A Keeper's Truth (12 page)

Thomas
shifts his weight from one foot to the other, at a loss for words.

“Well,
goodnight guys.” I take Abby’s hand. “Hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

I shuffle
past the chairs now scattered about the room in an unruly manner.

How
appropriate.

Twenty
minutes later
, I’m still looking for Karen. There is a caravan
of cars waiting to escape the parking lot, and Abby and I shiver on the church
steps scanning the crowd for a mass of red hair. Friends pass and I enquire
about Karen’s whereabouts, but nobody has seen her.

“Perhaps
she’s already left,” I say to Abby. “We should head home and thank Karen later,
baby girl.”

Abby can
barely summon the energy to agree.

We
maneuver through the obstacle course of vehicles until we find our Magic
Carpet. The doors are unlocked as always. I’m helping Abby with her car seat
buckles when I hear a distinctive voice.

“Was that
great or what?” Karen says.

We hug.
“Flawless,” I say. “You must be stoked.”

Karen eyes
Abby almost asleep in the back seat. “You’re not going home, are you? No! Come
to the bistro with us.”

I assume
Karen’s church buddy, Marjorie, is the other half of us since Karen’s husband
is AWOL.

“I’m too
tired to be good company, Karen. Besides,” I point my chin toward Abby, huddled
for warmth, “Abby is officially out.”

“That sucks.”
She embraces me, pouting. “We’ll talk soon,” she says, and smacks me on the ass
in parting.

I spread
Abby’s
OshKosh
blanket across her lap then grope my
pockets for keys. Shit, I’ve left my purse in the church. I catch Karen
chatting two cars over, her hair glowing under a parking lamp. She agrees to
watch Abby while I run back for my purse, rolling her eyes dramatically when I
remind her—more than once—not to leave Abby alone.

Two feet
from the stage door I wonder why I hadn’t grabbed my coat. I’m freezing.

The lights
are out and the stage is deserted. I’m fumbling through the shadows, feeling
for my purse, when a deep voice rings through the darkness, halting me. Thomas?
Is that Thomas? It can’t be.

Now
there’s a second voice, deeper still. I root to the floor, not wanting to
disturb what is obviously a private conversation. The sound of shoes scuffing
hardwood only a few feet away has instinct dropping me into a crouch. Pine
floor cleaner burns my nose. I rummage through thick velvet. Where is my purse?

The voices
move closer, becoming clear.

“We
shouldn’t have this conversation here. Come to my place. We’ll talk.”

Shit.
That’s Bryce.

“There
isn’t anything to say. Just go away,” says Thomas.

My eyes
pierce the blackness, confused. I’ve never heard Thomas so angry. What the hell
are they fighting about? They barely know each other.

“Thomas—”

“Go away.
Leave. Go back to France or London or wherever you were last.”

I cover my
ears, not wanting to hear this Thomas.

“You
haven’t told her anything,” says Bryce, his voice lucid.

“Christ,
she just lost her husband.”

Husband?
My hands drop to my knees.

“You’re
supposed to teach her, help her. You’re a—”

“The one
that wasn’t meant to be.” Sarcasm drips from Thomas’s every word.

“That’s
not true. How can you say that?” They pace the floor, moving farther away. I
can barely hear. “You have to help her before someone finds her, before it’s
too late.”

“She
should be left alone.”

“Thomas—”

“I’ll
protect her.”

Bryce
sighs. “She needs to learn how to protect herself.”

“You’re
the one throwing parties and introducing her to your freak show.”

“I didn’t
know at the time. I had a hunch, but I wasn’t sure. And I would never put her
in danger.”

“No?”

“If you
were so worried about her, why didn’t you come?”

“I want a
normal life,” says Thomas, pausing. “That would exclude you and your friends.
Go away. Leave her with me.”

“She
doesn’t love you.”

“Think she
loves you?” Thomas sounds venomous.

“We’ve
been together before. She’s the one. I can feel it.”

“Bullshit!
You’ve never believed in that love at first—”

“It’s not
like that,” says Bryce.

“She’s
mine.”

Excuse me?
Who does Thomas think he is? My mind spins in confusion.

Bryce
sucks in a mouthful of air, whistling. “Thomas, you know you can’t control an
old soul, you can only guide and—”

“You
arrogant fuck. Don’t you dare throw her in my face. I wanted a son.”

Her? Her
who? Is Thomas talking about his ex-wife?

“I know,
we all do, but it doesn’t work that way and you know—”

“But only
one of us can, and it’s going to be me. I want it more than you. I don’t know
what happened but I’m telling you she loved me.”

Bryce
sighs. “I’m sure she did. Still, you shouldn’t have pursued her. And you
should’ve told her the truth before you got her pregnant.”

