Between Seasons (26 page)

Sara’s movies were next, followed by the movie player. Jules picked up the silver bowl from the coffee table and stopped, picking out the sea glass Patrick had given Sara, the surface winking in the dim light from outside.

“God, she really went all out,” Jules said. “What a piece of work.”

“Don’t touch that,” Patrick seethed, circling around her. “Put it back!”

Mrs. Oswald looked over from a box she’d been folding closed. “What’s that?”

“A while ago Sara sent me something she’d written, something about a man giving a woman a piece of sea glass. A green, heart-shaped chunk of it.” Jules laughed bitterly and held the stone up to the light. “It was really romantic. At least I thought so at the time.”

Patrick didn’t know she’d written about it, but the idea warmed him. “Sara, I miss you so much,” he said, hoping she’d hear it, even if she was miles away.

“I’m failing to see how this makes your sister a ‘piece of work’.”

Jules smirked and closed her fist around the glass. “The man in the story was a ghost, Mom. She either found this glass or she bought it, and she made up this huge scenario around the fantasy that this ghost was in love with her .”

“I
am
in love with her.” Patrick grabbed at the glass, fingers sludging through Jules’ wrist. Her hand tremored, mouth puckering like she ’d tasted something sour.

The defiant glint that came to her eye forced Patrick a half step back. Before he could decipher what she was doing, Jules threw the glass to the floor, and it broke in half, the larger piece shooting across the wood.

“What are you doing?” her mother shrieked, shrill over Patrick’s litany of cursing.

“She’s not going to use this in her delusions anymore.”

“Get out of my house!” Patrick yelled, a dangerous-sounding growl in his throat.

“That’s it!” Mrs. Oswald declared. “We’re here to help your sister, not break her things. Get your purse. We’re leaving.”

“Mom, she needs this.”

“You’re being cruel, Julie. This ends now.” Her mother’s voice was sharp, and Patrick stood beside her, wishing he could give her a fierce hug.

Oddly, the tone of her authoritative demands made him homesick for his own mother. He never thought he’d miss something he hated to hear when he was alive, but he would have given almost anything once to be back in his bedroom, listening to his mother bitch at him to clean up his crap . While he still yearned for his mom, his only wish now was for Sara. He craved her like the air his lungs used to need.

“You’re just –”

“No, Julie. I’m serious. I let you take the lead on this because you were here and seemed to have a handle on it . I admit Sara might be ill, but you’re taking this too far. Give me the key.”

Patrick grinned. “I could kiss you,” he said, sticking his tongue out at Jules, who looked as though she’d swallowed something terrible. Her eyes widened and bulged, and her mouth opened and shut a few times, no sound emerging.

“Mom, no. She needs –”

“It’s not up to you to tell her what she needs. Let the doctors do that.” She held her hand out. “Key. Now.”

Jules yanked keys from her purse and pulled one off the ring, slapping it into Mrs. Oswald’s palm. She fixed Jules with a withering stare that would have made Patrick feel like a little kid if he’d been on the receiving end.

“Okay, let’s get out of here. If Sara decides to sell this house and move back with us, we’ll help her pack… and not a second before.”

Without a word, Jules grabbed her bag and stomped out the door. Mrs. Oswald carefully swept up the pieces of glass with her hand and set the chunks on the edge of the coffee table before following her out.

Patrick’s dreams were a mix of odd, violent bursts of yelling and soothing images of Sara smiling and laughing. The morning sun shining into his face woke him, his eyes creeping open. He’d taken to crashing in Sara’s bedroom –it smelled like her still, even after a few weeks.

He glanced out the window at the trees, now completely bare, their skeletal branches shaking in the wind. The neighbor who lived behind the house puttered around his yard in a parka, cutting back trees. He watched for a few moments, envying the man. Patrick didn’t want to do great things or be rich or anything like that; he simply wanted to be free to do yard work. Hell , he just wanted to step outside without instantly being zapped back to Sara’s office… his bedroom… whatever.

He hummed the song he and Sara had danced to that one time as he walked down the hallway and descended the stairs.

“Sara?”

