Aftermath

by Sandy Goldsworthy

  “I just… I, ah.” Claire stumbled over her words. She’d have to get over the intimidation she felt around me before our classmates sensed it.

  “Ben, are you embarrassing poor Claire already?” Marty stepped into my room, and then looked around. “Horrible color. I hope you’re planning on changing it.”

  “We were just talking about that. Good timing, Marty,” I said, touching my finger to the wall again. A gray-toned taupe spread around the room, covering the past shade.

  “Much better.” Marty smiled. She was sixty-two years old in human years. It was her age when she died, back in April of 1966, the age she preferred to be undercover. She was a bubbly woman with a lot of spunk. “What do you think, Claire?”

  “What?” Claire asked aloud, but her thoughts were swirling. “How… how did you do that?”

  “Oh, honey, how long have you been in the field?” Marty put her arm around Claire.

  “Well, um… this is my first assignment… outside of training,” Claire reluctantly answered. Claire was thirty-one years old when she died in 1944. It was a breach of contract, which was not looked upon favorably in my world. Souls that returned to my world prematurely endured decades of rehabilitation and counseling before new lives or assignments would be considered.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Claire’s inexperience would be a comic relief on this assignment. Much better than the serious, violent missions I’d grown accustomed to.

  “Now that you’re both here… Barbara Carmichael invited us to her cookout this afternoon. Well, I should say, I’ve gone for years, but she’s extended an invitation to both of you,” Marty said matter-of-factly. She carried herself younger than the age on her fake birth certificate. Her hair curled out at the tips, barely touching her shoulder. The various shades of gray mixed with blonde gave her a youthful appearance that humans her age envied.

  “I’ve got plans,” I answered.

  “What? You’re not going?” Claire questioned. Her thoughts were more confident now. She didn’t have Molly’s humor. I could see that. I’d have to be more careful not to offend her.

  “That’s fine,” Marty said.

  “Well, if you’re not going, it wouldn’t look right for me to go,” Claire replied. “At least you’ve met Emma.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t care if Claire went or not. “Where have you been, anyway?”

  “I spent the night with my new group of friends.” Claire put her hand on her hip and shot me a smirk. “Hannah Lambert invited me over.”

  “Hmm. Good to see you’re fitting in.”

  “What happened to you last night? You left before the fireworks were over,” Claire commented.

  “Actually, they were over when I left. And, trust me, I saw enough.”

  “Well then, if you two kids aren’t going, I’ll just tell Ms. Carmichael you had plans,” Marty intervened.

  A beep from a car horn in the driveway interrupted us. It was Lucas, the kid I met on the lake the day before. We agreed to spend the day Jet Skiing again and considering there was something about him that bothered me, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

  Being an immortal had its perks, but there were limitations when I was undercover in human form. Namely, I could only hear current thoughts or conversations. I couldn’t retrieve memories from humans, unless there was skin-to-skin contact.

  Even though Lucas and I spent several hours together, I didn’t have a chance to shake his hand. A handshake was the fastest, most universally accepted hand-to-hand contact that offered the proper amount of time to download a human’s records. Well, for most humans, that was.

  Not only did a handshake download recollections of special events and transcripts of prior conversations, it also gave me the network of relationships that person experienced during their life.

  In the case of the Lucas Crandon, it was that network I guessed to be disjointed. It wasn’t that I just disliked Lucas. There was something different about him, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Not yet, at least. His thoughts were limited, mostly of girls, parties, and Jet Skiing. And in most of those, he put himself high on a pedestal. The boy certainly had an ego.

  “Hey, Lucas! Thanks for picking me up,” I said, extending my hand toward him.

  When he shook it, I began to understand. “No problem. Ready?”

  I nodded. “Let the fun begin.”

  Chapter 24

  Emma's Story

  After hours of running errands, we finally returned to Aunt Barb’s house.

