Old Flames, Burned Hands Page 11

  Zero response. His silence more infuriating than any answer he could have uttered. Give me something, demanded the scream inside her skull. “Do you have any idea what it was like when you…left? What I went through? Why didn’t you come to me then?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? How could you let me go through that?” The rage, when it came, immolated her. Years of it, catching fire like a match dropped into gasoline.”Why did you to that to me?”

  “Stop.”

  But she couldn’t stop. The levy broke and it was all pouring through the breach and she hurled the question at him over and over and still he gave no answer.

  Stop

  The voice was unnatural, an octave below eerie, but the fire burned out of control and Tilda swung, striking his face. His cruel, stupid, emotionless face. Then his hands locked around her arms so hard she thought they would snap.

  Stop, said that awful voice.

  Tilda felt her throat constrict and then realized that her feet had left the ground. Suspended in his grip, she feared he might shake her to pieces like a child.

  “I couldn’t.” His voice trebled back to normal. “Do you think I wanted you to go through that?”

  Her feet touched ground again and she stepped back. “That doesn’t make sense. Why couldn’t you come back to me then? What happened that night when the car flipped? Jesus Christ, did you fake your death?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me.” Tilda clenched her molars to bottle up the scream inside. “The police thought you fell into the lake and drowned. But after a while they gave up looking for you and that was the worst. Not knowing. I spent weeks down on the water, walking around Cherry beach hoping to spot you floating in the water. So at least I would know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tilda stood her ground but all the rage she had stomped down pushed its way back up and found her eyes. The world went blurry. “You have to give me something here, Gil. You owe me that much.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “No. Tell me what happened or I will walk out of here and I never want to see you again.”

  A breeze rustled the treetops overhead but other than that, dead silence. My God, Tilda thought, he won’t do it. He won’t give even that much. Fine. Twenty years of mourning was enough. She couldn’t give anymore.

  “I didn’t fake my death. And I didn’t drown.” His voice was a whisper notched just above the sound of the trees. “I was tossed from the car when it flipped. There was blood everywhere, I could barely move. I tried to get you out but my hands didn’t seem to work. Then I was dragged away from the car, away from you, and I was killed.”

  “Killed how?” The questions dropped faster than she could lob them. “Dragged away by who?”

  “Do you remember why we crashed the car?”

  “You were wasted. We both were. You were going too fast.”

  Gil reeled back. “You don’t remember that… person… stepping into the road? Swerving to avoid him?”

  What was he going on about? “No. The road was empty. You were driving too fast.”

  His eyes narrowed at her. “What do you remember about that night?”

  “Everything. I remember every goddamn detail of that night. I wish I didn’t because it’s always there, every moment of it and I’ve spent every day since regretting it. I knew you were too wasted to get behind the wheel. You refused to let me drive or turn around and go home. I should have been stronger but you always got your way and then—” Her voice snagged as it came bubbling up. A volcano threatening to erupt. If it did, words would become useless and she’d be reduced to simply wailing like a banshee. She took a breath.

  “You did,” he said.

  “I did what?” Tilda snapped.

  “Insist I pull over. So I did. You got behind the wheel.” He bent forward, trying to lock onto her eyes. “Don’t you remember?”

  She shook her head. “No. That’s not what happened…”

  “I pulled over after the lift bridge and then you drove. I remember thinking it wasn’t a great idea either because you gunned it down that big empty road no more sober than I was.”

  That’s not how it happened...

  He kept talking. “And then out of nowhere, something lurched out right in front of us. You swerved to avoid it and the car spun and flipped. You had buckled up but I hadn’t. I was thrown from the car.”

  Why was he making this up? It’s not true.

  “I hit the ground, couldn’t see anything because of the blood running into my eyes but I could hear you screaming my name. I crawled back to the car. You were slung upside down and your hand was twisted all wrong. I’ve never forgotten the look on your face, the terror of it.”

