Flutter (27 page)

Ash took my pulse then, he watched me for a few minutes, and I buckled myself back up. “We’d better get going, Ash.”

He started up the car again and checked the mirrors, signaling our entrance back onto the freeway.

We drove for a long time, and the snow let up, leaving a clear night sky, deep blue-black in color, with the stars shining brightly. I watched Ash as he drove, the way the moon lit up his silhouette, the straight line of his nose, the wavy curve of his forelock. The soft pull of worry at his brow.

“What kinds of things did you bring back from the loop that convinced you and your dad that it was time travel?”

“Oh, Dad was never convinced.”

“Really?”

“Dad knew—had scientific proof—that my brain activity was more than normal, was … evolved. But he didn’t ever believe me. The team keeps coming back to telepathy, pre-cognition of some sort. But I have always known it’s more than that. It’s outside of me. It isn’t just an ability of mine; it is a physical transference.”

Ash seemed to chew on this information for a bit.

“What is it?”

“Why can’t you accept that it’s heaven, Em?”

I sat still for quite a long time then.

“The afterlife,” he repeated. He reached out and grabbed my hand.

“You think so?” I swallowed hard.

“Don’t you? It all fits. I mean, the whooshing, the brighter feeling, Frankie. You said yourself that for the longest time you were not having symptoms of cardiac arrest, and that was what your team thought of as the most important, most impressive key. Maybe they would think now since you’re having—”

“My team.” I let out a laugh. “I don’t want to give them any credit that they could even consider the truth of any of this. Plus, Ash, I’m going there physically now. You went with me. Explain that.”

“Listen, I can’t explain it all, Emery. But I think that’s what it is. Don’t you? I mean, if we are accepting time travel here, wormholes, loops”—he shot me a glance—“then why can’t we consider heaven?”

“What about my dad in the loops?” I asked. “In the future?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But maybe … it’s not him.”

“I think it could be my grandfather,” I whispered, confessing. “He died when I was very young.”

Ash just nodded.

“What about my song, though? How do I know about that?”

“I’ve thought about that. I don’t know. Maybe … maybe you have to alter your version of heaven a little, Em. Maybe it’s not all white clouds and angels and robes. But maybe it is … sort of a well of all things good … all creation … all ideas.…”

I wanted to have an argument against that. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t think of anything, so I just said, “I’ve never even believed in heaven.”

“I have. I mean, is it so hard to think that there’s a life after death, that there’s more beyond this? You can accept time travel, but you can’t even consider some sort of heaven? I mean, unconditional love, forgiveness, a better place, a bigger plan? Especially after you and me … after us?”

I looked at him and squinted. He had to have known what I was thinking, about his father, his guilt, his refusal to forgive himself. “I don’t know, Ash. You tell me. Is it?”

He didn’t say anything then. His face changed, hardened, and he gave his attention to the road.

This made me mad. He could call me on my gaps in logic, but I couldn’t do the same? And if it was heaven, what did that mean for me? I blinked back tears. “I can consider heaven, Ash, okay? I am considering it. It’s just …” I sniffled then, unable to control the emotion in my voice. “I mean, is it so easy for you to think that I’m dying?”

Ash blanched, then recoiled. His mouth fell open. “Emery.” I realized then that he hadn’t thought of it this way. “Em—”

“No,” I said. “If it’s heaven, then I’m definitely dying. I mean, look at me—”

“No, don’t you dare say that, Emery. I can’t even consider that.” He squeezed my hand hard, and his face twisted up with emotion. He spoke fast like he had to explain this all away. “You’re getting control of it. You’re crossing the bridge between here and the afterlife. You’re not … dying. You go back and forth. You slide from one place to the other.”

I nodded, squeezed his hand back. “Okay,” I agreed, because the look on his face when I suggested otherwise, it was horrible. He looked gutted. Devastated. I couldn’t handle it. So I agreed with him. Glossed over it. Because that was what he needed to hear, and I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe his idea of it. That it didn’t mean certain death for me.

Ash held my eyes for a moment, and it was like we agreed not to go there, agreed to ignore the possibility of death. I told him, “It all sounds so crazy when you say it out loud—time traveler, a visitor to heaven. Who’s to say one could be true but the other couldn’t, right?” I forced a little laugh.

