Guardian (The Guardian Trilogy) (9 page)

I leave
the parking lot quickly and drive back through town.  I concentrate on going
the speed limit.  My knuckles are white with tension as I grip the steering
wheel.

Shel
erupts from the backseat.  “What was THAT?”

Matt
flexes his hand.  Even in this poor light it looks swollen.  “I think our buddy
doesn’t like me too much.”

Shel
snorts.  “What idiots!”

“Guess
I won’t be going back there for a little while,” Matt chuckles.

Shel
reaches through the seats.  “They didn’t even land a punch.  High five!”  Matt smiles
and slaps her hand with his good one.

I’m
still tense, and I feel awful for doing absolutely nothing to help him during
the fight.  “I’m going to take you to my house so we can get some ice on that
hand,” I say.

“Nah,”
Matt says.  “I’ve had worse.”

“Do you
make a habit of this?” I ask with wide eyes.

He
shakes his head.  “Fighting random strangers?  No.”  He pauses.  “But I do help
my dad out from time to time, and I’ve gotten some pretty nasty bites.”

I
forgot that Matt’s family owns the veterinary clinic in town.

“Regardless,
let me help you.  I feel bad after standing there and doing nothing.”

He
doesn’t protest, and I make my way through town toward home.  Shel and Matt
rehash the fight, play by play, like it was the WWE.

We make
it home and walk through the back door and into the kitchen.  “Sit there,” I
direct Matt to the island.  I go to freezer, pull out a cold pack, and then
wrap it in a dish towel.  I take his hand and look at his knuckles.  They’re
red and swollen.  “Here.”  I place the wrapped cold pack on his hand.  He
grimaces.

“See,
you are hurt,” I say.  “Don’t move.”  I leave the kitchen and head to the
bathroom to retrieve some ibuprofen.  I run into my mom in the hallway.

“Hi,”
she says.  “Where have you been?”

“Long
story.”  I step past her into the bathroom and turn on the light.  “Matt and
Shel are in the kitchen.”

She
looks surprised.  “Matt Randall?”

I nod
and grab the Motrin bottle from the drawer.  She heads to the kitchen, and I
follow her.

“Well
hey there!” my mom greets him affectionately.  “It’s good to see you!”

Matt
smiles at my mom.  “You too, Mrs. D.”

The way
he says “Mrs. D” stops me short and pulls at my heart.

“What
happened to you?” she asks, concerned.

Shel
launches into an animated play by play of the night’s events.  Matt is barely
allowed to speak.  I head to the sink to fill a glass with water.  I bring it
over to him along with the bottle of Motrin and shake out some pills.

“Thanks,”
he says as I dump the pills in his hand.  He pops them in his mouth and then takes
the glass.

“It’s
the least I can do,” I say, still feeling guilty.  If it wasn’t for me he
wouldn’t have been jumped.

My dad
hears all the commotion from the kitchen and comes downstairs in his pajamas to
see what’s going on.  He didn’t expect our guest either, yet they all break
into conversation which easily moves into the living room.  Honestly, I’m tired,
and I really would like to take Matt home or back to get his car or wherever
now that he has ice on his hand.

Matt
sits at one end of the couch in order to lay his hand on the arm rest.  Shel
takes the other end, so I plop down in between them.  My parents sit in the
chairs across from us and continue talking.  I don’t care to contribute to the
stroll down memory lane right now, and I feel my eyes getting heavy.  Damn daiquiri.

When I
open my eyes, I’m curled up on my side underneath someone’s arm.  My parents
are no longer sitting across from me, but Shel is, her feet tucked up into one
of the chairs.  She’s flipping through a magazine.  I blink to clear my vision
and realize my head is resting against someone’s side.  I look up and see Matt,
his head resting back against the couch.  He’s asleep with his arm wrapped
protectively around me.

I jump
up and away from him, throwing his arm off me in the process.

He wakes,
startled.  “Wha…?”

“I’m sorry!”
I apologize.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.  I just…you there…”

He rubs
his face with his good hand to clear his eyes.  He smiles tiredly.

Confused,
I look at Shel.  “You’re quite the partier,” she says as she tosses the
magazine aside and stands.  “C’mon Matt.  I’ll drive you home.”

He pushes
himself off the couch and looks at me.  He can tell I’m embarrassed.  “Don’t
worry about it,” he says.  “I’ll see you around.”  He starts to leave the room
and then pauses.  “Thanks for fixing my hand.”

