A Keeper's Truth (9 page)

“Why do I
feel like I know you from somewhere other than here?” I say.

Bryce
laughs. “You do know me. You are an old soul.”

This isn’t
an unfamiliar term. “I’ve been told that before. Several times in fact.”

He’s
pleased with this answer. “Do tell,” he says.

“The first
time I was just a baby, so of course my mother used to tell this tale
best . . . Anyway, I was a few months old and my mother was
strolling through the market, cradling me against her chest so I could see the
world passing by over her shoulder. She’d nicknamed me ‘the observer’ because I
would sit and watch people for hours. I wasn’t shy, and seldom scared, I just
liked the hustle-bustle of others. Anyway, my mom was pushing the stroller with
one hand and holding me with the other when a lady, a complete stranger, rushed
up and blocked the stroller, stopping my mother in her tracks. The woman was
older, around
Grams’s
age now, and she seemed normal
at first, asking my name, my age, so my mother answered her questions, turning
me so the woman could see my face. That’s when the lady went nuts. She looked
into my eyes and started yelling in some foreign language, trying to take me
from my mother’s arms, and my mom freaked, backing away, hoping the lady would
get the hint and leave us alone. But the woman followed, screaming, telling my
mother I was an old soul, that I knew things. She said she could see me, see
that I had been here before, several times. She kept repeating ‘old soul’ over
and over until my mother was on the verge of tears and security came to cart
the woman away.”

I expect
Bryce to laugh but he only stares at me, obviously lost in thought.

“Crazy,
huh?” I mumble.

“And the
other times? You mentioned several,” he says.

“The other
times weren’t nearly as entertaining.” I chuckle. “That’s my only good story.
The rest were strangers claiming they knew me from another life. A few called
me an old soul.” Childhood scenes flash before me. “I’ve met a few freaks. You
know, people teasing a kid, trying to scare me. Once, when I was at a party,
this girl a grade or two higher than me grabbed my hands, following invisible
lines up my arms. I’d had a bit too much to drink and couldn’t pull away. She
kept saying I was an ‘ancient one,’ and that I knew things. It was disturbing
but avoiding her turned out to be easy. She left the party a few minutes
later.”

“And you
think these people were crazy?”

The line
between sanity and insanity can be thin, but I know what crazy looks like.

“I think
they believed what they were saying, which made them slightly off. Come on,
what’s that supposed to mean . . . an ancient one?”

“The
concept is a lot to swallow,” says Bryce, his tone strange.

A
recurrent nightmare from my youth comes to mind, the shimmering man, stalking
me, always whispering,
it’s a lot to swallow.

“My
husband used to say I attract the loonies. They flock to me like I’m some sort
of nut magnet.” I look away. I hated when Meyer said that. I could say it,
sure, but not him, not someone who had no idea what it’s like to watch someone
you love struggle with mental illness.

Bryce
still appears adrift in his thoughts.

Another
four kids come to our table, swallowing me in the chaos, and as I help a little
girl hold a paintbrush with her tiny fingers, my hair falls into the paint.

Bryce
chuckles. “You have almost as much paint in your hair as you do on your hands.”

I pull my
sleeve back with my teeth, revealing the purple hair-band beside my watch.
“Would you mind?”

Bryce
slides the elastic over my hand, avoiding contact with the paint, then moves to
stand behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck. He gathers my hair in his
hands, gently catching strands with his fingers, easing through dried clumps.
His weight shifts forward. My scalp tingles, and his body heat radiates through
his shirt, warming my skin. My heart accelerates, and for a moment I feel like
I’m floating, like my limbs have lost all substance.

Oh my.

Bryce
takes his time, his supple fingers caressing my neck, lingering on the
sensitive spot behind my ears. With delicate movements he twists the elastic,
dispersing the scent of raspberry shampoo into the air around us. The heat of
his breath causes my eyelids to sink, my lips to part, and a gush of air to
escape my lungs.

