A Keeper's Truth (8 page)

“Witch is
an ugly word, riddled with fear.
Angitia
is a
registered Reiki master and a shaman.”

“A
shaman.” I try to process this.

“Um hmm,”
he replies. “She is open to her inborn ability to connect with the natural
world in ancient ways. And she has a knack for communing with the dead.” He
smiles. “She’s been on Oprah.”

The kettle
whistles, and I leap from my chair, almost knocking it over. Bryce doesn’t
comment. His eyes follow me as I move to the counter where Grams has laid out
all the necessities on a tray. She’s taken my candy apple and sliced it for
dessert.

Mrs.
Maples comes to mind. I’m not sure if it’s the conversation or the candy apple
that makes me think of her.

Chair legs
rumble across the floor. “I’ve upset you more by coming,” says Bryce.

“I’m fine.
Sit down, please.” I should be the one apologizing. I’m not upset by anything
Bryce has or hasn’t done. It wasn’t his job to save me from every intoxicated
jerk at the party, no matter their vocation, and I’ve encountered enough drunks
in my life to know to walk away. “Please, sit” I repeat, and ask him how he
drinks his tea.

Bryce sits
but the air between us is thick and consuming.

Upstairs,
Barbie and Ken’s Volkswagen Beetle hums across the hardwood floor followed by
the muffled sounds of laughter.

“Abby
loves her dolls,” I say, sighing. “To be five again.”

“Yes. I
should’ve enjoyed my childhood longer than I did.”

“If only
we had that choice.”

“Oh, yes,
if only.” A half-hearted grin inches the right side of his face. “You shouldn’t
be so bitter, so young.”

I shrug.
He isn’t insulting me, just stating a fact. “I suppose I’m a little lost
lately.”

“There is
no need to feel lost,” he says, radiating sincerity. “I have found you.”

I fidget
in the chair, no clue how to respond. I appreciate his efforts, I think, but
I’m not ready for this. Not in my kitchen, our
kitchen, mine and
Meyer’s.

Bryce
leans forward resting an elbow on the arm of the chair. “Is this Abby?” he
says, pointing at a framed black and white of a woman and toddler plastered in
ice cream and gummy worms. I was three and we’d just returned from the Royal
Ontario Museum, one of the few places my mother was truly happy.

I put down
the half eaten slice of apple. “My mother was a photographer.”

My mother,
Celeste
Reit
, had her fifteen minutes of fame. She
was known for her photos of swingers: the subtle touch of a woman’s hand
accepting an offer to get closer, a sexual expression, clubs for the wealthy
and open-minded, classy depictions of an alternative lifestyle. For a time, her
art was sold in private circles for good money and garnered the attention of
celebrities worldwide.

“It’s the
only photo she ever took of the two of us together.”

“She was stunning,”
he says, studying the picture.

“She was,
always, even when sick.”

Heartache,
she used to tell me
, I have a heartache that
will one day swallow me whole.

“Another
artist.”

“You know
what they say about apples . . . I held a crayon before a spoon.
As a toddler I had a compulsive fascination with colors and textures. After a
day at the museum my fingers were blistered from running my hands over every
object I was allowed to touch. I loved nature and could spend entire days at
the park. I’d follow the geese, the water in the stream, the bugs as they
climbed the trees.”

I tell
Bryce about my childhood, skipping the shitty stuff. My youth wasn’t all bad.
My mother did the best she could with what she had. She never abandoned me or
gave me away like she did my brother Stephen, and she never physically hurt me,
not on purpose anyway.

“I got a
scholarship to the University of Toronto and spent five years earning an Art
and Art History degree,” I say. Bryce nods toward my book collection: history,
art, parenting books by the dozens. They line an entire wall of the living
room. “I was obsessed with art, especially renaissance and late twentieth
century post-impressionism. I fell in love with sculpture, photography,
drawing, and painting. I love painting.” I swipe the last slice of candy apple.

