A Keeper's Truth (2 page)

“You’re a
pretty one,” he says.

Bitter air
gnaws my skin. He’s opened my blouse to run his fingers along my collarbone,
his touch like shards of ice. I grip the wheel, knuckles white. I can feel the
knife cutting thin slices into my neck as the car tires fill potholes. My head
pounds, stomach churns. Warmth drips down my chest, the smell of blood and
sweat flaring my nostrils.

“Drive
round back.” His eyes glow a turbulent shade of indigo, inhuman and wild.

When I
stop he’s going to kill me. I know it to my core. Fear consumes me, and the car
accelerates.

Claw-like
fingers dig into my shoulder. “I’ll make this hurt,” he warns.

He will.
This is how I die. This is how I always die.

Bile burns
my throat, stomach muscles tense. Something tugs me from the inside, and I
panic, the car picking up speed. “Please let me go.” My voice is shaky and
wrong. “Let me go,” I yell, and the knife slices farther into my neck, the pain
unreal. Blood oozes through my bra, spreading over my thighs, gathering on my
lap.

His sneer
glowers in the rearview mirror, a look I recognize with dread.

Fear
consumes me, and I yank the wheel. The car veers to the right, stopping
abruptly when I hammer the brake, and the front-end hits the guardrail with a
vibrating crash that sounds of grating metal. A pop pierces my ears, the
seatbelt rips into my chest, my eyes burn. I slump back into the seat and
regard the white bag hanging from the steering wheel.

A wave of
numbness blankets me, disconnecting senses, leaving my oblivious mind to tally
injuries with little help. My arms and hands are grossly inflamed, several
fingers out of shape. I no longer feel the knife on my neck, which is a relief
until I see it in my chest. The white ivory handle is spotted with blood. It
doesn’t hurt, I don’t feel anything. It points. I follow its aim, and there,
outside the car, is Meyer, standing beside the twisted metal, watching me.

“Wake up.”
His voice is quiet and calm, as if he’s sitting beside me and not standing in
the rain.

Confused,
I close my eyes.
You left me
is all I can think.

“Now!” his
voice booms.

I spring
upright, gasping for air. It takes a moment to digest my surroundings. The moon
peeks through the blinds, the crumpled down comforter at my feet. I peer over
the bed at the sheets and pillows abandoned on the floor. Tears have left
sticky stains down my face and neck on their way to soak the collar of my
pajamas. I lower my face into trembling hands.

What the
hell is happening to me? I’ve had nightmares before, but lately they’ve been
brutal. Meyer’s car accident makes sense. I can’t help but think I should’ve
been there, stopped it from happening, held his hand while he died, but why
can’t I have nice dreams with happy endings? Why are my nightmares filled with
strange, murderous men? Should it have been me to die that day?

If I
believed in fate . . .

A shiver
runs through me. I gather my stuff from the floor and climb back into bed.

There is
no such thing as fate.

T
ime. It
has no healing power. It just buries grief under a
crapload
of moments that dull the senses. Time forces you to eat, sleep, put one foot
before the other, breathe. Everything that existed still exists, only altered:
crumpled and ironed, crumpled and ironed, then laid out and pinned flat until
it resembles something whole again.

Of course,
I tend to be melodramatic. Without time I’d be a blubbering fool. Time and
painting pulled me through the worst of it, the endless daze and the gaping
emptiness of Meyer’s absence. Time, art, and of course, Abby. Always Abby.

I slide on
my rubber boots—covered in paint splatter in various tones—and head
to the studio, burning my tongue on a piping hot tea as I slush through the
fallen leaves of the Niagara Escarpment, otherwise known as home. More than 450
million years ago, an Ordovician-Silurian Age sea abandoned 728 thousand
hectares, leaving a rigid shelf of shale and limestone stretching from Niagara
Falls to
Tobermory
, a horseshoe outcropping in the
heart of Ontario’s Greenbelt. Nowadays, the Niagara Escarpment is recognized as
one of the world’s natural wonders and designated a World Biosphere Reserve by
the United Nations. Hikers and bird-watchers flock to explore the caves and
trails rich with wildlife, and vast tracts of farmland part to entice golf
lovers and equestrians. Me, I came for an art festival and never left.

I met
Meyer here, in the small town of Carlisle, on a similar Indian summer day in
October. Luckiest day of my twenty years. I lived in Toronto at the time, about
a forty-minute drive east, and a school friend was meeting up with a guy she’d
met at a party the week before. So I tagged along to see J.D
Picoult
, a local sculptor I’d met my freshmen year at the
University of Toronto.

Only two
booths into the fair, my girlfriend ducked behind a tarp to make out with the
guy she’d come to see, leaving me to wander the fair with the dude’s buddy. He
was a slightly older guy with soft blue eyes and an easy smile, introduced as
Meyer Lemon, which I assumed had something to do with his yellow-blond locks.
We’d barely uttered a dozen words that first hour. As usual, I was enthralled
by the artistic talent hidden in tiny country towns and hardly noticed I had
company until we both stood back to admire a canvas and tripped over a
tethering cord, my entire cup of craft beer spilling down Meyer’s shirt.