“If it
wasn’t for him, she would’ve come around.”

“She had
her ovaries butchered, Thomas. Not everyone can handle being taught in this
century, and you were aware of the ramifications. Even when she left you to go
back to him, you couldn’t leave her alone.”

“She loved
me,” Thomas repeats.

“Love isn’t
enough.”

“Fuck
.
Sometimes
I hate you.” Clothing ruffles. “You’re taking Tess from me as punishment?”

Taking me?

“I would
never take anything from you, Thomas. She’s not yours to take. She makes her
own choices.”

Damn right
I do.

Thomas
steps forward, his features highlighted by a faint ray of light. His eyes look
chafed, both literally and figuratively. His body stands rigid, his shoulders
back and defiant, his visible hand locked into a fist of contempt. “We’ll make
it work,” he says. “She’ll love me and I’ll have my family.”

“You
already have a family,” says Bryce.

“I don’t
want you here. Go.”

Huh?

Bryce
starts to speak then stops. “I’m not leaving you. And I won’t leave her now
that I’ve found her, Thomas.”

Thomas
lowers his voice to a lethal whisper, “She is not yours.”

“I don’t
want to hurt you—”

“You don’t
give a rat’s ass—”

“Of course
I do, how can you say that? You’re my brother.”

Brother?
They’re brothers? No fucking way!

“Don’t
call me—”

“Brothers!”
I sputter, launching into the dim light.

Thomas’s
body tenses, his startled eyes locked on my face, and Bryce, now vaguely
discernable, has one hand wrapped around the back of his neck. My eyes drill
them, moving from one to the other. “You’re brothers?” I gape at Thomas.
“You . . . you lied to me. You told me your brother lives in
France.”

“He did,”
Thomas says, inching toward me, reaching.

I step
back. “You lied to me.”

Bryce
paces forward. “Tess, I’m—”

“And you!”
I verbally lash out. I don’t know what to say so I throw daggers with my eyes,
pursing my lips in frustration. I can’t believe this, brothers fighting
about . . . what exactly? The room starts to spin and every
ounce of my being needs to get the hell out. I cradle my head, shock and fury
pounding my skull. I need my keys.

I turn
abruptly, intent on one thing and one thing only. Now that I’m out of the
shadows I can see the plush navy curtains gathered in the corner, the prize
sitting right where I left it. With two long strides, I seize my purse and open
the stage door, slamming it behind me without another word.

My mind is
thick and dazed. I want to be home, to be swallowed by the comforts of familiar
walls. I stomp my way through the church parking lot and mumble a curt thanks
to Karen as I slither behind the steering wheel.

Rage slams
the door and I take off, escaping on my Magic Carpet.

In Earth’s
history, entire continents and countless islands have been swallowed by the
sea, the earth, and covered with volcanic sediment. Our planet is in constant
flux, an ever-changing cycle of water level, temperature, and the resulting
natural disasters. The sudden extinction of mammals and plants worldwide is
proof that Earth’s surface changes rapidly, violently. Add the vast array of
pyramids and stone monuments built beyond current knowledge and you’ve set the
stage for a lost advanced civilization, a possible Atlantis.

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

“
T
ess,
I need to talk to you. I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be,
but please talk to me. Call me back. Please.”

Beep
.

“It’s me
again, Thomas. You’re obviously still mad. I messed up and I’m sorry. Please
call me. I need you to forgive me.”

Beep.

“Tess, I’m
going crazy not talking to you. Please call me back so we can work this out.”

Beep
.

“Hello,
honey. This heat wave is making Ted irritable, so we’re coming home a little
earlier than planned. I’ll call when we get in. See you soon. Give Abby hugs
for us.”

Ping
.

Text
message: Tess, if you don’t return my calls, I’m coming over there. Call me,
please. Please.

Ping
.

Text
message: Karen here. I’ve got something for you and we need to talk. Anyway,
call me as soon as you get this message.

I’ve been
avoiding the phone for days. It’s childish and obnoxiously rude, but I haven’t
been in the mood to speak to anyone, so I’ve let it ring. I’ve been busy with
Abby. Well, Abby’s been the perfect distraction. We’ve plastered the house with
Christmas decor, played in the yard, baked banana bread, poured over our
favorite books, and bumped our way through the grocery store, twice. No time to
brood.

Abby’s
been asleep for hours, so at peace I can’t bring myself to carry her from the
couch. I’m stretched across the floor, comfortably propped, a tower of assorted
pillows bearing my weight. The fire has my feet toasty. It’s late and all the
house lights are off. Every once in a while lightning flashes, throwing the
steady flicker of the tree lights out of sync.

