Guardian (The Guardian Trilogy) (7 page)

I take
a bite and swallow it down.  The eggs have gone cold.  Ew.  I get up and scrape
them into the garbage, rinse my plate, and stow it in the dishwasher.  I take a
moment and stare out the window over the sink.  The sun is shining, and I
notice two white butterflies dancing around the lilacs.  My gaze moves to the
birdfeeder, where a Blue Jay and a sparrow are vying for seeds.  Our neighbor,
Mr. Miller, is already out and working in his garden.  I notice our flower beds
need weeding; maybe I’ll offer to help my mom after we get back.

“EMMA!”
Shel yells down the stairs.  “COME ON!”

I close
my eyes and beg karma for forgiveness as I silently curse Shel’s name.  Would
it kill her to chill for a second?  I slowly turn and shuffle toward the
stairs.

After
my dad’s suggestion of the golf course, Shel decided to skip the online job
search for now and head there first.  After we investigate that lead, her plan
is to go back through town and see what jobs might be available there.

“As
long as we agree not to apply at McDonald’s,” I say when we’re in the car.  “I
would like to avoid fast food if at all possible.”

“Agreed.” 
She adjusts the rearview mirror of my white Grand Am.  “Why am I driving your
car again?”

“My dad
says it needs to be driven.  It’s been sitting in the driveway since I came
home last month.”  It feels odd to sit in my car.  It almost smells musty from lack
of use.

“Ah,”
Shel nods in understanding.

I
direct her to the golf course, which isn’t too far outside of town.  We follow
the long, tree lined drive until we spot the sign for the main office.  “Didn’t
this place used to be something else?” she asks as we park outside the pro
shop.

“No, I
think they just changed the name.  New owners or something.”

We walk
into the pro shop and I glance around.  Polo shirts precisely hang on racks,
golf shoes line the back wall, and hats are stacked neatly for sale with the
Bay Woods logo.  The front counter is glass and holds tees, gloves, and boxes
of golf balls.  The woman behind the counter greets us.  “Good morning!  How
may I help you today?”

“We
heard you were hiring,” Shel smiles as we step to the counter.

“We
are.  We’re looking for rangers, cart and concession staff.  You need to be at
least 21 to work the beverage carts and main concession.”

“You’re
in luck because we’re both 21,” Shel says.

“Great!” 
She opens a drawer and pulls out two applications.  “Fill these out and return
them to me.  You can have a seat at the tables in the main concession area, if
you like,” she nods to the left.

“Thanks,”
Shel says and takes the two pens the woman offers.

We head
to a table and start to complete the apps.  The area is relatively cozy and has
a sports bar feel with two large flat screens in opposite corners of the room. 
The walls are decorated with autographed golf paraphernalia and some trendy signs
that read, “Who’s Your Caddy?” and “How Am I Driving?”  Three men sit at table across
from us; they look like business associates.  Shel pauses for a minute and
looks around.  “I bet we could run into some pretty cute guys working here,”
she muses.

I look
at her annoyed.  “Really?”

“Sorry,”
she says regretfully.  “I meant for me, not for you.”

We go
back to the applications.  “I need a third reference.  Can I use your mom?” she
asks me.

“Yeah. 
You use mine and I’ll use yours.”

We
complete the apps and turn them in to the lady at the front counter.  She tells
us someone will be in touch within the week.

“Where
to next?” I ask as we get back in the car.

“Let’s
try the bookstore in town,” she says.  “You still like to read, right?”

“Sure.”

It
turns out to be slim pickings when we get into town; not many places are
hiring.  We manage to successfully apply at two more places – the “Book Nook”
and a new consignment shop.

“Well,
I’d say this afternoon was a success,” Shel says as we leave the resale store. 
“Hungry?”

“Not
really.”

She eyes
me suspiciously.

“Seriously! 
I’m not.”

“Well I
am,” she looks around.  “Let’s hit the Subway.”