This
feels . . . this feels . . .

I slowly
open my eyes, and for a split second I’m rushed by guilt.

It’s
Thomas. He’s standing barely twenty feet away. He isn’t looking at me but over
my shoulder, at Bryce.

And if
looks could kill . . .

Accounts
of a great people, an entire civilization obliterated by epic catastrophe, have
been passed through generations for over 8000 years, in almost every language,
in every culture. In comparison, Christianity is approximately 1000-1500 years
old, and is practiced by 33% of the world’s population.

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

T
oday,
Saturday November 21st, is officially marked on my calendar. So, after lunch,
Abby and I head over to Saint Ann’s Cathedral for the Christmas pageant
meeting.

Abby is
thrilled to be here, doing a church play, and I can’t believe I agreed to this.
My mother would spit on her own grave to see me in a church. Her mother died
giving birth to her, and her father was a minister, or priest, or some sort of
religious big shot, a man who apparently took every opportunity to tell his
daughter he wished it had been her the Good Lord took. My mother didn’t mention
her father much, only to say he was a son-of-a-bitch with a fucking foul mouth
and a fucking short temper and didn’t deserve to meet his granddaughter, ever.
I’ve never thought to look for him. My mother was many things, including a
liar, but the only time I ever heard her swear was when she spoke of that man.

We slip
into a timeworn pew, Thomas relocating so Abby and Sofia can sit together.

“I thought
you might not show,” he says, “and I’d have to kill you.”

Thomas
wants to be here as much as I do, for reasons he wouldn’t relinquish, and I
admit I twisted his arm. The things we do for our kids.

A stout
woman shaped like a pear stands before the group wielding a tea cart weighted
with stacks of papers and books. I highly doubt these books contain what I’ve
been looking for. When I couldn’t find Atlantis or Lemuria references in my
literary arsenal, I spent hours scouring the library. Although
Atlantean
myths abound, there was very little regarding
Lemurian
culture. This only has me more intrigued. I’d like
to say I’m searching only to satisfy a curiosity, but the honest woman in me
knows it has a bit to do with Bryce.

Something
about him has me agitated, yet fascinated, and explicit thoughts, definitely
unwidow
-like, have forced me to consider my feelings for
him. Date, he wants to date. Me. Am I ready for that, for dinner out with a
man? I suppose it’s just dinner, no big deal. Or is it? Am I ever going to be
ready to move on from Meyer? And what about Thomas? I’d never considered us
anything more than friends, but what do I make of that look at the fair? That
was pure jealousy.

Apparently
I’m the only one worried though. Thomas has slid back into place, just as
before. Not a word of the fair.

The
minister raises his arms and claps his hands three times, yanking me back to
reality. This is immediately followed by the congregation’s claps, three times,
as if there is an echo. I bite my tongue, keeping amusement at bay. I’ve only
seen this type of attention-getting ritual done with toddlers and the hall is
filled mostly with adults. Of course, this could be normal, I’ve only been in a
church once before. I was sixteen, stoned, and there with a guy who had a foot
fetish and pyro problem. When he set fire to the church, I ran. He later
claimed he preferred my feet un-charred, but I dumped him anyway. I’d seen him
with a match.

Pear-lady
pulls small stacks of paper from the cart, handing them to the end person in
every pew, belting instructions for the play, the
Three Wise Men
. While
she does this, my mind replays my favorite jokes about wise men and I giggle to
myself, stopping when I notice pear-lady staring at me, silently chastising.
Thomas does a pathetic job of stifling a chuckle and I elbow him in the side.
She tells us to flip our booklets to the second page. Listed are the characters
and children chosen for each role. Abby is singing three songs in the choir and
playing a shepherd.

“How
vogue,” I whisper to Thomas, “a female shepherd.” I chuckle and Thomas follows
suit.