“A time-traveling angel?” he joked, bringing my hand to his lips, kissing it. He gave me a smile and then turned back to the road. I watched the silhouette of his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed hard. And I turned my face again toward my window, and I too swallowed against the tears.

Ash drove the Wingings’ truck down the long gravel path that wound toward his home. A white aluminum fence lined what must have been a more than mile-long drive. A handmade sign hung at the entrance. It read
A-OK RANCH
, welcoming us.

“I made that in woodshop in seventh grade,” Ash offered.

“That’s Next Hill,” I said, pointing behind the red barn, past the two small outbuildings. The time was well past midnight, but the stars and moon shone brightly in the dark winter sky, giving a romantic glow to the property.

“Uh-huh,” Ash answered, raised his eyebrows. “You’ve really been here.”

“With my boy … Frankie.”

When Ash parked in front of the house, I jumped out immediately, excitedly. “I’ve been here!” I cried, motioning
toward the red barn, then toward the blue-and-yellow farmhouse.

I surveyed the landscape, taking in the farm, everything I had seen before on my many trips to the loop.

Ash took a few steps into my view, and I watched him as his eyes swept over this place. I had been so excited to be here, to see Ash’s boyhood home, to prove that this was the place in my loops, that I had forgotten, for an instant, what this place meant to Ash, the crimes that it hid, the pain that accompanied every memory.

Ash stood tall, his shoulders square against the farm laid out in front of us. He slowly turned toward the house, a wary smile on his lips. There were too many memories here, too many ghosts, too many painful pasts.

“There’s no
FOR SALE
sign,” he said quietly.

He walked slowly up to the house and stopped on the welcome mat. It was old and ragged.

“I’d have thought that everything would’ve been auctioned off already, sold,” he said. “This was ours.” He scuffed his boot on the mat.
WIPE YOUR PAWS
, it said.

“What was your dog’s name?”

“Southpaw,” Ash answered. “A German shepherd. I hope he found a good home.” Ash’s brow knit in concern, guilt.

“Do you want to go in?” I asked.

Ash nodded and clenched his jaw. He turned the key in the lock. He grabbed my elbow and we stepped in.

The grandfather clock in the foyer struck loudly and nearly knocked the wind out of both of us.

“Whoa!” I said, and Ash grabbed my hand then. I cuddled myself into him. The clock finished, chiming for 2:00 a.m.

We walked in silence to the kitchen. It looked like a house someone still lived in. Ash tried the lights, the water. They worked, but we kept the place mostly dark, hoping not to draw attention to ourselves, although the nearest neighbor wasn’t for miles.

“Someone must be staying here,” Ash said, staring at the dishes in the sink, the newspaper folded on the kitchen table. “Hello?” Ash called out. We stood silently, listening. But no one answered, only the hollow echo of Ash’s voice.

“Who could it be?” I asked.

“Maybe my dad’s brother, or one of the men who used to work the land with Pop. I don’t know.”

We stood in the kitchen for a moment. Ash gave me a hard look. “It’s like it could’ve happened yesterday.”

“You don’t think that it …” I let my voice trail off, reconsidering.

“What?” Ash asked.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. I noticed that Ash was staring at a knife block on the kitchen counter. Six steak knives were exactly where they should be, but a wide slot at the top was empty. The butcher knife. Gone.

“We should leave,” he said, his eyes still on that empty slot. “I want to leave this house. We can spend the night in the barn. I’m sure whoever is staying here won’t be out there in this weather, but they could come home any minute. Who knows?”

I watched his gaze slide over to the French doors behind the kitchen table. These opened up to large back porch, to where he and his father had … fought.

I squeezed his hand, and he broke his stare, shook his head. He walked cautiously through the first floor and I followed.

My eyes took in everything—the quilt on the back of the sofa, the beautiful oak floors, the photos on the walls, a knickknack shelf full of antique pocket watches. It all looked so normal, wholesome. It was hard to imagine the horrors that Ash and his brother, his mom, had had to endure here.