We walk
across the street to the restaurant, and I wait in line with Shel.  The tiny
place is busy and crowded.  As my eyes jump around the lobby between the
people, the menu, and the fresh sandwich ingredients, my skin prickles.  This
is the first time I’ve been out in public in a month.  It feels off, like
everyone is staring at me even though I know they’re not.  Maybe it’s just the
tight space; these people are only getting lunch like any other day.  I feel
strangely out of place and out of sync.

“And
what would you like?” the sandwich artist asks as she pulls on her plastic
gloves.

“Uh…” I
stutter.  I cave in and get myself a small turkey sub and a bottle of water. 
I’m truly not hungry, but I don’t want to look weird watching my best friend
eat.

“Hungrier
than you thought?” Shel asks after adding a cookie to her order.

“Guess
so,” I shrug.

Once we
find a table, she polishes off her foot-long Cold Cut Combo in half the time it
takes me to eat a portion of my small meal.  I have to admit my head does feel
clearer with something in my stomach, and I take my time to finish.  I feel
calmer than I did standing in line.  I even manage to tease Shel about her
metabolism.  “A sub and a cookie and chips?  Where do you put it all?”

She
looks down at her curves.  “These hips don’t lie.”

I scoff. 
“Okay, Shakira.”

Shel
really does look great.  She always has had that perfect 36-24-36 thing going
on.  I, on the other hand, was hard pressed to fill a B cup until a few years
ago.  While I’m thin, I still can’t find my waist.  Or my hips.  It’s like one
straight line.  James used to tell me I looked athletic.  I would laugh because
I’m no athlete.

Back in
the car, headed home, I think about our time in town.  I feel like I’ve overcome
a small hurdle, like I accomplished something.  My eyes land on Shel.  “Thanks
for getting me out of the house.”

She
smiles.  “You’re welcome.”  The car slows and she makes a right turn.

“Where
are you going?” I ask, confused.  She should be turning left up ahead.

“There’s
something I think you need to do.”

I look
out the window puzzled.  There’s not much down this road except….  Panic grips
my heart.  “Shel.  No.”

“Yes.”

I shoot
her a stern look.  “Turn around right now!”

“No.”

“I’m
not kidding.  Stop the car!”

She
stares calmly out the windshield.  “You forfeited your rights when you gave me
the keys.”

I want
to grab the wheel, but I squeeze my eyes shut instead.  This is one hurdle I cannot
overcome.  Not today.  “I can’t do this,” I beg.

“Yes,
you can.”  The car slows again, and Shel makes another right turn.  The car creeps
around a curve and comes to a stop.  She turns off the engine.

“C’mon. 
Let’s go,” she says in a soft voice.

I shake
my head no, eyes still closed.

“I’ll
be with you the whole time.”

I set
my mouth in a hard line and don’t move.

“Okay,”
she says.  I hear her open the door and get out of the car.

I sit
with my eyes closed and concentrate on breathing.  I don’t know if my hyperventilation
is out of fear or anger, but it’s getting worse.  How dare she?  Who does she
think she is anyway?  Where does she get off thinking she knows what’s best for
me?  This is my life, my
heart!  How can this possibly help anything?

I try
to slow my breathing by forming a speech of verbal abuse that I will unleash on
her when she gets back in the car.  I need to make it clear – if she’s going to
continue to stay with me, we need to set some boundaries.  I’m all for trying
to heal and move forward, but this, this seems way too soon.

When I
open my eyes, I find Shel leaning against the hood of the car with her back to
the windshield.  I take a few minutes and seriously contemplate wrestling my
keys away from her.  It’d be a tough fight, and on a normal day I could probably
take her.  But not today.  I don’t have the energy.

With a
defeated sigh I slowly push open the door with shaky hands.  I walk over and
lean against the hood next to her and stare out over a place I never thought
I’d be.  Not now and certainly not in the near future.

Whispering
Oaks Cemetery.

“Ready?”
she asks quietly and holds out her hand.

I try
to be angry, but my voice catches in my throat.  “You tricked me.” 

“He’d
want you to visit,” she says softly.

I give
her a pained look and slowly grasp her fingers.