“Where
have you been all my life?” Bryce mumbles.

I close my
eyes, hoping Grams hasn’t heard his quiet comment. She’s wandered into the
kitchen to make herself a tea
.

“Your
grandson was very lucky,” he says, raising his voice so Grams doesn’t need to
eavesdrop. “You must’ve been proud.”

“Uh huh,”
she says, grabbing her mug and pacing out of the kitchen.

Bryce and
I burst into laughter. It feels good to laugh with him.

“Where do
you work now?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder, probably in search of art
paraphernalia.

“I paint
in my greenhouse.” I rise from the table, instructing Bryce to follow my line
of sight out the window. Spread before us are acres of old evergreens.

He comes
to stand beside me, one hand encompassing the entire mug. “Peaceful,” he says.

I point to
the cobblestone path. “My studio is hidden in that mass of trees.” A hint of
glass peeks through branches of blue spruce. “It’s beautiful, my sanctuary.
There is no place I prefer to be. When I’m not with Abby, that’s where I am.”

We stand
in silence, taking in the vista. With some people silence is awkward. With
Bryce it feels calming, like I’m weightless, floating.

“You hum
when you think about your art,” he says, and I chuckle.

“I know.
I’ve been called out before.”

“You glow
as well. Your aura shimmers. You’ve found your calling.” He smiles.

“My aura?
Ah, okay. Calling is the right word though. I’ve never considered any other
career. I was born an artist.”

“A
creator,” he corrects, still smiling. I don’t understand but he doesn’t seem to
be mocking me. “Every soul has a purpose. Yours is to create,” he says
matter-of-factly. “In another life you created peace, justice, love.”

“You’re
being an ass if you’re teasing me.”

“I’m not.
Most souls spend entire lifetimes searching for their purpose. To have found
yours is true evidence of your strength. I’m impressed and honored to be a
witness.”

I purse my
lips. I’ve always considered myself an atheist. As such, I avoid topics that
smell even slightly spiritual, and this smells iffy.

Bryce
doesn’t push for commentary. Instead, we spend the better part of an hour
talking about school, art, and showings coming to a local gallery. Bryce’s
knowledge of Shang dynasty jade carvings makes me giggle like a silly
schoolgirl, and I bombard him with question after question. He answers them
each in turn, but eventually raises his hands in surrender.

“I’ll
elaborate another time,” he says, avoiding my last question. “I better head
home.” He chuckles. “It’s a school night.”

He’s right.
I got carried away.

I lead
Bryce to the front door, and he puts his coat on then steps toward me, shoving
his hands in his pockets. We mumble goodbyes. I can smell him, a mix of man and
rain. My heart skips a beat.

He turns
for the door, pausing mid-step. “Almost forgot,” he says, “Karen brought your
coat home from the party.”

I nod.
“She called this morning.”

“Good.”
Bryce steps out onto the porch and opens the umbrella before turning back to
me, a frown stealing the spark from his eyes. “Are you concerned about anything
Angitia
said to you? Anything at all?”

Death,
lots of death.

“My mother
died when I was seventeen, and my husband passed away in April. I guess I’m
just a little sensitive regarding the whole death thing.”

Bryce
doesn’t look to be breathing. “And . . .?”

“And
what?” Isn’t that enough?

“Well
then,” he says. “I’m sorry the party ended the way it did and that your night
was ruined. I hope you let me make it up to you someday.”

“You have
nothing to make up for.”

Grams
peers around the corner, demanding an explanation with her eyes. I haven’t told
her about last night. There is nothing to say. I didn’t even register
everything the witch said. The general theme of death was enough for me.

“Goodnight,
Tess. Ma’am.” Bryce waves and Grams steps out from behind the wall.

“Goodnight,”
I reply.

Bryce
turns to leave and I close the door, spinning to find Grams in my path, arms
crossed.

“Spill
it,” she says.