I didn’t
think I’d feel comfortable here, in a church, but I do. The people are
welcoming and I didn’t go up in flames when I walked in. To be fair, I love the
idea of organized religion. I love that an entire community can come together
on a common thread and share in each other’s special moments, special
occasions. Like Christmas. Karen talks fondly of her “family” at Saint Ann’s,
and I even felt sort of envious when Meyer died and I lacked that kind of
support. Maybe this place can be someplace special for Abby.

Thomas
draws my attention to the script, which makes up the next twelve pages. I turn
to page sixteen and see my name beside several jobs, the final being:
Make
sure all costumes and accessories are in the appropriate hands by the final
dress rehearsal on Saturday December 12th
.

No
problem. My only worry is the church’s mammoth forty-year-old sewing machine,
aptly named Old Reliable. I doubt she comes with instructions.

Pear-lady
approaches with a stack of books slung in her arms, eyeing me suspiciously. She
hands me a
Three Wise Men
storybook and a thick folder. The folder is
filled with paper scraps that possibly, at one point, resembled costume
patterns. She leans over me, her boob nudging the side of my face, and passes
Thomas a thick book covered in weathered red leather. Her stare darts between
Thomas and me as she explains the set design on pages forty-four through
forty-eight and where to find reusable wood from last year’s play. Her voice is
like nails on a chalkboard, and I’m dying to tell her to blink once in a while.
When her dictation dwindles to a close, she looks at Thomas, smiles, and says,
“A strong, splendid man like you
oughta
have no
trouble pulling all that heavy stuff from the storage room.” She’s suddenly all
soft and sweet.

“Sure,”
Thomas mutters.

She
reluctantly drags her stare from Thomas’s biceps to my face. “And you, do you
have any questions?”

A few come
to mind. Why are we
given instructions for set design? Thomas’s name is
clearly noted beside that job, not mine. Where is Karen, isn’t she the
director? How do I work a sewing machine? Why did I volunteer for this? And the
more nagging question, are you allowed to flirt with your congregation?

I settle
for a quick, “Nope, see you Tuesday.”

’Tis
the
season to be merry.

The next
two
weeks pass by in a blur. At any given hour I’m in
one of three places: my studio, the church, or my bed. The only productive spot
is the church. Poor BOB.

Every
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, Abby and Sofia rehearse with the other kids
while Thomas and I work like slaves. Thomas helped me decipher the inner
workings of Old Reliable, and he’s been helping with the sewing, so I’ve
painted the set. He’s been a good sidekick. I have to admit, it’s been great
spending time with Thomas. He’s got this cute way of finishing my sentences and
he makes me laugh like Meyer used to.

Only seven
days until the big event and we still have lots to do. The sequined belts and
head-wraps must be hand sewn and the paper-
mache
star
needs a final layer, along with a coat of glitter glue. Thomas built the
nativity set, but we ran out of yellow paint so it requires some creative tweaking,
and Old Reliable deserves a good cleaning before being put to rest another
year. Still, Thomas insists we call it an early night. He has dinner to
prepare.

Abby and I
make the
short drive to Thomas’s in silence. We’ve been here before, for Abby’s play
dates with Sofia, but we’ve never been invited to dinner.

“Very
casual,” Thomas said, “just a dinner date to reward ourselves for a job well
done.”

Dinner
sounds delightful. It’s the date part that’s making me itch.

I pull
into the long winding driveway and press on the brake, pausing to watch dense
puffs of snow drift to the ground. The trees surrounding us are draped in
shimmering powder, their beauty only slightly tarnished by the claustrophobic
feel. Nerves kick-up a fuss in my belly. It might be the date. Or it could be
the snow, a reminder of the nightmare I’d had last night.

I was
cold, so unbelievably cold. That in itself wasn’t unusual, I’ve had nightmares
of dying in the snow before, but this one was different. I was the audience,
the casual observer crippled by someone else’s pain. I could hear her cry out,
sob, beg for the end. I could feel her under my skin. I wanted her dead. I
wanted her gone so she didn’t have to suffer. So I didn’t have to suffer. But
when I woke with a thin veil of sweat covering my body, all I wanted was to
forget.