  Stop—

  “I tried to pull you out but my hands were useless. And then something grabbed my legs and dragged me away from you. The thing that had run out in front of the car. It pulled me down off the pier. There were more of them. Waiting.”

  The lie he was telling, about her being behind the wheel, was shunted aside. Drowning in all the questions and lies, Tilda bobbed to the surface long enough to spit up a question. “Who? Who dragged you away?”

  Whether he didn’t hear it or ignored the question, she couldn’t tell. Stuck on his narrative track, he barged on. “I died that night, Til. And then I came back. But I couldn’t go to you. That was the deal. If I had, if I had even looked at you from a mile away, they would have killed you too.”

  She repeated her question. “Who?”

  “The dead ones,” Gil said. His timbre fell flat, a dampened fret buzz. “The coven. I became one of them.”

  The ground under her began to list. She looked for something to hang onto. “I need to sit down.”

  His hands were on her, keeping her propped up. Why had she cast about for something to hang onto when he was standing right there? She fell into him, her cheek against his sternum and her hands locking around his back. Her body remembered his, the way it folded into his frame like a cast refitted into its mould.

  She felt him kiss the crown of her head, heard his voice whispering that he was sorry. Other things he shushed into her hair; about how he had had to stay away from her and how it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He said that he had never stopped loving her. She kept her cheek pressed into his chest because she knew that if she looked up at him it would be all over. That she would tell him to shut up so she could kiss his mouth and then she would be in a world of hurt and trouble but even now it was too late because she was tilting up and pulling him down until she forced her lips onto his mouth so hard it hurt and she thought her lip was bleeding but she didn’t care and didn’t stop and how she would not ever come up for air.

  It wouldn’t be a bad way to die, asphyxiating with her mouth clamped onto his. Let it come and never let it end.

  The police spotlight was harsh. Even with her eyes closed, its hot light blasted through her eyelids. They broke off, Tilda sucking back air and they saw the police cruiser rumbling along the footpath as it trolled through the park like a shark. The uniform on the passenger side blasted the searchlight over the grounds and people fluttered up and scrambled away like birds flushed from a hedge. The skateboard kids and the bench drinkers and the lovers strolling the grass, all the nocturnal park people swam away from the great white cruiser rumbling through their midst.

  They weren’t doing anything wrong but Tilda already felt convicted under that spotlight and wanted to explain but Gil was moving away, leading her by the hand back into the darkest spans of the park grounds. Circling around the fence to put the playground between them and the prowl car.

  The police unit rolled out of the park but Gil didn’t stop to look back, hurrying them into the gloomy alleys and laneways. So fast that at times she felt lifted and carried along, feet barely scraping the gutters. When the blurred momentum stopped, her feet were planted solidly in the parched grass of her own backyard.

  She heard him whisper
goodnight and felt his lips tap her cheek but she must have blinked because when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  SHE HAD KILLED GIL DORSEY. She had been behind the wheel that night. She had crashed the car and killed the man she loved and her own memory had betrayed her. There was little else that Tilda Parish could think of as she sleepwalked through the day. Shane asking if she felt okay and Molly sneering at her for being a space cadet. It was all just noise in her ear, their banter and questions and unending griping. Why couldn’t they just shut their mouths for once and be quiet? Why couldn’t the two of them get themselves out the door without the harried rush and need for her to ensure they had everything they needed?

  It was the same story at work, unable to focus on anything other than the thought that she had killed Gil Dorsey. Had she really remembered it wrong all this time? She sifted through her memory of that night and had to admit there were gaps. Most of that night was solid in her memory; the gig at the El Mo, fooling around in the back room and then later at Gil’s flat. Torching the paintings and getting in the car. Beyond that, the snapshots grew dull. There were gaps, as if someone had taken scissors to the spool of film and cut whole scenes out and spliced it back it back together at the moment she opened her eyes to see the upside down world from within the totalled VW.