Ash was taut, silent. And when I saw the rigidity in how he carried himself, the at-the-ready stance of his muscles, I could instantly see what this place meant to him, what terrors it truly held. Yet it was his home.

Nothing was ever so black-and-white. I thought of my own father then.

“It even still smells like him here,” Ash said. “Beer, sawdust.” He walked toward the family room and sat down on the sofa then, and I kneeled down next to him.

“I’m sorry.” I laid my head on his knee.

He absentmindedly played with the curls of my hair.

“Is Frankie happy?” he asked.

“Very,” I answered. His posture softened.

He pulled me into his lap.

“I can’t figure out how we’re going to get through this, Em. I keep going over it and over it in my mind. I keep playing out all these different scenarios, and I don’t know …”

“We’ll talk to the authorities, get them to see what happened—”

“I don’t even mean that. We’re going to figure this thing out with you. We’re going to be okay. We’re going to … I don’t know … grow old together. Raise our children with a German shepherd, and a white fence, and—”

He kissed me then, softly, earnestly, his hands on either side of my face.

I wanted to believe what he was saying. I wanted to believe that the cards weren’t stacked against us. I wanted to believe that we lived in a world where we could just will things to happen the way they damn well should.

“We should go,” he said, getting up from the couch.

I followed behind him closely.

“In the loop, Frankie told me something,” I began, not wanting to upset Ash. But I knew I had to get to the bottom of it.

“What?” he asked, turning to me.

“Well, he told me to look at the key.” Ash’s face paled,
and I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard, but I think there’s something he wants us to know. And then it was like he showed me the accident, the two vehicles.”

“Oh God, Emery, I can’t.” Ash shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Please, Ash. Just talk to me about it.”

Ash put his hands on his head, and he took a deep breath, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out the key.

“It’s not the same key. It’s not the one from Mom’s car, the one Pop made me wear. This one is more square at the top, like Pop’s key to the truck. My mom always drove the station wagon. My dad drove the truck.”

“So it’s not
the
key,” I offered. “But what could Frankie want us to know?”

“There are clippings of the accident,” Ash said quietly. “They’re in my parents’ room, the closet. You can look at them if you have to. I can’t. Not tonight. Not here in this house.”

Ash walked toward the front door then. “I’m going to pull the truck behind the barn, get some blankets and flashlights. I’ll be close. But hurry up. You never know when someone might show up.”

I watched him out the window for a few moments. His gait was slow, his shoulders sagging. He was carrying such a weight.

I had to keep searching. I had to figure out what exactly Frankie wanted me to know.

I went up the stairs toward the bedrooms. There were
pictures, photographs on the wall leading up the stairs, a German shepherd looking like he was grinning, a smiling blond woman with Ash’s eyes, a young Ash holding a small baby. My stomach lurched at the sudden understanding of just how much loss Ash had endured.

I had to look through those clippings. There had to be someone, an officer, a witness, the name of someone I could contact for more information. This couldn’t be a dead end here.

This house could not be a dead end.

I flipped on the closet light of the master bedroom and stood and stared at the contents of the closet. A large, stand-alone jewelry box sat in the back of the closet, a dark wood with fancy clawed feet. A collection of antique brooches sat on top. I picked up a turquoise brooch and felt the smooth surface between my fingers. I set it down gently. On one side of the closet hung men’s clothes: work shirts, jeans, dark colors. On the other side hung women’s clothes: lots of pastels, yellows and greens, the prettiest pink polka-dot shirt. This struck me as so sad. I don’t know why, but these details, this reality of Ash’s parents, and how Ash and his father had never packed up Ash’s mom’s stuff. It hit me deep in my core.

I found several old boxes of photos on the shelf above the men’s clothes. I sifted through a box with bank statements, utility bills. A crate full of old
Sports Illustrated
magazines. But behind that I found a shirt box. And that was it. Several
yellowed clippings about the accident. I sat on the floor of the closet, cross-legged, and read them over and over.

There didn’t seem to be anything new. Nothing suspicious. Nothing jumping out at me. Alvin Miller. A fellow Bloomington farmer, driving drunk. He was killed in the accident as well.