The Reaping (23 page)

“Your carriage, my lady,” he said formally, his brilliant smile settling into a mischievous grin.

“When did you finish it?”

“Just today.”

“Evidently it runs alright,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“Runs like a top,” he confirmed, equally light.  Then his silver eyes, eyes that missed nothing, met mine.  He sobered instantly.  “You’re upset,” he said, very matter of fact.

“No.  I-I—”

“Yes, you are.  Don’t lie to me.”

“No.  Really, I—”

“I can tell you’re upset.”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Look, Carson, you—”

“Stop interrupting me!”  I shouted, interrupting him instead.  “I don’t know
how
I feel about it.  Okay?”  I turned and stalked through the garage and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

I knew I wasn’t being rational, but since when did emotional outbursts have to be rational?  I thought absurdity was implied.

I didn’t stop until I was in my bedroom with the door closed behind me.  I paced the floor a few times, clenching and unclenching my fists, struggling for control of my turbulent emotions.  I knew that being out of control only opened the door for trouble.  Derek had taught me that. 

Taking deep breaths, I walked to stand in front of the window.  I could see the driveway clearly.  I watched as Derek, who’d been standing exactly where I’d left him, staring at the house, slid behind the wheel and eased the car into the garage.  I heard the motor die and some of my anger died with it. 

It made no sense that I would perceive Derek’s hard work and consideration an act of betrayal, even though that’s what it felt like.  My father was never going to return and finish the car.  I couldn’t do it by myself.  It was serving no purpose sitting in the garage, defunct.  So what was the big deal?

I couldn’t settle on an answer.  Something inside me just wouldn’t let it go.  The best I could do was to come out, after almost an hour, and be civil.

Derek was in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter, facing my door when I exited my bedroom.  When I appeared, he made no move, no comment.  There was no change in expression.  He simply stared.

“Sorry,” I said as sincerely as I could manage, which wasn’t very sincere considering I still wasn’t sure that I
really was
apologetic.

It seemed like an eternity passed before he spoke.  “Why don’t you take it for a drive by yourself,” he suggested flatly.

I opened my mouth to argue, but before any words came out, it occurred to me that his offer sounded very appealing. 

“Alright,” I said, maybe a little too brightly.  I walked to Derek and held out my hand expectantly.

His eyes bored into mine and, without breaking that contact, he dropped the keys into the center of my palm.  Wordlessly, I turned and walked to the garage door.  I paused with my hand on the knob, thinking there was probably some polite response or gesture I should make.  It eluded me, however, so I turned the knob and stepped out into the garage, closing the door behind me.

I opened the car door and slid behind the wheel.  I’d done it at least a hundred times, but never this way. 

A sliver of sadness sliced through me.  Tears stung my eyes.  This wasn’t how I’d pictured my first drive in this car to be.  Right now I should be getting a twenty-two point lecture on safe driving and at least one bone-chilling cautionary tale, complements of my father.  Then he was supposed to be standing at the edge of the garage watching me back down the driveway, arms crossed over his chest and a proud smile on his face.  There wasn’t supposed to be this emptiness inside me, this ache.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pushed the key into the ignition and turned it.  The engine roared quickly to life.  I shifted into reverse and backed slowly down the driveway, careful not to look forward at the empty garage. 

When I reached the bottom, I turned onto the street and paused for just a second.  I closed my eyes.  In my head I pictured Dad giving me an approving thumb’s up and in my head I waved to him.  Then I opened my eyes and, without a backward glance, I punched the gas and left my troubles behind.

The speed was a very effective, albeit temporary, tension-reliever.  I drove for miles and miles, trying to put as much distance as I could between me and… everything.  But it turned out I couldn’t escape my life for very long.  After all those miles and all those turns, when I could’ve already reached the state line, I ended up at the cemetery instead, parked in the lot, staring at the stone-dotted landscape.

I got out and walked to Dad’s marker.  They’d finally gotten it put in about two weeks ago.  It was thick and sturdy, just like Dad.  I sat down and leaned up against it, hoping I’d feel closer to him if for no other reason than just physical proximity to his body. 

I sat like that for a long, long time, though Dad never showed up.  I wasn’t even really disappointed.  That was my problem:  I
knew
he was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

When I noticed how bright the dusk-to-dawn lights were getting, I hopped up and hurried to the car.  If there was one thing I knew for sure it was that I didn’t want to get caught in a cemetery after dark. 

I felt safer after I got in and closed the car door.  I started the engine and leaned my head back against the headrest.  I listened to the steady throb of the engine, wishing Dad could’ve driven it just once before he died. 

After several minutes, I raised my head.  A glimmer of movement drew my eye to the rearview mirror.  There was something in the back seat.

I whirled around to look into the dark back seat just as invisible hands wrapped around my throat. 

The strongest grip I’ve ever experienced pulled me up over the top of the bench seat and into the back seat.  Then I was flat on my back looking up into the face of the badly burned man I’d seen in the garage.  Terror gripped my heart even tighter than his hands.