  Hoping music might shake something loose, she went to the computer and dug out that old Joy Division tune from one of Sarah’s playlists and listened to the one song she never wanted to hear again. Nothing shook loose, no hidden memory of pulling over and getting behind the wheel. Certainly no recall of anyone stepping out onto the road and forcing her to swerve so hard she rolled the car. And what was she to make of what Gil had told her? That someone had intentionally stepped in front of the car, causing the crash and then dragged him away? Down the pier where there were more and they killed him. But he had come back somehow and had been haunting the streets of the city all this time without ever coming to her. Until now?

  None of it made sense. Who would do such a thing? Why did they want Gil? What had he done? And why hadn’t they come after her? Why had he shown up now? Skulking around her house every night, waiting for her to come to him—

  “Tilda!”

  She startled, saw Sarah crossing the lobby. “Can you turn that down, honey? It’s too loud.” Sarah leaned on the counter and scrutinized her face. “Are you feeling okay? You seem kinda out of it right now.”

  “Sorry.” Tilda shook her head, forcing herself back to the present.

  “Another bad night’s sleep?”

  “Something like that.” She looked down at the deposit book on the desk before her. The page only half filled out. How long had she been doing this?

  “You should pay attention to that. Too many sleepless nights, your body’s telling you something’s wrong.”

  Tilda nodded, scrambling for something else to talk about. “I think I just need to eat something”

  “HAVE you ever had an old boyfriend look you up?”

  They were sitting at a wobbly table in the back patio of La Hacienda. Even in the shade it was almost too hot so they splurged and ordered sangria. It would do nothing to clear her head but Tilda didn’t care.

  “Oh yeah.” Sarah leaned back and stretched. “All of them.”

  Tilda’s eyebrow shot up. “All of them?”

  “Facebook,” Sarah shrugged. “It’s impossible not to look up old flames.”

  “Of course.” She hadn’t thought of that, concurring that the site seemed practically invented for that purpose. “But all of them?”

  “Yup. All of my old flames have gotten in touch.” Another quick shrug and then Sarah raised her glass. “Or I looked them up. Whatever.”

  “So it was nothing.” Tilda paused when the food came, waiting for the surly waitress to move out of earshot. “Just a hello-how-are-you kinda thing.”

  “Pretty much. I mean, you’ve done it, right?”

  Tilda honestly hadn’t. Of course she had been reunited with old friends but no old boyfriends. There was only Gil and she was pretty sure the dead didn’t maintain an FB page. Although, given recent events, who was to say he didn’t? “But nothing beyond that?”

  “No. Well…” Sarah leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you remember Frank Vittorio?” When Tilda shook her head, unable to place the name, Sarah leaned in further. “Frankie Vomit? From the Vomiteers?”

  That Frankie. Tall, dark and nasty. Handsome as hell but a vicious disposition, hell bent on antagonizing everyone in sight. Sarah had dated him for about six months back when Tilda was still fronting the Daisy Pukes and it had damn near almost killed her. She and Frankie Vomit were volatile and left a path of destruction in their wake. Tilda never did learn why or how they broke up but given Mr. Vomit’s disposition, any reason would do. “Didn’t he go to jail?”

  “A long time ago. Do you know what he’s doing now?”

  “Living under a bridge?”

  “Get this, Frank’s a photographer now.” Sarah tucked into her salad. “A successful one too. He specializes in shooting product. Like glamour shots of blenders or laptops for ad agencies. Consumer porn.”

  “Jeez. I thought for sure that guy would be dead by now.” Tilda sipped her sangria, feeling it cold and bittersweet on her tongue. “So what happened? Did you meet in person?”

  “We did. And it was a lot of fun. For someone who put himself through a crapload of abuse, he looks really good.”

  Tilda guessed where this was headed. “Tell me you didn’t hook up.”

