A Whisper in the Flame (The Ragers Series Book 1) Page 14

“You two must have been in trouble for fighting all the time growing up.”

  “We were absolutely in trouble all the time, but not for fighting,” Jake snickers.

  “Nope, all the bullies were too scared of us after the first one. Never had to use our ninja skills again. At least not until Basic.”

  “Done.” Jake says proudly, taking in the effect of the new piston in its proper place.

  “Now, if only we could find the camshaft,” Kye says, shaking his head.

  “Don’t forget to change the oil!” I chime.

  Chapter 23

  We fall into an easy pattern over the next few weeks. Jamie and I boil water every morning and then go check on the garden. We gather for lunch and dinner. The guys keep talking about wanting to make the trek to Raleigh, avoiding all the highways of course.

  “But is it really worth the risk?” Jamie asks every single time they bring it up. “We’ve made it this far without the four-wheeler working.”

  Every night, after playing games and doing dishes, we all sit together in the living room, discussing the ins and outs of the military base. I’m fairly certain they are going to have to explain and re-explain this to me a couple hundred times before I know the difference between a colonel and a sergeant and all of the clearances I’ll need.

  At first, I was content in listening to their stories and learning what I could. I enjoyed letting my mind wander and feel at peace with what I’m doing. But impatience and guilt gnaw at my insides as I think of Lauren, alone and afraid without anyone there to help her.

  I try to tell myself to be patient. That I need time to recharge, learn, gain some experience before going off to my next mission. That all of it will help me think clearer so I can ask and remember the answers to all of the questions I need to make a sturdy, plausible plan.

  What happens though, is that each day ends like the last. With me sitting alone in Jake's room. Staring down at the blank pages of paper he gave me, pen in hand but no ideas coming to mind. I continue to grow more anxious. Why is my mind as blank as the pages before me? I should be coming up with something, focusing on how to get to the base and find Lauren and my dad. They need me.

  Maybe it's my heart. I'm scared. What if I do make it there only to find out that Dad is gone too or that they never took Lauren there in the first place? I don't think I can take anymore disappointment and heartache.

  The crisp mornings begin to warm to a comfortable temperature, keeping the river water from freezing and our bellies filled with grilled protein-rich fish. The mornings start getting lighter earlier and staying brighter longer as pollen fills the air.

  My patience with myself is wearing thin. I feel useless around here. I’m too weak to do anything but garden and boil water. I can’t even pour that into containers on my own. My frustration with myself sours my disposition and makes my planning even more difficult.

  It must be in the air because just as I’m starting to fall into the swing of things, everything seems to shift. The mood around the house has changed to a somber one over the past few days, and not just from my own sulking.

  Jake is quieter and more reserved than usual. After his work is done, he's gone to his room and stays there most of the night. I've stopped asking for help with my plans because I don't seem to be getting anywhere with him.

  Jamie keeps giving me small, half-smiles that barely curve upon her thin face. She appears wistful and keeps tossing sorrowful glances towards Jake. Even Kye, who is typically the loudest of the bunch, has tapered back on his jokes and teasing.

  I'm so confused by this abrupt change that part of me thinks maybe I should go. Are the three of them so trodden and down because of me? Am I causing such grief from being here that they cannot be their typical selves with each other anymore?

  Every morning this week, I’ve woken up to grizzly reminders of my past. Nightmares fueled by my anxiety and guilt. Some days I see my mother as a Rager, screaming in my face, other days it’s Lauren as she’s being dragged away from her home.

  This morning is no different.

  Air fills into my dry lungs as I wake. I heave it in, still tasting the fresh suffocating river water that flooded my body moments ago in my dreams. The cool air flows from my lungs into my diaphragm, expanding my stomach. I choke on it, like I was choking on the water while it tried to drown me.

  I can’t move. My body feels stuck, even though my fingers tingle in an effort to move. In my head I am calling out for help, but no words are coming out of my mouth. It feels like I’ve been struggling to free myself from this sleep paralysis for an eternity when my body finally jerks and I fall from the bed, dragging the covers with me as I fight to inhale oxygen. I still can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?

  Footsteps race down the hall and the door bursts open.

  “Emma? Oh my God, are you okay?” Jamie moves somewhere around me; I can hear the panic in her voice as I struggle against myself. The light flips on. Jamie’s beside me as I crouch on the floor, panic still flooding my body.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Her warm arms wrap around me, pulling my head down into her lap. “You’re having an anxiety attack. But you are okay, nothing is going to happen to you. It’s just you and I, together. Take a deep breath, okay? Breathe in slowly and breathe out.”

  Every word she says to me brings me back. Back to this room, back to reality. I focus on my breathing. Focus on being here, being alive. I’m not alone. I’m not drowning.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod my head yes as I sit up on the floor, rubbing my hands around my throat.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and get dressed and then come out to the kitchen,” she says, her voice dropping back to a downhearted chill. She stands up and walks out of the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

  As I dress in my dark wash denim jeans and my green short sleeved t-shirt, I can hear the quiet sound of water pouring and dishes clinking down the hall. When I open the bedroom door again, the sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar can’t even warm the hollow feeling in my chest.

