The Pace (15 page)

“November 15.”

“What year?” he countered quickly.

Confused at his continued delirium, I replied, “2009.”

He closed his eyes and relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize, but you do need to let me check you out.”

He let his blanket fall to his waist. The sharpness to his lean physique was distracting. I wanted to close my eyes to focus, but instead, I searched around for the thermometer, which gave me something else to concentrate on.

“What are you looking for?” he asked. His eyes completely fixed on me.

“The thermometer.” I was feeling around with my hands.

“What for?”

“So I can take your temperature.” I wondered if I was really meant to answer that. It seemed a bit rhetorical.

“That won’t be necessary.” His voice was soft and assured.

“Why not?”

“Because, I can tell you it will be roughly 80 degrees.”

“What?” I looked at him, confused. “You think your body temperature is 80 degrees. Right now?”

He nodded.

I quickly went back to looking for the thermometer. Once I found it, I hesitantly reached toward his ear. He didn’t pull away, so I continued. His temperature was 80.2 degrees. I looked at him, and he had never taken his eyes off of me.

“I don’t understand.”

He looked at me with abashed eyes. “You said you wanted to know the truth.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, assertively.

He paused. After a few moments, he replied, “Do you mind if I get dressed first?”

I sort of did mind. I wanted to make sense of it all, but at the same time, it was very hard for me to concentrate with him sitting there bare-chested and pantless. I cleared my throat.

“No, I don’t mind,” I conceded, but I didn’t release him from my stare. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t going to forget the truth he owed me.

A corner of his mouth turned up softly.

“Okay,” he said, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

While he was gone, I pondered what he’d said and was trying to maintain a clear head. It was very difficult. I was on the brink of exhaustion from trying to figure him out. My nerves had been through the wringer, and my brain was stressed beyond comfort. I leaned my head on the arm of the sofa and closed my eyes. I took slow breaths, and I told myself to relax. He seemed better now, and for some unknown reason, I trusted him to tell me the truth. After all, I had just saved his life. It was the least he could do.

He came back downstairs wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans. He must have taken a quick shower because his hair was dark and freshly wet. I started to prop myself up when he reached out his hand for me. I placed mine in his, and he effortlessly pulled me upward so that I was standing within a few inches of him. He was staring so deeply into my eyes that I felt a blush permeate both sides of my face.

“You’re in your pajamas,” he noted, with a smile.

I looked down at myself and realized that I was, indeed, still in my pajamas. It was awkward.

“Um…yes. I guess I am,” I said, embarrassed.

“You stayed the night?”

I nodded my head nonchalantly and replied, “Well, I couldn’t very well let you die alone, could I? Someone had to watch you.”

He let a soft smile reach across one cheek. I couldn’t figure out if he was purposely making me lose focus or if he was stalling, so I took the opportunity to nip it in the bud.

“You owe me the truth,” I reminded him.

“Let me make you breakfast. You have to be hungry.”

“I don’t want food. I want to know what is going on.”

“Please?”

I rolled my eyes, and he wasted no time taking hold of my hand and pulling me toward the dining room. He sat me at the head of the table.

“Please, just sit here, and I’ll be right back. We can talk and eat.”

I sat there motionless and tired, but it was hard to keep a rigid disposition because the view was overwhelming. It was impossible to sit there and not feel a sense of peace. I scanned the entire landscape and wondered what people were doing in those areas stretched out for miles. I imagined everyone going about their mornings as usual, and I was sitting there experiencing the most abnormal morning I could imagine. I turned away, trying to shake the frustration that was coming over me again.

My attention was brought to the large painting. I remembered being wowed by it on my first tour of the room. It was just as stunning the second time around. I watched the two figures and examined how their arms greeted each other, and then I corrected myself. The sad aura that it gave off made me feel as though they were not greeting each other, but instead, they were saying goodbye, unwillingly. My heart sympathized with them because somehow I saw me and Weston in that image, and as much as I told myself I could say goodbye to him, I knew from the sadness the thought brought me that it wasn’t what I wanted.