I’m two
hundred pages into the book I ordered, a book about lost civilizations. It
arrived this afternoon along with the storm, and I’ve been reading by
candlelight—bad for the eyes but great for the soul. I think Edgar Cayce
would agree. He’s the famous prophet who, in the late 1800s and early 1900s,
proffered medical cures while in a trance-like state. An entire chapter is
dedicated to his fascinating romps into the psyches of thousands; most tracing
back to previous lives in Atlantis. He believed the sins of
Atlanteans
lead to bad behavior that carried over into subsequent reincarnations, affecting
their soul’s development through many lifetimes. In other words, Cayce’s
patients were paying in this life for their soul’s previous misdeeds.

I flip
back a couple of pages, trying to find the last sentence that actually stuck.
Fatigue has my concentration by the balls. Or maybe it’s the lights on the
Christmas tree, blinking snippets of my life. Like the battery-operated
ballerina ornament. As her lavender tutu spins, a distant memory whirls.

I’m
standing outside the Princess of Wales Theater, downtown Toronto. It’s a
remarkable evening. Snow drifts from the night sky on slow-moving waves. Trees,
cars, buildings, everything is coated in a thick blanket of ice. Meyer slides
his fingers under my thick parka, skimming my taut belly, the sensation provoking
internal feet and hands to flutter. I smile and a smug grin illuminates Meyer’s
face. I take one last look at his gift, a precious ballerina ornament holding
show tickets. It’s Christmas Eve and the
Nutcracker
is a delightful
surprise.

Wind blows
down the chimney, a plume of smoke as witness. I turn to Abby asleep on the
couch and gently pluck stray strands from her flushed cheeks. Not a trace of
Meyer lies within her features. Other than reckless curls of red, she’s a mini
me, my mother incarnate.

I look back
at the Christmas tree, memories flooding my senses. The tiny hockey jersey was
bought to commemorate the day we brought Abby home from the hospital wrapped in
Meyer’s jersey, and he introduced Abby to Gramps as “the enforcer” because her
nose was slightly off center, her face bruised. The pink teddy bear makes me
think of Abby’s first birthday, and how we found Meyer asleep on the floor
beside a big girl bed with pink teddy bear sheets and quilts, none present the
night before. I remember Taxi, Meyer’s old golden retriever, and the Christmas
we spent in Paris with Stephen. I recall the first time Meyer and I made love
under a Christmas tree, our tree, decorated just like this one.

Now,
enthralled with ornaments commemorating our life, I see Meyer more clearly than
I have in months. My handsome, loving Meyer . . .

I close my
eyes, resting my head on a cushion. I search my mind for a vision, one that
will allow me to feel his caress, the strength of his embrace, warmth of his
lips. I’m granted the view but the sense of touch hovers beyond my reach, and
frustrated by the bombardment of emotions, tears drip from my chin.

Ring
,
ring
,
ring.

I hear the
telephone but ignore it.

Ring
,
ring
,
ring.

I rub tiny
circles over my temples, striving to divert my attention back to the lights.

Ring
,
ring
,
ring.

I grab the
damn phone.

“What?”

“Tess? Did
I wake you? It’s Karen.”

I try very
hard to remove the edge from my voice. “I was . . . just
thinking.”

“Sorry to
phone so late but you didn’t call me back, and when I drove past your house, I
could see your tree lights on.” Karen’s house is just past mine on the main
road into town. Three-quarters of the year our small house can’t be seen from
the road, but winter spurs leafless trees, allowing for a better view of my
home and, apparently, my living room. “Are you all right?” she asks. Her voice
sounds hollow and I wonder if she’s still in her car.

I take
short steps in time with the intermittent lights, aiming for the living room
blinds. A chill creeps through my spine, my sixth sense suddenly on edge. I
feel watched, on display. I almost drop the phone.

“You don’t
need to worry about me,” I say, peeking out the window.

The sky is
dark, almost black, the clouds so low they cut the tops off trees. The rain is
not just falling it’s jetting a path of destruction, pelting the few leaves
that managed to hold onto trees and bushes, leaving everything bare, wet, and
gloomy. The sight is depressing. Christmas is meant to be bright white.

I shut the
blinds.

“Bryce
thinks there’s reason to worry. He called yesterday, suggesting I check on you.
He wouldn’t tell me why, just that you might be upset and need a friend. You
sure you’re okay?”

I swallow
a massive amount of air. My need for a confidant swims against a current of
self-preservation.

Ah, hell,
Karen will find out anyway.

“They’re
brothers, Karen.”

“What?
Who?”

“Thomas
and Bryce, they’re brothers. And Thomas lied to me about it.”

“No way,”
she gasps. “Shit. That’s complicated.”

The line
falls silent.