  I can hear Jake and Jamie's docile voices drifting down the hall. The same deep melancholy that has plagued the house over the past few days still saturates the energy this morning. It hurts my heart, and the only thing I want to do is tell them that I'll leave. I'll go so they don't have to continue arguing with one another over my place with them.

  "Jake, Jamie." My voice shakes as I walk to them. They stand in the kitchen, Jamie pouring oatmeal into bowls, while Jake wraps forks in a few paper towels. Though I know I'm the reason for their strife, it still hurts that I'll be saying goodbye. I'll once again be on my own, alone.

  They both raise their heads to meet my face, stopping whatever contusive conversation they were having before I interrupted. Their stricken faces harden my resolve.

  "I know I've been causing a lot of tension between you by being here. I'm so sorry. I just want to say that I have really appreciated all that you've done for me, but I think it's time for me to go now. I don't want to cause more trouble.”

  Jake stares at me with confusion, his steel eyes widening, bringing out the outer edges of jade in his irises.

  “Wait, no. Why would you—” Jamie starts.

  “It’ll be better if she sees.” Jake turns his arm out to Jamie, stopping her from continuing. “Emma, would you, please, like to come with us to visit our mom?”

  My breath catches in my throat. When I said I was going to leave, I expected them to have some words about it, but I didn’t expect these. I’ve never even heard them talk about their mom, other than stories of them when they were younger.

  Kye walks down the hall in the middle of my internal debate, ignoring the awkward silence I’ve thrown us into. “Are we ready to hit the road?” he asks.

  “Yes, let’s go,” Jamie replies, picking up two of the black plastic bowls off the counter. She hands one to Kye and then loops her free arm around his, allowing him to lead her out of the
kitchen and house.

  Jake grabs the last two containers of breakfast and walks past me to the front door. He turns to face me before leaving, giving me a small smile. It’s the first I’ve seen from him in days.

  “Are you coming?”

  My heart lightens a little as I nod in response and follow him out the door. All I can think at the moment is how much more fitting that smile seems on his face than the gloomy expression he’s held recently. Even if it wasn’t a full smile, it's an improvement that I’ll happily take.

  We drive down as many small back roads as possible towards Lumberton in hopes of avoiding any military or other’s presence. The oatmeal warms our bellies, and while we don’t talk much, everyone seems a little more content than sad.

  The drive isn’t terribly long. I know we are nearing our destination once we slow down into a new town. Jake drives past the longest strip of shops and homes, taking a path towards a tall, white steepled church. The church grows in size as we near it, illuminating its beautiful old stained-glass windows, or at least what is left of them; all but one is shattered and broken.

  We turn down a narrow winding road lined with beautiful shrubbery. Towering stone columns stand on either side of the road, with a closed gate and dead flower bushes lining the fence. A grand marble slab connects to both sides of the columns with the words “Memorial Garden Cemetery” carved into the glossed surface.

  My mouth falls open when I read the sign. Cemetery? I don’t know what I expected when they said we would visit their mother, but it certainly was not this.

  Guilt washes through my body as all the blood rushes to my face, sending heat cascading into my cheeks. How could I have been so oblivious? Was I really so far in my self-doubt and sabotage that I missed what was really going on?

  We’ve never really spoken about their mother, but I should have guessed the reason if they hadn’t mentioned her before. She died before this all started. She wasn’t a casualty of the change, but of something else.

  “Jamie? Jake?” My voice quivers. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “It’s okay,” Jake stops me before I can finish.

  “Yeah, it’s not your fault I never told you.”

  “But I was being stupid and caught up in myself. I was completely oblivious. I’m sorry.”

  “Today marks ten years, but this day never gets any easier as time passes.”

  We follow the tiny road down a while until a pond stretches across the landscape with magnificent weeping willow trees in various places near the water’s edge. Jake parks the jeep off the side of the road, opening his door and offering a helping hand to allow me to jump out.

  “Her death has always been a little bittersweet for us,” Jake says as we wander up towards the pond. “Dad used to drink a lot when we were younger. He’d spend the day working in the factory, then come home and spend his nights drinking. It was always off and on, but once Mom got sick, he seemed to turn himself around.”

  My fingers twist between the lazy, thin branches of the willow tree we are passing, feeling the thin twigs and leaves tickle the palms of my hands as they graze over them. The burial ground for their mother is absolutely beautiful. Making me wonder how a drunk father could afford such an area. A few hundred feet, to a faded marble stone, marking a grave.

  “You said ‘seemed’, did he get worse again?” I ask.

  “Right after she passed,” Jamie mutters, bitterness coating her statement. “We were shocked, scared kids. I was nine and Jake eleven when she died. We needed our dad, but apparently, he couldn’t handle it any better than we could.

  “He disappeared for hours,” Jake picks up the story. “We didn’t see him from just after lunch time one day to the following morning. When he finally did come home, we were completely terrified of him.

  “Because he was yelling and screaming about the mess you left in the kitchen even though you were the only reason I ate that night, and not to mention you got that horrible scar from it.”

  The scar that he covered with the tree tattoo.