It was the
first time I’d spent the day with a guy who didn’t need to talk or touch. He
made me laugh. And when Meyer confessed he’d lost his parents in a boating
accident at fourteen, it was like some benevolent being pulled out a needle and
thread to sew us together. My mother had stopped eating three years before,
when I was seventeen. Which was, of course, when she really checked out, and
not the date, some months later, listed on the death certificate.

I step
inside the studio, my sanctuary, and the past slips away, splashes of burnt
orange, yellow, and robust red surrounding me like a blanket. I stare at the
glass ceiling, the morning sun heating my face. A brilliant hummingbird
investigates a glass panel in the roof, his beak making tiny rat-a-tat-tat
sounds. I’m in heaven.

My studio
is actually a large glass greenhouse nestled in a grouping of ancient white
cedars, exactly thirty-four steps from my kitchen and sixteen meters from the
Bruce Trail at Rattlesnake Point. Meyer built the greenhouse from a kit as a
gift for my twenty-fifth birthday, which was comical to watch since the man
wore his corporate white collar like a badge. It’s private, pin-drop quiet, and
although the trees block the bluster of early winter and the harsh summer sun,
they allow just the right amount of morning sunlight to pierce from above, May
through November.

I take a
deep breath, air expanding my ribcage like the gills of a fish, and wander
about the studio in search of inspiration. Shelves of books call out to me. My
fingertips glide over pages and pages of folklore and fantasy, realms that
ignite imagination with fairies, goblins, witches, warlocks, and lessons of
good versus evil. Wire strings attached to wooden dowels hang from the ceiling
on delicate silver chains, and metal clips support canvases suspended in
midair. Mythical creatures dance in my personal universe: angels surrounded by lush
white wings, goddesses with crowns of gold and jewels, tempting fairies, and
shimmering ghosts.

I spin in
circles, allowing them to take me into their music.

Popping a
few glass panels for ventilation, I set the fans to spin, just enough to
circulate the air. Digging through my wicker basket of oils, the colors sing to
me: tangerine orange, blood red, crisp white. I release them onto my pallet and
prime my brush, feet planted, canvas ready. The brush pulsates. My heart pounds
with anticipation. The colors join the dance and off we go, into a magical
world, my solace, my escape.

Hours
evaporate until thoughts of Abby float to the forefront. She’s at school,
wearing her favorite dress. Lowering my brush, I soak up the sun and consider
my canvas. I catch the movement of the clock, my mind foggy and distracted.

Ten to
one.

Shit, I’m
late.

The spa is
fairly
new, wedged between a Polish deli and organic café in what locals call
“downtown,” which is basically a strip plaza bookended by a steakhouse and post
office. My guide makes a show of opening the set of double doors to an
expansive room. Huge leather lounge chairs dominate various hubs throughout the
spa, each decorated in a different theme.
Romi
, the
aesthetician, inclines her head to the right and asks if I’m a bride-to-be. I
shudder at the thought.

My wedding
included a court justice and
Grams’s
blue denim shirt
and a skirt borrowed from Karen—the only things that fit over my
whale-sized form. Abby was due to join us any day. Meyer was eager to marry,
having asked me several times before I said yes, and I just needed the day to
be over and done with. I wanted a family, yes. Badly. But a wedding? No. My
little girl dreams never included iridescent pearls and white silk roses. All I
ever wanted was a normal life and something to eat.

“Look who
it is,” says Karen, her fake southern drawl filling the room.

Karen is
vivacious and loud and the best friend a girl could ask for. She’s sitting in a
pedi
-chair, feet soaking in the tub. Her fingernails
are already painted, a rather brilliant shade of lime green.

I smile,
sheepish, and blow a kiss. “Sorry I’m late.” Climbing into the black leather
seat beside Karen, I shake my shoes to the floor. “Wow. The chairs rub you
down.” I feel like I should be strapped in for take-off.

Romi
returns
with a basket of pedicure tools, asking if I’d like some pineapple ice tea. I
just stare at her, puzzled. I’ve never heard of pineapple ice tea. She tells me
I’m in mini Maui and lights the pineapple scented candles surrounding my lounger
before pointing to the headset. Apparently it plays Hawaiian music.

“She’ll
pass on the pineapple tea,” Karen says to
Romi
before
leaning back and miming throwing the headset over her shoulder, a heads-up to
skip the cheesy music.

“Man,” I
mumble. “How much is this gonna cost me?” The chair has nubs that rotate in
circles along my spine. It quickly becomes creepy, and I grope for the remote.

Karen
dismisses me with a wave. “It’s on Frank. He missed our anniversary. Again.
Consider this his get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Karen’s
husband is a doctor, a heart specialist. He’s considerably older than Karen,
who is thirty-five and a good ten years older than me. He’s dull as a pebble
and works a lot. Karen’s his third and most patient wife.