I roll
down my window, suddenly in need of air. The smell of rotting leaves and wet
nips my nose. Winter has arrived. I hope the police find that missing girl
soon.

I release
the brake, inching forward in small intervals. Thomas’s house comes into view.
The ranch-style bungalow is nestled in the woods. A plume of smoke rises from
the chimney. The sage green door is adorned with a seasonal wreath, the only
embellishment on the otherwise simple facade. It oozes family, which doesn’t
explain why I can’t get my foot off the brake. The man inside the house is much
the same: comfortable, warm, family oriented, every woman’s dream. So why am I
itching to turn around? How can this place feel comfortable yet wrong? I’ve
been here several times over the last few months, but this time feels
different. Not good different, not bad different, just different. Maybe I’m
reading too much into this. Maybe I’m not giving Thomas a chance. I suppose
he’s is a great catch. Why shouldn’t I consider him a great catch for me?
Perhaps I’m not ready to move on from Meyer. Maybe I am but not with Thomas.

“Mom, you
gonna park or what?”

Abby is
working on her adolescent sarcasm. It’s coming along just peachy.

An hour
later
, I realize I was worried for nothing. Between
mouthfuls, Abby and Sofia chatter about school friends and the church pageant,
and Thomas and I talk about the kids, the weather—safe, easy topics.

“You don’t
look thirty-two,” I say, bubbles dripping from the glass in my hand. I insisted
on helping with the dishes. It’s the least I can do after Thomas cooked such a
scrumptious dinner. The man can cook. Hmm, sweet potato and honey ham, plus
apple pie for dessert. All my favorite things.

Thomas
grabs a cloth to dry. “Older? Do I look older?”

Abby
places her plate on the counter then sprints to catch Sofia running down the
hall. Thomas has put a movie on for the kids.

“No,
younger.” I wouldn’t peg Thomas for a day over thirty.

“Maybe I
am younger. I don’t keep track. My family doesn’t celebrate birthdays.”

I peek at
Thomas. He never mentions his family as anything other than him and Sofia. “You
mean as adults your family doesn’t keep up with birthday celebrations?”

“I mean
never,” he says. “I don’t recall ever doing the birthday thing, even as a
child. It’s never been important, I guess.”

“Did you
grow up somewhere birthdays aren’t customary?”

Thomas
focuses on a glass bowl, gently turning it within the folds of the towel. “Um,
no. I lived in several countries, wherever my father’s work took us. We were in
Europe for most of my childhood, and when I was older, I spent time at a
boarding school in the United States.”

This is
more than Thomas has ever told me about his childhood.

“Europe,
huh? Do you speak other languages?”

“
Oui
, a few.” He shrugs.

“I’d love
to learn another language. I think I’d choose French.” Everything said in
French sounds romantic. “Was it hard to have a normal childhood while moving
around?”

“I guess
moving didn’t help,” he says, “but normal wasn’t really an option.”

Thomas
looks uncomfortable so I scrounge for a change of topic. Nothing comes to mind.
I
kinda
like this topic. “You must have had
interests. You know, hobbies and stuff?”

Thomas
grins. “I was great at sports. Not just one or two, but any sport. I was
captain of the rugby team for three seasons. I played football and baseball and
could swim from our boat to the beach and back, which was pretty good
considering the boat wasn’t usually visible from shore.”

“Your
parents must have beamed with pride.”

“You’d
think, but my brother is the one who walked on water.” For some reason this
makes him laugh. It’s not a nice, lighthearted laugh, but a bitter stroll down
a not-so-good memory lane kind of laugh. “My parents are scholars. They don’t
have much interest in sports.”

I grope
the sink, empty-handed, and pull the plug. Thomas returns dishes to the dining
room credenza, obviously on edge. He’s not comfortable talking about himself
and I don’t want to pry.