Placemats were already in position on the table. Aunt Barb pulled out plates and silverware, while Lisa filled glasses with wine. Neal waved her off, declining. The three of them interacted, opening boxes of takeout and scattering chopsticks and fortune cookies on the table. A cake sat on the counter, a fruit basket beside it. Things that weren’t there when I left for school suddenly appeared.

  For a second, I felt like a visitor in my own home. Anger struck me like a slap to the face. Tears ran down my cheeks without warning as the day’s events sank in.

  Lisa saw me first. She pulled me in her arms. “It’s okay,” she whispered through tears of her own. Aunt Barb joined in the waterworks, rubbing my back while I cried. After a few minutes, our tears dried up and we were able to compose ourselves.

  Neal made himself scarce until everyone sat down for dinner. They made small talk between bites of Egg Foo Young and Mongolian Beef. I pushed rice around my plate, but no one seemed to notice. Lisa said she would stay with us for a few days, but Neal had to get back to Westport. Dad’s wake was set for Thursday and the funeral for Friday morning. Lisa reported that Father Cornwell agreed to give mass.

  “He’s an old family friend,” Aunt Barb said when she saw my glance.

  Lisa spoke of Father Cornwell as if he were the Pope. I wanted to yell that he was just a priest from a small, hick Wisconsin town. Aunt Barb seemed pleased and the longer I sat there, the more I didn’t care.

  When the doorbell rang, Neal jumped up to answer it.

  “Your neighbors have been dropping by all afternoon,” Aunt Barb said.

  “They have? Why?”

  “It’s what people do… in times like this,” Lisa answered.

  Aunt Barb nodded toward the fruit basket I noticed earlier. “They drop off food because they don’t know what else to say, besides sorry.” She shrugged as if that was acceptable.

  I had no idea what I would say if this happened to someone I knew. Was that what people did when Mom died? I couldn’t remember. I mean, what did you say? Sorry certainly wasn’t it. I didn’t want to hear “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry wouldn’t bring my dad back, or my mom, for that matter. It wouldn’t reverse the accident that killed Dad or cure the cancer that ended Mom’s life. Sorry didn’t make up for me having to leave my friends and move to Wisconsin. Sorry didn’t dry up my tears or take away the ache in my heart.

  Sorry just didn’t cut it.

  By the time Neal walked back into the kitchen, I was sick to my stomach with anger. He carried a red box from the Highland Park Bakery.

  “Emma, you’ve got a friend here to see you,” he said.

  Tears poured out of my eyes when I saw Melissa in the doorway. She gave me a hug and whispered, “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Suddenly, that silly little word was comforting.

  Chapter 9

  Ben's Story

  In all the years I spent undercover, I was never a high school student.

  Hey, you structured this cover. Molly’s voice rang in my head, as I followed the flow of annoying adolescents in the hallways of Westport High. You could have waited to meet Emma when she was in college, or working her first job. Instead, you decided seventeen was the right age to introduce yourself.

  It wasn’t her age. I timed it in the aftermath of her dad’s transition, I responded in defense. I took a seat near the window in calculus. It was my first period of the first day of school.

  Yes, yes, whatever! You dragged me along into this assignment, she muttered. And I’m not any happier than you are, sitting through the secondary education system.

  You volunteered, I rebutted. Remember? ‘I could use a bit of down time, Commander’. I mimicked her meeting with our leader when I came up with the idea several years earlier.

  Molly sighed in defeat. I acknowledged Drew Davis. He took the seat behind me. Mr. Vieth called us to attention. Molly was greeted by her Spanish teacher in another classroom.

  Are you two done bickering? Pete Jorgenson’s voice interrupted Vieth’s roll call.

  We don’t bicker, Molly replied.

  Jorgenson knew better. As our handler, he was privy to every thought, comment, action, even feeling, our human disguises encountered on earth. It was part of our contract, succumbing to the tether, the bond between our world and an agent on assignment. It was an invisible leash that allowed him to keep tabs on our whereabouts at all times.

  Right. And you were Mother Theresa in your last life, too, Jorgenson joked.

  Ever since the pioneer field agent Victor Nicklas went rogue over a century ago, the tether was required. It didn’t bother me.

  Good luck in your senior year of high school. Jorgenson’s chuckle echoed in my mind as Vieth called my name. I raised my hand, acknowledging my attendance.

  Thanks.

  And, stay out of trouble this time, Jorgenson curtly added. I don’t particularly like explaining your stupidity to the commander. It makes me look bad.

  What trouble?

  Molly snickered.

  Well, for starters, your compulsion of the garage attendant wasn’t for the betterment of the case. And while we’re on the subject, this assignment is a vacation for you. In other words, behave. I’d hate for Emma to get a bad impression of you.

  I wanted to laugh, but I kept my composure. Okay, okay. I’ll make you proud.

  I’ll check in on you later, Jorgenson said and signed off.

  Even though Jorgenson closed the communication line, it was only in a hibernated state. He could still listen in. If I really wanted privacy, I’d have to break free of the tether. My rank gave me top-level security clearance and, with the skills developed over the years, I could easily do it. Of course, going off grid like that could only happen for a short period before a search team would be deployed.

  Mr. Vieth began his first-day-of-school lecture. It consisted of the welcome-back, here’s-who-I-am and here’s-what-we-need-to-do-this-year speech. I already knew the ins and outs of calculus and of Vieth. I read his file weeks earlier when my schedule was posted. Born and raised in Westport, he was the son of two teachers, the great-grandson of Henry Nichols of the Nichols farm on Summit Road, where I worked back in the 1930s. Vieth was thirty-
six years old, married, and a father of two. He had a dog, a cat, and a hefty mortgage.

  Doing the math, I guessed old-Henry had to have transitioned by now. I rarely kept track of any humans I knew back then. Most immortals only monitored their loved ones until the last one passed. Very few lingered beyond one generation, the way Molly and I did. Molly was a career-agent. She enjoyed the excitement of being undercover more than experiencing life firsthand.

  I, on the other hand, waited for Elizabeth.

  Chapter 10

  Emma's Story

  The next few days were a blur.

  Aunt Barb pulled out old albums and spread pictures all over the kitchen table. At first, my eyes started to water, but when she told stories about each photo, my tears dried up.

  People continued to stop by as the news spread. Platters of food, baskets of fruit, and boxes of pastries filled the counters and refrigerator in our small house. Aunt Barb was right. No one knew what to say, even though the phone rang off the hook. Instead, most people just dropped off stuff.

  Matt stopped by after football practice, but he didn’t stay long.

  Neal came back the day of the wake. I heard his footsteps as I sat on the couch, wishing this were all a dream.

  “She’s upstairs.” I assumed he was looking for my aunt.

  He paused for a minute. I could tell he wanted to say something.

  “Emma, I want you to know how sorry I am. To have been the one to break the news.” He hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued. “Your aunt wasn’t ready to talk, that day.” He looked sincere, and it dawned on me how much he must care for her.

  “It’s okay. Someone had to tell me.”

  “Well, what happened is not okay.” Neal sat down on the edge of the cushion next to me. “What you’ve experienced is… well, it’s unimaginable. Unfortunately, none of us have control over that. We can only pick up the pieces and try to put them back in some semblance of order.”

  He looked me in the eyes and I saw concern, like the look my dad used to give me. The thought brought tears to my eyes. “I don’t know if Barb tells you this enough, but she loves you. I mean, she really loves you. You’re like a daughter to her. She talks about you all the time—about your soccer games, about how well you’re doing in school. She’s really proud of you. Did you know that?”