I smile.
Times like these I’m happy I’m a liar.

T
he clock
ticks, but I have no idea what time means as I float in my fantasy world with
my colors, brush, and canvas. The sun’s light has just started to seep life
into the woods around me. I stare into the wilderness watching a black squirrel
run from tree to tree gathering debris and food for the cold winter ahead. Blue
jays, cardinals, and a medley of bright winged finch fly in and out of view.
Most of the foliage has fallen from the trees.

I spent
most of the night mixing paints, trying to match the vivid colors of nature. Anything
to keep from sleeping. Or not sleeping, as it were. My nightmares have a new
flare for the dramatics, killing me in places I could scarcely imagine in
daylight, in centuries I’ve never known. I’ve watched the sun come up for days.

Today is
the fall fair. I’m thankful the day has finally arrived. For weeks I’ve been
inundated with the details: so-and-so’s mother is running the rubber duck game,
and so-and-so’s father is cooking hot dogs. I’ve heard all about who’s bringing
the cotton candy machine and which family donated hay bales for the maze.
Originally, I’d told Abby we weren’t going, but I’ve watched her enthusiasm
grow with the little things that entertain a five year old, the fair currently
topping her list, and in the end, I couldn’t refuse.

Now I’m
anxious for her to wake.

It’s
mid-November
and brisk enough to require a winter
coat—that is what I told Abby. I layered her for forty below, just in
case.

We
surrender our shortbread cookies to the lady in charge of the bake sale then
set off in search of friends. Abby spots Sofia and runs ahead, her scarf
hanging from her coat pocket. I trail behind, attempting to keep the morning
sun from my eyes.

Thomas
sees me coming and smiles. “Perfect day or what?” he says. He’s not wearing a
coat at all, just jeans and a long sleeve shirt.

“Lots of
fun things to do this year.” I scan the area. The playground is divided into
sections and scattered among the games are adults gathered in conversation,
their kids running amuck. Although the fair is a fundraiser run by the school’s
parent council, for most the fall fair is a chance to socialize with local
families while the kids burn steam.

“Let’s get
the games in first,” says Thomas. “The prizes are candy. Sugar can do its thing
while the girls run the maze.”

Smart man.
Meyer would’ve made the same suggestion.

We each
buy a roll of tickets and make our way to the dart game, where the lady manning
the booth is dressed like Anne of Green Gables, pigtails and all. Before I have
the audacity to suggest Halloween is over, we move to the next game, where the
girls
oh
and
ah
over the ring-pop prize. They aim and throw but
neither come anywhere close to the hoop, so Thomas forks over another round of
tickets and grabs a ball. I watch him align the basketball, his expression that
of a young boy, and I’m struck by how normal this feels, how easy it is to be
with Thomas and his daughter. Even Abby seems at peace when we’re together.

Like a
pro, Thomas sinks three balls in a row, then claiming his prizes, turns to me
with a candy ring.

“I do,” I
say on impulse, and Thomas’s ears turn red.

It’s been
an
amazing day. The kid’s feed their tickets to the
gargoyle guarding the haunted maze and take off, running through the cobwebs
and plastic spiders that surround the entrance. Thomas, looking to cause
trouble, follows close on their heels while I make my way to the exit, elbow
deep in cotton candy. I can hear Abby’s laugh, the sound muffled by mountains
of hay, and Sofia’s cries to Thomas, who thumps his feet heavily on the ground,
growling. Shrill screams bellow from somewhere in the maze, and a few minutes
later Sofia darts from the exit followed by Abby, yelling “again, again!”

Thomas
comes out panting but smiling. “That was fun,” he says.

I suck
cotton candy from my thumb. “They’ve gone back in.”

“Awesome.”
Thomas’s mischievous laugh follows him through the exit.