I was relieved when Wes came in carrying two glasses of cranberry juice. It was my favorite drink to have with breakfast, so I started sipping on it right away. I was thirstier than I thought, and the sweet aroma of cinnamon, which was coming from the kitchen, was making me realize I was also hungrier than I thought.

A few minutes later, he brought in two plates, each with scrambled eggs, toast, and a half grapefruit that was oven-baked with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar on top. My eyes widened.

“These are my favorites.”

“Really,” he said, not sounding too surprised.

I picked up my fork, beginning to think he was some sort of psychic. He sat on the side of the table, like my mom usually did, which made it feel more comfortable. We both started eating, and I was waiting for him to chime in. After a few minutes, he started talking.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?” I wasn’t trying to be ignorant. I had a good idea that he was talking about me saving him for the last 24 hours, but I was curious to know if there was one thing in particular to which he was referring.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he clarified.

“I don’t trust you,” I said, calm and collected.

He smiled.

“I suppose I deserve that right now. But you
did
trust me enough not to let the paramedics take me.” He put his arms by his side. I kept eating because it was easier to keep focused.

“Well, then,” I said, between bites, “I guess that would be a good place to start. Maybe you can tell me why you would rather die than let the paramedics take you to the hospital.”

He casually replied, “I wasn’t going to die.”

I looked at him and let out a small laugh. “That’s funny, because you looked like death to me. If you weren’t dying, what do you call it?”

“Sleeping.”

I looked at him and saw that he was serious. “Sleeping? Huh. It looked like hypothermia to me.”

“It was normal.”

“Normal how?” I shot back.

He took in a deep breath. “It’s normal because I can’t regulate my body temperature.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I’m not like you,” he said quietly, studying my face for a reaction. I kept chewing, waiting all too eagerly for him to continue, but he was struggling to find the words.

“Why can’t you regulate your body temperature?” I pressed.

“I’m not sure how to explain this to you.”

“Try me.”

“Well, when I was sixteen, I got very sick. I was taken to Dr. Oliver Thomas, and he took me in.” I listened attentively, but feeling the agitation return at the mention of the doctor as he continued. “I was given a rare blood transfusion to try to save my life.” His eyes met mine hesitantly. I raised my eyebrow, unsatisfied.

“Dr. Thomas died in 1959, so how is that possible?”

He was growing more uncomfortable by the second and starting to look around. “
How
is that possible?” I asked again.

He brought his eyes back to mine. “Because he gave me the transfusion in 1916.”

My eyes narrowed. I was contemplating which looney bin to check him into.

“1916?” I wanted to make sure I’d heard him correctly.

He nodded. “Dr. Thomas gave me a rare cold-blood transfusion, which he mixed, and for some reason, I lived through it—and I have since only aged three years in the last ninety-one.”

At that moment, I excused myself from the table and went to grab my things. My overnight bag was upstairs, and I was still in my pajamas. I decided I would leave the house in what I was wearing, and I started stuffing my clothes in my bag. He followed me into the study.

“Keep your distance,” I warned.

He stopped in the doorway on command. I roughly grabbed my bag and went to leave. He was blocking me and made no indication that he was going to move.

“I’d like to leave now,” I informed him, refusing to look him in the eye.

He stepped further into my path. “You wanted to know the truth.”

I jerked my head up and saw that he was watching me. His eyes were warm and pained. His nonthreatening demeanor made me feel more confident and assertive.

“Yes, I did. The
truth
!” I clarified. I dropped my bag on the ground and walked over to the desk. “Not some fabricated nonsense that you could’ve taken right out of here!” I pointed to the journal on the desk.

He closed the distance between us before I realized what he was doing, and he captured me by the shoulders. I flinched.

“Do you really think I would tell you something like this, if it weren’t true? Do you think I asked for this?”