“Speaking
of jail,” she says, “Katherine and I have been chatting, and we think it’s time
you bust out of that studio of yours. You spend too much time surrounded by
imaginary friends, and it’s time you joined the land of the living.”

The land
of the living. What an interesting choice of words. I’d sensed an ambush when
Karen insisted I meet her at the spa today, only I hadn’t realized it was a
joint effort. Katherine is Meyer’s grandmother, aka Grams. She’s known Karen
far longer than I have. I only met Karen five years ago, when Meyer introduced
us at a charity art auction. I’d donated a painting and Karen was the organizer
of the charity. She’d also been Meyer’s babysitter growing up, which made for a
fun night of jokes and jabs. Meyer’s cheeks glowed pink whenever Karen described
the various love notes and Valentines Meyer had given her over the years. Poor
Meyer. I hadn’t laughed that hard in ages.

“I’m
living. I function. I take Abby to school, walk her home. I even bring Abby to
Thomas’s horse farm on
McNiven
Road to play with
Sofia once in a while, which happens to have all sorts of living things
wandering about.”

Karen
rolls her eyes. “I know where Thomas lives.”

Of course
she does. Karen is Carlisle’s queen bee. She probably rang Thomas’s doorbell a
year ago, the minute he and Sofia set roots in town.

“So, what
is it with you and Thomas then?”

I stare at
her, dumbfounded. “He’s a nice guy. Good with Abby. That’s it.”

Summer was
rough with Meyer gone, and Thomas kept Abby busy with playdates, allowing me
much-needed time to grieve without an audience.

I smile at
Karen. “The guy bakes a killer apple pie.”

I have a
thing for apples.

Karen
leans in, over the arm of her chair. “You don’t think Thomas wants more from
you?”

“No, I
don’t.” Really, I don’t. “His daughter is Abby’s best friend.”

“Sure,
that’s it.”

Thomas is
Carlisle’s prime bachelor, or so I gather. Ladies shamelessly fawn over him at
school functions, Karen included. I guess I see why. The guy has that summer
fling look, like he just jumped from a jeep with a volleyball under his arm and
sand on his feet, ready to play. Not my thing. Besides, I’m done with men.
Meyer loved me, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.

“Let it
go, Karen, there is nothing between Thomas and me.”

“Why not?
You’re beautiful, young. I see the way men look at you. It’s shitty how it
happened, but you are single, and Thomas is a nice specimen if you ask me.”

“I
didn’t.”

I glance
at my feet.
Romi’s
put her weight into rubbing my
soles with some gritty concoction that stings. Like hearing I’m single. Before
university, I had the usual string of crappy boyfriends and one-night stands.
Usual, that is, for a girl who was willing to tolerate an awful lot of crap for
some much needed attention. Shitheads, for the most part, their pockets full of
DUIs and stolen goods. It wasn’t pretty.

Karen
rests a hand on mine. “Meyer loved you. I’ve never seen anyone so smitten. But
he wouldn’t want you crying forever, Chickpea. He’d hate to see you like this,
with all the life drained away. He’d want you to be happy, to move on. We all
want what’s best for you.” She squeezes my hand. “No one is saying you need to
jump head first into the dating game, but consider getting out, opening your
mind to a world of possibilities. You’re too young to spend so much time
alone.”

Tears
hover just below the surface, and I turn the other way, in need of a
distraction. Karen keeps talking, of course, but I can’t bear to hear what she
has to say. I’ve grabbed a
Forgotten History Magazine
from the Formica
shelving unit beside my lounger, under a shelf of strange looking bottles. The
feature article asks, “How old are we?” and “Where’s the proof?” It’s quite
fascinating really, “Archeological Finds that Baffle Scientists.”

“. . . I
understand, but before you say—”

“Did you
know they found spearheads and human remains beside extinct mastodon and
mammoth bones in Mexico, proof man hunted large game as far back as the
Pleistocene era?” I keep reading, pretending I don’t hear Karen’s dramatic
sigh. “Apparently the discovery, dated over 250,000 years ago, proves man
walked the Earth long before originally thought.”

“Look,
Tess, I know getting out will be hard for you, but I’ve thought about it and I
think a party is perfect.”

I look up
from the magazine. “A what?”

“I said
we’d go to his Halloween party.”

“Whose
party?” I shake my head. “No, no way, I’m not going.”

“Hear me
out, just for a minute.” Karen leans in farther. Her breasts roll onto the arm
of the chair into a sitting position, and her spandex top stretches to
translucency. “Everyone will be in costume, somewhat unrecognizable, so you can
be whomever you wish, in disguise. A few locals will be there, so if you’re not
antisocial, you won’t be stuck in a room full of—”

“It says
here that water erosion on Egypt’s Great Sphinx dates to 5000 BC, some 2,400
years earlier than archaeologists claimed, and twenty centuries before the dawn
of Egypt itself.”