  It took several trips to unload bags of snacks, bouquets of flowers, and cases of beer and soda.

  “Can you take that downstairs?” she asked when I carried in two cases of Coke.

  “Sure,” I answered, heading to the lower level. It wasn’t the first time I walked freely around Aunt Barb’s house. I used to come and go all the time, when Dad and I visited. They would sit upstairs while I hung out in the rec room and played board games with TJ and Hannah. But as I looked around the picture-perfect family room, nothing was like it used to be.

  I put the soda on the table and glanced from the stone fireplace with a chunky wood mantel that Mom admired, to the weathered leather couch I used to nap on. Bright orange and green pillows in various patterns and textures were added since then, as were the tall, copper candleholders on the end table.

  Everything looked different.

  Bookshelves lined the walls of the long, rectangular room, filled with old and new books. Bright-colored spines stood at attention next to old-looking leather ones in drab tones. Photos and trinkets, memories of Aunt Barb and my uncle’s travels, were selectively placed throughout. A carved wooden elephant sat beside an album with “Safari” written on the burlap cover. Two shelves over, a miniature Eiffel Tower rested next to a picture of Aunt Barb. A shiny, navy-blue frame held a photo of her and Uncle Rob embarking on a cruise. They stood beside a white life ring with “Welcome Aboard” printed on it. It was the last trip they took, a few months before he died. I took a deep breath and shook my head.

  How could I have been there hundreds of times, but never seen what was right in front of me?

  Then I noticed it, sitting on a shelf. A larger image, about the height of the tallest book, caught my attention. As I stepped closer, I realized it was Dad and me. My hand automatically rose to touch the glass separating me from him. I stood frozen for a minute, and then it hit me. He was gone, really gone.

  Dad was dead.

  I felt a pain in my chest before my body began to shake or tears reached my cheeks. It was a deep, aching burn, like something was boiling inside of me. My throat hurt, and I suddenly couldn’t swallow. I sobbed uncontrollably, as I tried to catch my breath.

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat on the floor between the bookcase and the wooden table before Chester found me.

  He licked my face and nudged my arm until I lifted my head and opened my eyes. Chester barked once, sharp and deep, before lying down beside me. He was too large for the small, confined place, but he squeezed in anyway. His oversized body rested against the shelves, while he placed his head on my lap.

  “Emma?” I heard Aunt Barb’s voice.

  I didn’t answer. When I opened my mouth, no sound came out. Aunt Barb found me in the corner and helped me up. She hugged me tight to her chest until my shaking stopped.

  Chapter 25

  Ben's Story

  I didn’t like Lucas from the minute I met him.

  Of course, after downloading his memories, I saw him differently. His father, Neal Crandon, was a detective for the Westport P.D., and the officer that brought Barbara Carmichael to Highland Park the day Emma’s dad died. A decent dad, by all accounts, at least from what I could tell. He was strict and lawful, while Lucas was not.

  Even with the broken-home scenario he lived in, I still didn’t like Lucas.

  I parked my Toyota Cruiser on Main Street, in front of Priscilla’s Diner. It was the building that used to house Hudson’s Grocery back when I liv
ed here in the 1930s. But years later, it changed hands and names so many times that I couldn’t keep up. The oak sign with black scripted font proudly stated the name of the current restaurant, named after a stillborn Carmichael, buried decades before.

  Priscilla Carmichael transitioned the day she was born. Sad, but it happened more often than people knew. Most humans didn’t talk about it, but we did. Priscilla was a beautiful soul. She accepted a human life as a new contract, knowing it would last mere months, in vitro. She had long since moved on to other contracts, to other human lives, completely unaware of the past lives she lived, of who she was and what she was a part of.