A strange
sound catches my attention, alerting my stomach. It sounds like an animal’s
whimper or moan. I pace the perimeter of the maze, slowly. The noise stops and
I pause, trying to ground myself to its location, but I can’t place it. Part of
me dreads the thought of finding a dying animal, and part of me worries for
Abby’s safety. What if she were to stumble across something in pain or afraid?

I scan the
grounds. There is nothing but hay bales and acres of open field dotted with
people. For some reason the man/thing from the café comes to mind. The woman in
his arms made similar sounds. A nervous chill inches up my spine but I ignore
it, walking until I come full circle. Screams hit me from the left, and I jump,
cotton candy laced spit running down my chin.

“Ha, ha,”
Thomas cries, flying from the maze, his entire body shaking with laughter. He
picks me up with one arm, swinging me in circles. My hand is still buried in cotton
candy, so I have trouble balancing when my feet touch the ground.

“Do that
again and I’ll puke blue,” I say, laughing.

This feels
better. The lack of sleep has my imagination on overdrive, on edge, and I’m not
sure what scares me more: seeing something freaky again, something that proves
I’m going mad, or Abby witnessing my insanity. I shake the thought, determined
to put bad images to rest and enjoy the day. Thomas is amazing with kids. He
gets Abby laughing, giving her the male attention she needs. This makes me
think of Meyer and our days out as a family. I’d give anything to give that
life back to Abby. Anything.

The girls
run from the maze, pleading, wanting to go through again.

“Later,
monsters, there is still lots to do here,” I say, ruffling Sofia’s dark curls.
“While I man the craft table, your dad will take the two of you to the book
sale and to play more games.” I glance at my watch, figuring I’ve got an extra
five minutes to find a bathroom before heading for the gym. I gather the
remaining tickets and hand them to Thomas, watching him shake his head.

“I’ll use
mine for now.” He snatches the tickets from my hand, tucking them into my coat
pocket. “When we switch, you take them to the games we miss.”

Thomas
volunteered for the bouncy castle and his one-hour shift starts right after
mine.

“Deal.” I
kiss Abby goodbye and stick my bright-blue tongue out at Thomas.

“Best five
bucks I ever spent,” he says to my back as I walk away.

There are
two women at the craft booth, and as I approach one grabs her purse from under
the tablecloth skirting, preparing to leave. She picks at paint splatters on
her shirtsleeves, obviously displeased. She mumbles goodbye to the other woman,
the mother of a boy in Abby’s class. I don’t know her name.

“So,” the
lady says, “we’re painting white T-shirts for five bucks a pop.” At one end of
the table, a stack of folded white cotton shirts sits, and scattered about the
other end are tubes of fabric paint in various colors. String is duct-taped to
the wall behind the table, displaying newly painted masterpieces. “Make sure
you write a name on each shirt to ensure the correct one is collected. Parents
get testy when their kid’s art goes missing. Oh, and the money box is on the
chair behind the table.” She turns to leave. “Good luck.”

I’m
confident I can manage without requiring luck’s involvement. Art is my thing.

I’m on one
knee shoving my coat under the table when black leather boots appear an inch
from my face. My eyes follow snug jeans to a leather motorcycle jacket, James
Dean minus the cigarette. I grip the table, pulling myself to standing, staring
at the scarf that throws my head into tiny spirals.

“What’s
the deal, boss?” says Bryce, shrugging off his coat.

“The
deal?”

“I
volunteered to help with the craft table. You’re the artist by trade, so I’ve
appointed you governor.”

I haven’t
seen Bryce since the day he stopped by to apologize, and something about his
one-sided grin and windblown hair makes my stomach do flip-flops.

“Oh.
Okay.” It hadn’t dawned on me that my shift partner hadn’t appeared yet. Or
that she’d be a he in the form of Adonis. “Well, hello then.”

“Hello.”
He’s obviously pleased he caught me by surprise.

Within
minutes I’ve gone over the instructions, and due to a lack of clientele we have
nothing to do but chat.

“Is your
niece enjoying the fair?” I ask.