I give
him a small wave.  “Yeah, I’ll see you.”

As they
leave I put my head in my hands.  I feel ridiculous for falling asleep on
somebody I barely know.  Well, barely know anymore.

On my
way up to bed, I turn off all the lights but one; so Shel can make her way
upstairs when she returns.  I walk with heavy feet to my room and turn on my
bedside lamp.  The red numbers on my alarm clock seem to shout the time at me. 
It’s after one in the morning.  Yawning, I lean over to grab my pajamas when I
notice something lying on top of my dresser.  I walk over to see what it is.

Lying
there, unfolded, is the letter from James that I found the other night.  I
thought I’d put it away in my drawer?  I fold it up, open the top drawer, and
tuck it under my socks again.  Maybe my mom found it when putting laundry away. 
I’ll ask her about it tomorrow.

I walk
back over to the bed, pick up my pajamas, and put them on.  I head to the
bathroom to brush my teeth.  When I turn on the light, I almost scream.

There,
on the counter, is a fuchsia orchid.

I stare
at the potted plant.  Afraid it’s a hallucination, I decide not to try and
touch it.  If it is imaginary, my hand would pass right through it, and then
I’ll know for sure I’ve lost my mind entirely.  Instead I close my eyes, feel
around for the light switch, and return to my room.  I’ll deal with it
tomorrow.  If it’s still there.

Lord, I
need sleep.  I crawl under my covers and close my eyes, but sleep avoids me. 
My muscles feel tense so I try to relax my body one part at a time, starting
with my neck and working my way down.  I feel better, but I’m still awake.  I
try the proverbial counting sheep, which morphs into another vision, and I end
up counting the punches that Matt lands on that guy earlier – one, two, one,
two, one, two.  I grimace and roll over, trying a new position.  After a while,
I hear Shel return, and then the door closes to Mike’s old bedroom.  I flip
over again.  This is unusual; my power nap on Matt must have screwed me up.

I can’t
turn my brain off.  I go over the things I learned today at Bay Woods.  I’ll
have to remember to get my work shirts out of the car tomorrow.  I’m sure they
are a wrinkled mess.  The car.  I’m going to need to get gas before Monday.  I
wonder about the oil.  When’s the last time that was changed?  James usually
kept on me about that.  I’ll have to check the sticker.  It’s dirty too, James
will be sure to bring that up.  He keeps his ride meticulous. I, on the other
hand, prefer to use my time to clean other things.  My dorm room, for example. 
His room is an absolute disaster, yet he manages to keep his car like new.

“I know
you have the ability to clean!” I chastise him as I’m picking up.  I hold up a
glass where milk has congealed to the bottom.  “This is just gross.”

“Oh,
you love it,” he teases me.

“Stale
milk?”

“No, coming
over here and taking care of me,” he winks.

It’s
the same conversation every time.

It’s then
that my brain stops, and I realize I won’t have that conversation again.  It’s
impossible to have that conversation again.  The familiar squeeze returns to my
chest, and I’m overwhelmed by sadness.  Why can’t I fall asleep already?

Unwillingly,
my thoughts turn to the last time I saw James.  We were fighting.  I’d accused
him of lying to me, lying about leaving.  He had been with me at Western for
nearly two years after the Patrick incident.  I knew he missed being at
Ferris.  In the year he had been there he’d established himself as one of the
top players on the team; the coaches knew him, relied on him.  The same
situation didn’t apply to WMU.  And Ferris was calling again.  His old coach
was on him about transferring back but, of course, I didn’t want him to leave. 
The coach was persistent.  James finally agreed to meet with him, promising me
he was staying put and would be telling the coach just as much.  But I was
worried; I knew how much happier he would be there.  I was so selfish.  When he
came back from the meeting, I’d accused him of changing his mind.  I should
never have done that.

 “Why
would you think I’d leave?” James looked hurt.

“Because
I know you’re unhappy.”

“What? 
That’s not true.”

“You wouldn’t
be happier?  Your parents would be.”

“This
isn’t about them.”

I
crossed my arms.  “Then what did you tell Coach?”

“It’s
not that easy.  I didn’t want to let him down so…”

“So,
you’re going back,” I snapped.