  The streets were quiet and bare. It was early, pre-dawn, with most residents sound asleep. A dog barked in the distance, though I knew it wasn’t because of me. Lucas lived with his mom in a brownstone house in the least desirable section of Riverside. I walked along the sidewalk beside the factory that old man Carmichael started well before my time. It was the main manufacturing company back in the day that employed most of the town. All the Carmichael kids worked there, and even ran the place after the old man died, except William. He was the youngest and the least interested in stainless-steel products.

  William worked in the factory just enough to pocket some cash and buy the old, vacant monastery on Lake Bell. It was the right decision for him, though everyone in his family and the town, for that matter, thought he was crazy. William proved the critics wrong. He created a legacy and now, a century later, the Carmichael Inn had a reputation of its own.

  A chain-link fence topped with three rows of barbed wire separated the sidewalk and small neighborhood from the plant. As I walked the two blocks to where Lucas lived, I could hear the thoughts and dreams of local residents, but like most useless dialogue that cluttered the sounds waves, I ignored it.

  When I turned the corner onto Leonard Street, I could hear Lucas’ thoughts. He was asleep. Knowing his voice, however, I could filter it out amongst the others within the current radius of my location.

  The thoughts that ran through Lucas’ mind were disturbing at best. He was a selfish, loveless individual, with a speckled past. He was surrounded with emotional trauma and violence, which was why I chose to find him.

  I had to see how he lived.

  As I reached house number 312, I could sense something. I heard the thoughts of his neighbors next door and downstairs. But there was only one other person in the upper flat in which he resided. A woman. Her name was Charlene, and I knew she was his biological mother. Her Nevada-issued driver’s license listed her as Charlene M. Tillman. She took the last name of her second husband, the third surname she had during this lifetime.

  There was another spirit hovering, I could feel it, but it was not present.

  I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt tight over my head, as I loitered on the street in front of his house. The sky was still dark from night, and no soul was awake within blocks.

  I scanned the surrounding houses and blocks around that. I visually canvased the roads that encompassed those, and the ones around them. A woman hit the snooze on her alarm clock. A man woke up for a bathroom break, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  Yet, there was something out of place.

  There was something definitely wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Chapter 26

  Emma's Story

  I was walking amongst strangers.

  The street was crowded, and skyscrapers surrounded me. I didn’t recognize the buildings, or know exactly where I was, but I wasn’t nervous or scared.

  It was Chicago.

  People of all ages were around me. Most were headed in the same direction. Only a few walked toward me, against the flow. Traffic moved on the street. Car horns beeped and whistles blew. I overheard muffled conversations, though I couldn’t say I saw where the sounds came from.

  The weather was chilly. I pulled my hat down over my ears and lifted my collar a bit higher.

  At first, I barely heard his voice and when I did, I was sure it wasn’t directed at me. But the next time he spoke, he was clear.

  “You need to give him time,” a masculine voice said behind me. I couldn’t explain why, but I slowed my pace. People around me slowly began to disappear. They must have found their destination, I thought. However, when everyone was suddenly gone, I realized I didn’t know where they went.

  I was alone on the street. The buildings around me seemed smaller, and the traffic went away. The voice behind me got louder. I stood still on the sidewalk, frozen in a suddenly unfamiliar place.

  “It may take some time. Be patient with him,” he continued. He wasn’t familiar, yet I wasn’t afraid.

  I turned to face him. I had to know where the voice was coming from.

  The man was older than I expected. I noticed a light graying above his ears, in contrast to his dark skin. He wore a charcoal wool overcoat, belted high at the waist, with a faint plaid pattern that looked out of style. A red scarf was neatly tied and tucked at his neck and his black fedora was trimmed with a small, red-and-gray feather. In a different era, I would have guessed him quite fashionable. The wool looked thick and firm, like good quality material went into his coat, and he carried himself well.

  He spoke to me as if I knew him and who he was talking about.

  I did not.

  “He will come back to you. Just give him time.”

  I stood still and looked at him. I wanted to absorb everything about him, to recognize him.

  He brought a pipe to his lips and took several short puffs. Smoke exhaled from his mouth in small bursts circling around us.