“She’s
home sick, actually. I was looking forward to bringing her today, but she woke
this morning complaining of a stomachache. Her father thought it best she stay
home and rest.”

“That’s
too bad. At least you won’t catch what she’s got.” I smile then quickly purse
my lips, hoping I don’t have blue teeth.

“No
worries, I don’t get sick,” he says.

“Never?”

“Never.”

He must be
joking. Who never gets sick?

Customers
wander over to our booth, twin sisters. They each hand Bryce five dollars while
I dig for shirts their size. They’re debating what to paint on their shirts
when Bryce suggests they get help. “She’s a professional artist,” he says,
pointing a thumb in my direction.

The girls
seem pleased with the recommendation, probing me for advice. Bryce steps to the
side, tucking his hands behind his back, allowing me center stage. This is
right up my alley. I ask a few questions about their likes and dislikes then
suggest they close their eyes, which they do. I tell them to listen to the
sounds around them, to take a deep breath, and to think of things that make
them happy. Then I instruct them to say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Candy,”
says one.

“Friends,”
says the other.

“That’s
what you paint on your shirt,” I say, pleased with the results.

Bryce
beams, vastly entertained, and the girls get to work.

“I have a
confession to make,” says Bryce. He’s being playful, leaning in close,
pretending to gaze in the opposite direction. It’s all for show.

“Uh, oh. That’s
never a good opener.”

He crosses
his arms and turns, a mischievous grin igniting his eyes. “What’s wrong with
confessions?”

“If you
have something to confess, then you were doing something crooked to start
with.”

“You never
do anything wrong, anything you need to own up to later?”

“No,” I
say. Liar.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm,” he
hums through puckered lips.

I laugh.
“Maybe you shouldn’t taint me with your criminal intent.” I’m joking, of
course. I’m no saint, and I stole the magazine from the spa not too long ago.
Still, I enjoy our easy banter.

“You might
be right,” he says. He seems to stare right through me. “You’re as pure as they
come. I promise not to rub off on you.” He rubs his forearm against my
shoulder, releasing a throaty chuckle.

I play
along. “Confess, my son.”

“When I
signed up for the fair, I put my name down for the sucker pull game.” He
hesitates for a moment. “Then I noticed you’d volunteered for the craft table,
so I switched to be with you.”

I’m not
really sure what to say. I suppose I’m flattered, but it’s been years since a
man’s been so forward, and I find myself a fish out of water. Should I be
freaking out? Should I fall at his feet?

“All
right,” I say, my voice barely audible.

Bryce
stands tall, relaxed and unfazed. “I’m not stalking you. I just wanted to get
you alone, to ask you out.”

I feel
winded, sucker punched. A dozen thoughts collide in my head, none making it to
my lips.

“You know,
a date. Like dinner and a show,” he says.

A date.
Goodness. He’s had a lot of practice at this. There is absolutely no fear of
rejection apparent in his features.

“I don’t
know, Bryce, I’m not—”

“Look, I
fly out tomorrow, and I’m away a few weeks. Just think about it, and we’ll talk
when I get back. Okay?”

A group of
kids only a year or so older than Abby run to our booth, money in hand. We have
work to do, and I’m rather relieved. Bryce is not so easily distracted. At one
point he leans over and whispers, “No pressure, I swear, just consider it,” his
lips lightly brushing my ear, the tingling sensation numbing the butterflies
swooping in my stomach.

“I will,”
I say, not so sure I should. Reasons jump to both sides of the debate.

Pretty
soon the conversation is buried under layers of paint. With the lunch lull
over, there’s a constant flow of customers at our table and laughter surrounds
us. A mound of soiled paper towels threatens to topple the garbage can. We’ve
run dry on three colors. Bryce smirks, taking in the paint splatter covering my
arms and shirt. I’m not even slightly embarrassed. Paint is my friend. We
belong together. Bryce seems to know this somehow.