“I don’t know. Who knows why you would say something so crazy, but I’m not sticking around to find out. Now, please let me go.”

He moved his hands to hold my face, forcing me to look at him.

“Think. Sophie. You took my temperature yourself. You
saw
it. It’s 80 degrees. I wouldn’t be standing here right now if what I said wasn’t true. I wouldn’t make this up.”

I scrunched up my face, trying to shake the thought. “Please. Sophie. I swear to you. I’m not lying to you. I am what I say, and if you don’t want to be with me because of it, I won’t blame you. I’ll let you walk out of here forever, but please, don’t think I lied to you. I would never lie to you.”

I felt my knees weaken beneath me as I melted to the floor. He knelt with me, never releasing his hold on my face. It was the only thing that kept me from completely falling over. I was weakened and mentally exhausted.

“Look at me, Sophie.” His voice was soft. “You know I would never hurt you.”

I could barely open my eyes wide enough to see him, and what little I could see was blurred by water-filled eyes. He leaned closer and put his forehead to mine.

“Why is this happening?” I moaned. “I can’t believe any of this. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I know you can,” he said softly.

I shook my head. “No, it’s insane.”

“Just tell me what I can do to make you see. I’ll do it.”

I closed my eyes and absorbed the touch of his hands. They were cool. The feeling sent a small chill down my spine, with images of his freezing body at the pier. Also flashing through my mind was the strange reflection in his eyes, along with images I couldn’t decipher whether I’d made them up or actually remembered them.

“You have to show me something more concrete,” I said, wiping away the tears. “You have to show me something real.”

“Okay,” he said. He lifted me by my elbows and walked me over to the sofa to sit, and then he made his way over to the bookshelf. His fingers gently traced across the bindings of several books, as he slowly walked along the shelves. When he found what he was looking for, he stopped and gently pulled it from the shelf.

It was a medical encyclopedia. He opened it to a page and sat beside me with the book resting partially on my thigh. I leaned over to see a captioned picture labeled, Dr. Oliver Thomas, 1934. He was a blond-haired man with round-rimmed glasses. The soft lines of his face, accompanied by a square jaw, made him look powerful, smart, and kind at the same time.

“Do you see this picture?” he asked. I nodded.

Then, flipping toward the very back, he pulled out a loose photograph. He handed it to me. “This is me with Dr. Thomas in 1939.”

It was a very old but well-preserved photograph of Dr. Thomas, standing with his arm around a taller boy who looked more than similar to Wes. The hairstyle was different, but beyond that, the person in the photograph looked
exactly
like Wes.

“This was our last photograph together,” Wes said. “He didn’t want to take any more after that, because he worried about someone finding out about me.”

I took my fingertip and traced it over the face of the boy in the photograph.

“The picture is taken on the empty lot where he built his home not too far from here. If you go there today, you can see these two mountain peaks from the back deck.” He pointed to two very distinctly shaped peaks in the backdrop. “And if you stand in the front yard, you’ll see these trees right here. He built the house that is there now in 1940.” He was pointing to where they were standing.

I handed him the picture in silence. He gently placed the picture back in the book and returned it to the shelf. He moved farther down the shelf and pulled out another book. This time, it was a book of Walt Whitman poetry. He turned to the back of the book and pulled out another worn photograph.

“This is a picture of me and my mother.” He handed it to me. “This was taken in front of a bookstore she owned in London in 1915.”

I studied the photograph and was humbled by the history of it. The woman in the picture had a contagious smile. She had a look of happiness that exuberated off the page. Next to her was another mirror image of Wes. Again, the hairstyle and the clothes were completely different, but I would recognize those eyes and smile anywhere. It was him, only younger. It was comforting to see the obvious joy he gave the woman standing next to him, but it was also disturbing to fathom that the same person was now sitting next to me. I gave it back to him and stood up to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I need to think. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I need some time to make sense of it all.”