  “What? Who?” I asked, watching the expression on his round face. I felt at ease around him.

  “Elizabeth, he’s been looking for you for quite some time. Be patient.” The smoke from his pipe increased and lingered, despite the wind that picked up around us.

  “My name isn’t Elizabeth,” I started to say, but the words didn’t come out completely before he was gone and I was awake. “My name is Emma,” I said aloud, realizing it was all a dream.

  I sat up in bed and tried to put his face together in my mind. He vaguely reminded me of an actor on TV, on one of those police shows my dad used to watch. The more I thought about the dream, the less I remembered. And soon, reality came flooding back and the dream was completely forgotten.

  It was barely light outside. Streaks of reddish purple were rising in the east, as I peered out my window in Aunt Barb’s house. I crawled back in bed and pulled up the fluffy, white comforter around me. I couldn’t help but feel awkward in my new surroundings. The only thing that belonged to me was the small suitcase in the corner and the iPad on the dresser. Everything else was new, strange.

  My thoughts wandered to Aunt Barb’s cookout, as I tried to fall back asleep. I’d been to her parties since I was a kid. It was an even mixture of friends and employees. Of course, I never paid much attention before. Most years, I brought a friend along, or busied myself with Hannah and TJ when we were younger. But yesterday was a different experience for me.

  Hannah proved to be as friendly as her mother was. She quickly chatted like we had been friends forever. Of course, we were. It was just forever ago that we really spoke to one another, like friends. She helped me cut lemons and limes that Aunt Barb wanted at the bar, for mixed drinks she said, when she handed Hannah and me bags of fruit. As we washed and sliced them, Hannah brought up the board game, Life, we used to play. At first, I felt a bit uncomfortable, but when she made fun of herself and her addiction to the game that summer, we both laughed. That was the summer I kissed TJ. It was my first kiss and one that Hannah witnessed. She ran off and tattled to our parents. Reminiscing of that day was the icebreaker in our conversation.

  “TJ’s got a girlfriend, Molly Preston,” she said. For a minute, I thought we were twelve again and she was busy telling me gossip.

  “Do you like her?” I asked, attempting to make conversation.

&
nbsp; “Yeah, she’s really nice. Really pretty, too.”

  I nodded, not sure what else to say. I opened a jar of Marciano cherries and poured them into a bowl. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yup. Justin. He was supposed to come to the cookout, but he can’t. He plays soccer.”

  Soccer? Now she had me interested. “For Westport?”

  “Yeah. He’s a goalie.”

  “I play soccer… well, I did. Back home, I mean,” I answered.

  “Well then, you need to meet Brinn… she plays. Hmm, I wonder if she’ll be here. She works for your aunt at the Inn.”

  I nodded. “What position does she play?”

  “Sorry, I’m not sure. But she’s really good. She made varsity as a freshman.” I listened, but I didn’t reply. “Oh, and there’s this new girl. Claire. I think you’ll really like her. I’ve hung out with her a few times. Molly said she plays soccer, too.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah. You know what? I think she just moved here from Chicago. She was at the island party last night.”

  “Really? What does she look like?” I asked.

  “Long, light brown hair. I would’ve introduced you, but—”

  “I didn’t see you last night,” I interjected.

  “I know. I saw you, but you were walking the beach with some hot guy. Is that your boyfriend?”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Matt. Um, we broke up.” It was the first time I said it aloud.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Hannah’s tone was sincere.

  After a few moments of silence, she asked, “So when do you start school?”

  “I’m not sure. Barb and I didn’t really talk about it.” I hesitated. “I mean, I just got here yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it’s pretty soon. Well, I think you’ll like Westport. I’ll introduce you around. And of course, TJ will too.”

  I wasn’t sure that TJ would agree to what Hannah committed him to. But it would be nice to have friends.

  The sky turned a deep orange, as I fell back to sleep.