“I
didn’t say that!  Would you let me finish?  Nothing happened that you and I
didn’t discuss.”

“What
does that mean?!”

“I’m
trying to tell you nothing happened and you won’t accept it!”  He’s pissed now.

“You
expect me to believe that?”

“Yes!  When
have I ever lied to you?”  He paused when I didn’t answer. “So now you think I
lie to you?” he asked bitterly.

Again, I
didn’t answer him.

“Fine!” 
He made his way to the door and then turned.  “Might I remind you of all I gave
up for you?  For us?”

I roll
my eyes at being reminded about what he gave up yet again.  “Listen, you know
why you came here!”

“Whatever.” 

That’s
when he stormed out.

A
couple of hours later, James called to ask me to go out that night, to get
something to eat.  But I was still upset, still suspicious, and there wasn’t a
hint of an apology in our conversation.  Don’t ask me why I felt I was the one
who was owed an apology; it should have been the other way around.  I remember thinking
we had bigger issues than dinner and, feeling annoyed, I told him no, I didn’t
want to go out, I had studying to do.  He hung up the phone with a huff.

As I
spent the rest of the night replaying our argument, the guilt started to creep
in, eventually overtaking me.  I called James, but he didn’t answer.  I left a
message.  After midnight, when I hadn’t heard from him, I started to get really
concerned.  Could he still be upset with me?  I’d really done it this time.  I
started to feel sick to my stomach.  I decided to call again, regardless of the
time.

“Hey.” 
Thank God he answered.

“I’m
sorry,” I said.

“Me
too.”

“Where
are you?  The phone sounds weird.”

“Driving.”

“Where?”

“Some
of the guys and I went out.”  I could hear him yawn.

“Well,
about earlier…”

“Hang
on.  I’m about five minutes from being outside your door.”

“Oh,
okay.”

“See
you in a sec.”

He hung
up the phone.  And never arrived.

The
tears are back.  I cry silently, and wipe them away as fast as they come. 
Pretty soon my cheeks feel raw from the wiping, and I just give up.  It’s like
my whole body wants to torture me; my mind won’t let me sleep or think of
anything else and my physical body feels so weak that I don’t have the will to
stop the tears.

I don’t
know how many times I called James’ cell when he didn’t show up.  25?  50?  Two
hours later, sick with worry, I called that last time.  Someone answered the
phone.

“Hello?”
a strange male voice answered.  I could hear commotion in the background.

“Hello? 
Who’s this?” I asked, confused.

“Who
are you looking for?”

“James. 
James Davis.”

“And
who are you ma’am?”

“Did I
dial the wrong number?” I ask.

“No
ma’am.  Who are you again?”

“Emma.”

“Emma? 
How do you know James?”

“He’s…he’s
my boyfriend.”

The man
pauses.  “Emma, does James have parents?”

Who is
this guy? I remember thinking.  “Yes, of course he has parents!  Why are you
asking me this?”

“This
is Sergeant Earnest with the Kalamazoo Police Department.  Emma, I’m going to
need James’ parent’s phone number.”

“Why?”
I remember my hand starting to shake violently.

“Emma,
there’s been an accident.”

The
official police report states that James fell asleep and swerved off the road. 
A small embankment caused his Jeep to flip into a tree.  He lay there, alone,
for at least two hours before a passing motorist thought to call the police. 
Two hours.  Alone.  Dying.

I can’t
help it and horrible sobs rip through my chest.  If I had gone with him when he
asked, he wouldn’t have been out so late, wouldn’t have fallen asleep, wouldn’t
have
died
.

That is
why the accident is my fault.

Because
we were supposed to be together and we weren’t.

I will
never forgive myself.

The
loud sobs continue and Shel is in my room in a matter of seconds, holding me. 
I can hear my parents enter the room, and Shel passes me off to my mother.

“Shhhh,”
she says as she rubs my back.  “Another nightmare?” she asks.

I shake
my head no.  I only wish it were a nightmare.

“Whatever
it is, it’ll be okay,” she tries to console me.

I shake
my head violently.

“I’m
right here.  I won’t let you go.”

She
holds me and rocks me like a baby.  Eventually the sobs subside, leaving me drained. 
I disentangle myself from her and lie down.  She lies beside me, and Shel
crawls in on my other side.  I fall asleep tucked between the two of them, like
an infant, my tears still tacky on my cheeks.