On one half of his face, much of the bone was exposed and charred to a dull black though there were patches of melted flesh that remained, as well as a few tufts of hair on his skull.  On the other side there was blood and soot-smudged skin stretched tight over a handsome bone structure and short dark hair that covered his scalp.

He had only one eye and it stared down at me furiously.  And then, somewhere in the back of my horrified mind, something struck me about that cool, pale gray eye.  It was familiar. 

Before I could finish the thought, my lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen.  My eyes watered.  My head throbbed.  I raised my hands to my throat, desperate to loosen the fingers at my neck.  I clawed at them frantically, but my nails met with my own skin.  There were no other hands there. 

I pushed at the dark chest that hovered over me, but there was nothing but cool air beneath my palms.  I kicked wildly with my feet, but they met with nothing but the inside of the car. 

Tipping my chin back as far as I could, I managed to drag in a gulp of air, which only made me cough and sputter.  Then his grip tightened even more. 

I continued to flail my limbs, but it was becoming harder and harder to move as my struggling grew weaker and weaker.  

I was fading quickly and I knew it.  I had to do something.  My last clear thought was to somehow get the door open so that the interior light would be triggered.  That’s what had saved me in the garage—light.

I tried to formulate a plan, but it was so hard to focus.  My brain didn’t want to think.  It was sluggish and faint.

And then a car drove slowly by. 

It seemed to happen in slow motion.  Light shone first against the ceiling, illuminating the interior the tiniest bit.  The man screamed and his hold on my throat lessened.  As the car passed by, brightness swept through the front seat.  The grip on my throat faltered, as if something was pulling the man away from me. 

Then light rushed into the back seat.  As it chased away the shadows (and everything that traveled in them), the pain moved from my throat to my chest.  I felt the man’s fingernails tear into my skin, his fingers clutching and clawing at me as if he were being dragged away.

And for a fraction of a second,
I
could feel
him,
too. 

Where I’d been trying to push at his chest, suddenly there was something substantial beneath my hands.  I could feel fabric with muscle and bone beneath.  I fisted my fingers and pushed as hard as I could.

Then he was gone. 

Adrenaline pumped through my body.  I lay for a few seconds, breathing heavily, shaking all over, trying to gather my wits.  But when darkness had once more settled all around me, I leapt into action.  I climbed quickly back into the front seat and hit the switch to turn on the interior light.  Then, without wasting another second, I slammed the shifter into reverse and pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. 

After I’d driven several miles and put a safe amount of distance between me and the cemetery, I became aware of something biting into my palm.  I held my hand up and saw that a necklace was wrapped around my fingers.  And there, pressed between my palm and the steering wheel, was a charm.  I stuffed the necklace into my pocket and tried to put it out of my mind. 

When I arrived at the house, I saw that it was dark inside.  Derek obviously hadn’t come back and I was keenly disappointed.

My body was suffering the after affects of an adrenaline rush.  I was shaking from head to toe.  Carefully, I pulled the car into the empty garage then got out on unsteady legs to close the door.  I left the car’s headlights on and turned on every light I passed as I made my way into the kitchen then on to my bathroom where I turned on the shower and started shedding clothes. 

As I peeled my jeans off, the necklace fell out of the pocket.  I picked it up, holding it in the bright fluorescent lighting so I could study the charm.  I wasn’t all that familiar with the saints and Catholic lore, but I thought it looked like a St. Christopher’s medal.  I turned it over and read the engraving.

Safe travels, my son.

I hung the necklace on the edge of the medicine cabinet for safekeeping then got in the shower. 

When I take a shower, I like the water nearly scalding.  If I don’t look like a lobster when I get out, I don’t feel clean.  And, though I’m used to the burn of hot water, this time I flinched when it hit my skin.  It stung in an unusual way on my chest.

I looked down and saw four long, deep gashes that traveled the length of my sternum.  Each scratch exposed a track of pearly white beneath my skin.  I remembered feeling the man’s nails digging into me and realized that, in his struggle to hang on to me, he wounded me. 

I cleaned the angry-looking scratches well then finished showering and got out to towel off.  The bathroom was steamy, the mirror completely fogged up.  Before I wrapped my towel around my head, I used it to wipe the moisture from the mirror so I could see. 

With two wide swipes, the glass was clear.  Still jumpy, I lowered my towel slowly, thinking of all the scary movies I’d seen where there is another reflection in the mirror. 

Scoffing, I gingerly let my arm fall.  I was relieved that there was no face other than my own in the mirror.  I turned toward the door and bent over to wrap my towel around my wet hair.  When I straightened, my breath caught in my throat.  There was a shape in the mist.

Though much of the detail was lacking, I knew instantly who the colorless form in the steam was.  The question was: what did she want.

Finally, I took a deep breath to calm myself as I backed away from her.  When the cool ceramic of the sink hit my butt, I stopped.  She didn’t move and, this time, she didn’t speak.  She just stared at me with eyes that were still perceptibly empty, even in the mist.