We walk
hand in hand along the dirt drive that circles the cemetery in silence.  It
really is a beautiful place with tall maple and pine trees that are hundreds of
years old.  It is meticulously landscaped; early wildflowers bloom along the
sides of the drive, and the grass smells freshly mowed.  Birds sing and chirp
as they fly from tree to tree.  Older headstones and regal mausoleums stand in
the front of the cemetery.  As we walk closer to the back, sunlight reflects
off the newer, shiny headstones.

We make
it to the far end of the cemetery where an open area of neatly mowed grass lies
empty, patiently waiting for its future inhabitants.  Shel veers slightly to
the left and I follow behind her, never releasing her hand.  I know we’re close
when her walk slows.  She was here, following the service, while I was having
my break down in that little room in the funeral home.

“We’re
here,” she says quietly.

I’m scared
to look.  Shel steps to my side, so she’s beside me instead of in front of me
and reveals a perfectly domed mound of dirt adorned with floral arrangements
that have long since dried and shriveled, their bright bows the only color left
against the brown dirt.

My
throat constricts and my chest tightens.

Shel
squeezes my hand.  I squeeze her hand back, and we just stand there, together, staring
at the ground.

I’m not
sure how much time has passed when she asks, “Do you want some privacy?”

I think
I do.  I nod and whisper, “Don’t go too far.”

“I’ll
be right over there,” she points to a bench that sits off to the side of the
drive.  She lets go of my hand and walks away.

Left
alone, I’m not sure what to do.  I kneel down beside the gravesite and rest on
my heels.  I reach out and feel one of the bows, the navy blue one.  When I
turn it over, the word “Son” is imprinted on it in fancy gold lettering.  Tears
prick my eyes.

The
wind rustles the leaves on the trees and blows the ribbon out of my fingers.  I
stare at the withered flowers for a moment, then tilt my head and look at the
top of the dirt mound where I imagine James’ head would be.

“Hey.” 
My voice is barely there.  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

I close
my eyes and listen to the sounds around me.  The wind, the birds, and the
silence in between.  There’s no sobbing or screaming like I feared, just a few
stray tears wind down my face.

“I miss
you.  So much.”

A warm
breeze swirls around me, and I wrap my arms around myself as if to hug the air
back.  After a few minutes I realize that I feel very calm, peaceful even.  I
open my eyes.  “I won’t stay away,” I whisper.  I reach out tentatively,
placing my hand on the dirt.  It feels soft under my palm.

My
heart aches.  I silently wish that he is safe.  Somewhere warm, and somewhere
free of pain.  Somewhere happy.  I smile as his grin flashes across my memory. 
“I love you,” I say quietly.

“Until the
end of forever,”
my mind answers in his voice, making me smile
again.

I press
my palm into the dirt, so when I remove it, an imprint remains.  I start to
make little swirls in the soil around my handprint.  I imagine him looking over
my shoulder, watching me.  I can sense his amused face as I imagine our
conversation:

“Why
are you playing in the dirt?” he asks with lopsided smirk.

“Because
I’m trying to touch you.”

“Why?”

“Because
you are gone.”

“I am
not gone.”

“Yes,
you are.”

“I’m
not.”

“Are
you trying to pick a fight with me?”

He
laughs.  “Why would I do that?  I never win.”

“That’s
true.”

“So why
do you think I’m gone?  I’m right here.”

“You
died.”

He
frowns.  “I know; I was there.”

“And I
wasn’t,” I sadly sigh.  “Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

He
smiles.  “That’s kind of creepy.”

“I see
you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“You
know I’ll always be with you.”

“In my
heart, right?”

“Of course.”

“That’s
not good enough.”

“Being
stubborn, are we?”

“I’m
not trying to be.  I just know what I want.”

“I
guess I’ll have to work on that.”

“Please
do.”

My
imaginary conversation with James ends when I run out of space around my
handprint to continue my art.  I’ve managed to create a handprint that looks
like its radiating heat with swirls coming from the fingertips and out around
the palm.  I smile weakly at my creation.