Just like every other morning over the last few weeks, he imagined her yelling that she was in the kitchen. He’d get there, and she’d be fussing at the counter, making tea or toast, smiling at him. He missed the simplest things about her –the way she insisted on using her favorite knife to spread butter on bread , the way her mouth wrinkled in the corners when she drank from her mug. He could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, laughing at some joke he made or telling him about something she saw on the local news.

“I finished the pages you told Ginny to lay out for me,” he said, his voice cutting through the empty room. “I’m trying to read them as slow as I can , so we can finish the book together.”

Sara’s voice wrapped around him. “Don’t be silly –we’ll finish another book together. Don’t be bored on my account.”

A knock sounded on the front door, and Patrick pushed his head around the wall into the living room just as Ginny rushed into the room, a gust of fire-scented air wafting in with her. Someone must have been burning trash or leaves or something. It was one of the smell s Patrick always associated with the fall, but more than anything now it –the entire season –just reminded him of the time he was missing with Sara.

“Hey, Ginny,” Patrick called eagerly. He’d been waiting for news on Sara, hoping she could come back to him any day.

“Patrick?” she called, slapping down a pile of mail on the coffee table, scanning around with pursed lips at the boxes Jules and Mrs. Oswald had packed. He moved over and touched her shoulder. She smiled and said, “Hey there.”

She kept her coat on, heading toward the stairs. “I wonder if Sara knows someone else was in here?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about it,” Patrick said, smirking and following after her as she clomped up the stairs. “Jules pissed off her mother over it.”

“So, there’s good news and bad news, which do you want first?”

“The good news.” Patrick always wanted the good news first, and he hoped it had something to do with the doctors deciding Sara was fine.

“The bad news then.” Ginny turned the corner into Sara’s office, looking at the desk. There was no way to let her know he couldn’t pick up any of the pencils she’d left, so he folded the sheet of paper he’d torn out of his notebook into the shape of a heart. It wasn’t pretty or well done… but it would make a temporary replacement for the sea glass Jules had broken. “The doctors are convinced she’s holding back, which she is. They’re insisting she stay for now.”

Patrick swore and slapped his hand against the wall. Ginny jumped and glanced in the direction of the sound with an apologetic expression , pocketing the paper heart.

“The good news is the deal she made with Jules specified she only had to stay for two months. She’s doing her best to pretend she’s fine, but she misses you so much. We talked a little last night, and she asked me to tell her stories about you.” She grinned. “I told her about that time you met my Uncle Ron.”

He laughed. “Oh, great. Now she’s going to imagine me puking my guts up.”

“She spends a lot of time reading. There’s a patient down the hall from her, a man who’s catatonic. She’s reading
The Turn of the Screw to him, says it makes her feel closer to you.
For some reason, she says he reminds her of you.”

“That’s good. Tell her I’m there with her. Every word.” For the millionth time, he wished Ginny could hear him. He impulsively slid his arm around her shoulder, his arm sinking through her as he squeezed the space where she stood.

“I’ll never get used to that,” she said, smiling. “It’s so strange to know you’re really here.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still weird for me too.” He released her, and she headed back out to the hallway.

“I do have to go, but I’ll give her your note next weekend. I know it’s not much, but this is all almost half over. She’ll be back before you know it.”

“It can’t come soon enough.” He watched as she walked down the stairs, her voice carrying back to him a few moments later.

“See you next week.”

“Yeah, see you then.” The door opened and shut, taking his lifeline to Sara out of the house. It would be another four or five weeks until his angel was back. He didn’t know if he could take it. Yeah, it was a Hell of a lot less time than the years he’d spent without her, but every nerve ending in his body begged him to find her, haul her into his arms, and breathe her in.

He sat down at the top of the stairs and balanced his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands in front of his face. He still prayed now and then, but maybe it was time to have a man-to-man with God. Or a man-to-thing… or ghost-to-overlord… whatever. He laughed, a bitter, cold sound.