For days,
I haven’t sacrificed more than a scattered minute or two to reflect upon Thomas
or Bryce. But now, presented with a suitable sounding board, I have no control
over the path my mind opts to wander. I’m furious with Thomas. Not only did he
lie to me about where his brother lived, but he had several opportunities to
mention Bryce was his brother and didn’t. For heaven’s sake, Bryce is Sofia’s
uncle! Where did all this loathing come from? And where does Thomas get off
claiming me like he has the right? One brief encounter and a developing
friendship does not mean I am his. This is a side of Thomas I’ve never seen
before. A side I never want to see again.

Karen
snorts, startling me. “That explains a lot,” she says.

“Explains
what, exactly?”

“It sheds
light on the tension between those two. Siblings can be pretty competitive. It
also explains why Bryce stormed from the church looking like he’d been hurt.”

I recall
Bryce’s expression when I caught them arguing, how sad and torn he looked. His
words roll in my mind, twisted, blurred, not making any sense.

“That
night, when I ran back for my purse, Thomas and Bryce were backstage, arguing.
I tried to get the hell out of there, but I didn’t move fast enough, and I
overheard them talking. The fight was heated, Thomas especially. I’ve never
seen him so irate. I didn’t catch all that was said, and what I did hear I
don’t quite understand, but I’m sure of one thing, the two are brothers.”

At odds
with her trigger-happy personality, Karen remains silent. When she finally
decides to broadcast her notions, her voice is riddled with concern. “Thomas
left the church with his daughter Sofia in tow. The kid was crying. When they
passed me in the parking lot I asked Thomas if he was joining us at the bistro.
He said he wasn’t going, that he had to get Sofia home. Minutes later, Bryce
exited the church and while heading for his car I saw his face under a light.
He looked like someone had clocked him.”

“Literally?”
My chin collides with the phone. “Hurt, as in beaten?”

I can’t
believe it. Thomas wouldn’t actually deck Bryce, would he?

“He had a
shiner and a bloody nose. I only caught a glimpse, but he didn’t look great. At
the time I’d figured he’d fallen or banged into something.”

“And
Thomas, did he look battered? I hope Bryce gave as much as he got.”

“Not at all.
That’s why it never occurred to me that the two of them might have been
fighting. That and the fact that I didn’t think they knew each other. Thomas
looked slightly concerned, stressed maybe, but that’s it.”

“Why
didn’t you stop Bryce? Maybe he needed help.”

“The man
shot out of there like a bullet.” Karen pauses for a moment, catching her
breath. Thunder rumbles in the background. She sounds distracted, like she’s
trying to talk and drive at the same time. “Now I understand why Thomas left
with Sofia and Bryce followed after. Who wants a kid to know they’ve been
clocked by their own brother, the kid’s father to boot. It also explains why
Bryce took off.”

“What do
you mean by ‘took off’?”

“Bryce
called yesterday—like I said, he was concerned about you. He called from
France. He’d grabbed a flight to spend a few days with his parents. Apparently
he does this often. His family is really tight.”

Not his
entire family.

I can’t
help but think of Thomas, about the conversation we had the night of our dinner
date, of all the things he said about his brother, the jerk.

Karen
huffs. “It was a short conversation, and I didn’t get the chance to ask
questions. He probably doesn’t want his niece to know what happened and a black
eye is hard to hide. Especially in Carlisle, where people talk.”

“Karen,
seriously, you can’t—”

“Relax,
Chickpea, I’ll keep everyone’s privacy on this one.” A car door slams. “What
are you going to do?”

“Nothing.
Everything. I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding Thomas.”

Thomas
lied to me, big time. I thought he’d opened up, let me within his walls, given
me a glimpse of the man inside, but there was no truth to it. What else has
been a lie?

“I have
nothing nice to say to Thomas, especially now.”

“And
Bryce?”

“I’ve had
it with men. I’m barring the whole lot.”

All but
one. BOB and I are going to get to know each other really well.

The line
is quiet for a moment. I’d guess Karen is grappling over her promise to sweep
this under the proverbial carpet. Finally, she says, “This really sucks.”

“Yes, yes
it does.”

The
doorbell chimes and I jolt, almost knocking the curtain rod from the wall. It
takes a moment to shake the nerves from my hands. I’ve lost the phone.

“Who is
it?” I say, clutching the deadbolt.

“Karen,
you dolt, and I’m getting soaked.”

Tension subsides
and I open the door,
what the hell
written on my face. Karen flashes her
cell phone then thrusts her coat at me, rainwater soaking the floor. In Karen’s
world, visiting hours don’t follow any clock. I lay her coat on the mat and
follow her into the kitchen, flicking light switches on the way.