  “I think after seeing us break down in tears, it finally caught up with him too. He cried right there, on the floor beside us, and promised he would never do anything like that to hurt us again. Never saw him with even another ounce of alcohol in his hands and he did everything in his power to keep us happy and moving forward. I always wished I could be as strong as he was after that. I wish he was here to see us still standing.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jamie shiver beside me, even though the day is warm, and the wind is quiet. She stops about ten feet away from the water.

  “Hi, Mom,” she says, her words cracking as she kneels in front of a tall ornate headstone. Jake places a hand on the curved top of the grey and black stone and one on his sister’s shoulder.

  “It’s been a long time,” he adds.

  “We miss you.”

  Lily Cate Hastings

  March 4th, 1972- August 26th, 2010

  Loving Mother, Wife, Friend.

  Until We Meet Again, My Love.

  Something catches in my throat as I watch Jamie bury her face in her hands and break down into tears. Emotion, shame, my own feelings of grief. While I want to be here for my friends, I don’t know that I can. Everything keeps coming back from Mom’s death, Will’s death. Death is all around us, even past the quiet of this forgotten graveyard. My heart thumps inside my chest as I try to steady myself.

  I can’t do this here. Not when they’re trying to mourn their own mother. I fumble over my feet as I walk backwards away from them. I don’t want to draw attention to my own crappy feelings just because I’m being too selfish with my own loss.

  You don’t own the right to mourn for your loss. No matter how fresh it is in comparison to someone else’s.

  My mind wanders as I read each passing gravestone, trying to piece together the untold stories of the bones buried beneath to keep from drifting back to my own dead family.

  The ground is becoming a little less soft under my feet the further away from the water I travel while the deep green of the grass lightens to an almost brown. I can feel my composure coming back to me with the heaviness of their grief so far behind.

  When I finally look around to see how far I traveled, I don’t even see them anymore. I must have moved faster and further than I meant to. I wanted to give us all space, not a whole acre between us.

  The graves around me now are much older and harder to discern the words that were once written into them. An angel has her wing broken off and graffiti covers most of the unbroken stones while the crumbles lie smashed in the dead grass.

  It’s unnerving, seeing such an unkept destroyed mess. If the families came to see this, they would be horrified at how their loved ones’ resting areas looked.

  It doesn’t matter now, I suppose. The families are probably dead too. Walking around as creatures they never believed could truly exist, or dead and decomposing in the very spot they died.

  Leaves rustle behind me and a twig snaps on the ground. The hair raises on my neck as I swing myself around to the noise, but I see nothing but the thick trunk of a tree and more broken gravestones.

  My imagination must be playing tricks on me, still I walk at a faster pace away from where I was, down the hill as my body fills with nervous energy.

  I’ve come to the edge of the cemetery. The white fence wraps long and curved around the field and a few hundred feet in front of it is the old church. I grew up in church. I went to children’s church every Sunday morning, spent my early teenage years in Wednesday night youth group. I even went skating in the gymnasium on Friday nights.

  I haven’t really been in the last few years. I was always haphazard in my attendance until things really started going south and they put the gate up back home. That’s when I stopped going completely. The last service I remember attending was an Easter Sunrise Service. I wonder, did the preachers have an inkling of what was coming? Did they start preaching about salvation and the end times
, warning their flock that it’s here right now?

  The church here was maintained right up until the very bloody end. With the exception of the graffiti and broken windows, it doesn’t seem to have deteriorated much yet. Neither has the cemetery. Someone probably tried to keep it taken care of at least a year ago.

  A breeze gently pulls at my hair, swishing it in front of my face. As I curl my fingers around it to tuck it behind my ear, my body stiffens as a new scent flows in. It freezes me to the spot. Alcohol. I try to steady myself, taking deep breaths and hoping I’m just imagining things.

  I hear it before I see it. The sound of something flying through the air. I duck to the ground but instead I hear a thud and glass shattering to the ground.

  Definitely not imagining things.

  I spin around with my arms up, ready to fight, even if I’ve never thrown a punch in my entire life.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty one.” Two men stand in front of me, both nearly twice my weight.

  “Back up and stay away from me,” I spit, tightening my hands into fists.

  The man in the back cackles, lifting the baseball cap off his ragged, greasy hair and scratching his head. The laughter doesn’t reach his eyes and I cannot tell if I should be more afraid of him or of his crocked friend leading the way.

  “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?” The one in front tries to make a grab for me but I swat his hand away and back into the fence. “Feisty,” he says, “I like that in a woman.”

  “Please.” I whisper, trying to inch further away. “You’re drunk, please, I know there has to be a good person inside of you, don’t do something you’ll regret once the booze wears off.”

  Both men burst into full on laughs, spraying spit into the air and falling into each other. I take advantage of their distraction and run past them, racing up the small hill back in the direction I came from.

  “HELP!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs, praying that they can hear me as the two men come tripping and running after me.

  My foot catches on a broken boulder from a headstone and I fall forward onto the ground. My face smashes into the ground, fragmented glass pushing through my lips. I can feel the cut across my leg and warm blood spilling over as I cry out in pain.