“I love her,” Patrick said loudly, staring at the ceiling above him. He didn’t think anything would happen –he’d asked God to save him, kill him, or find him a million times before Sara had come into his life, and God never answered. Nothing ever happened. Nothing different , anyway. Maybe Sara had been the answer to those prayers, now that he thought about it. But what had he done to deserve having her taken away from him? “I can’t do this anymore without her. Just… “ He clenched his eyes shut, conjuring her face behind his eyelids. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just give her back to me. I don’t care if I stay in this house forever. Turn me into a worm, for all I care. I just need to be with her.” The air stilled , silence turning into an audible static around him. “I’ll give you anything,” he whispered.

Patrick stood, the stairs looming in front of him. He’d died here, and he felt like he was dying again. His eyes closed, and he saw the faces of his mother and father. They were happy and together, wherever they were –he knew it. Ginny. Andy. Other friends. His grandmother’s voice, the one who died when he was ten, told him to have a cookie and sleep. The voices and faces blurred together until he was dizzy with it. His feet le ft the wood of the step, and he was flying. Sara’s face was the one he saw just before a sharp, cracking pain spread through his shoulder.

“I love you,” she called as his hip sheared across a hard surface, and he winced, grunting.

This was so familiar, but the pain felt different somehow this time. He landed on his head, and this time everything went black.

His head pounded, but he became aware of the sweetest sound he’d ever heard as he surfaced: the sound of Sara’s voice. No smell of pancakes, though; rather, the odor of antiseptic and dust rolled around him.

“I find that I really hang back,” she said, “but I must take my plunge. In going on with the record of what was hideous at Bly, I not only challenge the most liberal faith –for which I little care; but –and this is another matter –I renew what I myself suffered, I again push my way through it to the end.”

He had to be dreaming again… one of his weird dreams where was in that guy, sort of trapped, just as he was in his parents’ house.

She took a breath, and Patrick’s eyes fluttered open to take in his surroundings . No family picnic, blood bathroom, or destroyed apartment this time. Beige walls wrapped around , and a light blue blanket smoothed across his legs. He stared at Sara –she looked tired, hair lying flat to her head. She clutched his worn copy of The Turn of the Screw in her hand, her eyes trained intently on the page.

“There came suddenly an hour after which, as I look back, the affair seems to me to have been all pure suffering; but I have at least reached the heart of it, and the straightest road out is doubtless to advance.”

Where was he? He glanced down… his arms were too hairy. His body felt wrong and heavy, but it felt strangely familiar too. He wiggled his fingers –his hands were wider, uncalloused.
Was he dreaming?
It all felt different this time… sharper than the other dreams. Plus, he’d never been able to make that guy’s body move in his dreams. Not like this.

Sara continued to read, completely oblivious to him. “One evening–with nothing to lead up or to prepare it –I felt the cold touch of the impression that had breathed on me the night of my arrival and which, much lighter then, as I have mentioned, I should probably have made little of in memory had my subsequent sojourn been less agitated.”

“Sara?” His voice was deeper, raspy, and Sara gasped as she looked up in shock. He jolted too – he said
her name . This was heavy. He could control the body. What the Hell was going on?

“Oh my God! Hang on, I’ll get a nurse.”

She vaulted from her seat, but Patrick called out to her again. “Wait. Haven’t seen you in weeks.”

It was the voice from his dreams, without a doubt. He’d heard it when he’d been talking to his dream grandfather that one time. But this wasn’t a dream; he was sure of it. He pinched his thigh as a precaution and coughed out an amazed laugh when he didn’t jerk awake. Instead an annoying but brief pain rippled up his leg.

She turned back toward him. “Are you okay? Do you need water or something? Nate, is it? I saw your name on your chart, and –”

Patrick felt the strange lips of his curl on one side into a half-grin. This
was
genuine . There was no way it could be anything else . He was himself, but he wasn’t. He didn’t know why he was so sure this wasn’t a fantasy –he felt it to his bones, though, that this was the real deal.

“What are you talking about, angel? Oh, Jules broke the sea glass, but–”

Her eyes widened and bulged, her face slackening and then stretching into a confused expression of hope . She held out her hand, but her fingers trembled violently. She touched him, and he sighed. The feeling of her skin was like home.