  “Almost,” Sarah flushed, looking sheepish. “There was tons of flirting and he looked great and that old spark was still there. I felt twenty-two all over again. It was such a high, you know?”

  “Sure. But what about Billie?” Sarah’s partner of the last five years. Billie was a tall woman with a tough exterior, whom Tilda had always been a little intimidated by. “Or Frankie for that matter? Is he married?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t matter to him though. He was all for hooking up, having a fling. He gave me that old song and dance about his loveless marriage and how the heart wants what it wants. Said it was wrong to deny ourselves.”

  Tilda leaned in further. “So? Did you?” Sarah’s cheeks burned red and her gaze bounced around, unable to meet Tilda’s eye. Guilty as charged and Tilda hissed. “Sarah Lippman! Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “Because it was awful.” She swigged back the sangria and set the glass down. “He showed me his studio one night after we’d met for a drink. But all that spark and flirting just fizzled when we started fooling around. It was awkward and weird and he couldn’t get it up and then he started crying. Telling me he couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t do that to his wife even though they hadn’t had sex in over two years.”

  “Two years?” The idea of it sent a shudder down Tilda’s spine. How could a married couple go two years without ever having sex? She watched Sarah’s face wither in shades of shame. “What a shitty thing to do. You must have felt awful.”

  “You have no idea. I was lying there naked, ready to do this and he starts blubbering that he can’t. I felt like a piece of dirt because I was ready to go through with it.”

  Tilda took Sarah’s hand and stroked her thumb over the knuckles. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I can understand it.”

  “It’s not that I don’t love Billie anymore. That’s never changed. But we go through these phases. Lesbian bed death. And with Frankie, all that flirting and carrying on, it got to me. It’s not like I wanted an affair or anything, I just wanted to get laid. A real down and dirty bout like we used to. And then he pulls that shit on me, jumping the moral high ground and leaving me feeling like a piece of dirt.”

  “Ah honey, I’m sorry.” Two tables over, a young couple were watching their exchange. Tilda shot them a look so harsh it sent both their eyes zooming back to their plates. She turned back to Sarah. “Did you tell Billie about it?”

  “Jesus, where’s the waitress?” Sarah
had finished her glass and wanted another. “I wasn’t going to. Nothing had really happened so I convinced myself nothing was wrong. But the Catholic in me couldn’t manage the guilt and I spilled. Told Billie everything.”

  “And?”

  “I’m still paying for it,” Sarah said. “Whenever we have an argument, she stops the show by bringing that up again and throwing it in my face. After that, there’s nothing I can say. It’s like her silver bullet to win every fight.” She blew out her cheeks like she’d just run a quarter mile. “It’s awful.”

  Tilda scrambled for something to console her with, some silver lining that her friend hadn’t thought of but she couldn’t find one. The story bit a little too close to the bone, leaving Tilda’s guts queasy.

  “So?” Sarah caught the attention of the waitress across the floor and swirled a finger over her empty glass. The waitress sneered and turned away. “Who’s the old beau?”

  “What?”

  “I’m assuming you asked me this because some old boyfriend has gotten in touch. Who is he?”

  “Oh, no. It’s not that.”

  “Bullshit. What’s his name?”

  Tilda groped for a lie. “Someone from high school. Back before I knew you. No big deal.”

  The waitress clunked a fresh drink before Sarah and walked away without asking if Tilda wanted another. “My advice?” Sarah said. “Whatever you do, think it over first.”

  SARAH’S cautionary tale stayed with her the rest of the day. Leaving work, she cut east and headed into Kensington to pick up a few things. The market was in full summer swing, stinking to high heaven in the broiling heat and the layabouts everywhere. Kensington was like its own little time zone where everything went slower, a ‘ya mon’ feel of eternal siesta, sealed off in a bubble from the frenzied pace that infested the rest of the city. With its retinue of middle-aged punk rockers chugging back tall boys on stoops, the market existed in its own alternate universe and Tilda loved and hated it with equal measure.