Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5) (2 page)

“She’ll be fine,” Garrison said, patting Isaiah on the shoulder, simultaneously propelling him in the direction of the dining room. “Come on. Ruth made all your favorite dishes.”

Giving Ira one last worried glance, Isaiah followed Garrison through an opening on the right and down the winding corridor. The familiar path led them past the library, the parlor, the sitting area and finally the dining room. Isaiah held his breath as he crossed over the threshold. His gaze instantly swept over the room, taking in the long, rectangular table, the high-back chairs, the glossy marble floors, stone hearth and crystal chandelier. Everything was exactly as it had been the last time he’d been there, everything, except that she wasn’t there. She wasn’t sitting across from him, grinning over the flickering flames of candlelight or teasingly nudging his foot with hers beneath the table. She just wasn’t there at all. What’s more, there were only two places set. Disappointment settled on his shoulders as he took his regular spot on Garrison’s right.

Relief!
He corrected. It was relief. He wasn’t ready to face her, didn’t think he ever would be. Six years at one of the toughest military schools in Canada, under some of the hardest, strictest teachers and he felt physically sick at the very idea of crossing paths with one girl. His professors would be appalled. They would probably strip him of his diploma.

Garrison claimed his place at the head of the table, smoothed a hand down the front of his cream-colored suit and reached for his napkin. His green eyes rose to Isaiah as he draped it casually over his lap. His face split into a smile. “It really is great to have you home, son.”

Isaiah forced himself not to glance at the empty seat on the other side of the neatly placed table, to not visualize big, blue eyes peering back at him from a face loved by the gentle glow of candlelight. Instead, he focused all his attention on the man who had assigned himself as Isaiah’s guardian and protector, the only man that had given him everything without asking for a single thing back. The only man he owed his life to.

“It’s good to be home, sir.”

Garrison showed teeth in a smile. “I’ll be honest, for a moment, I wasn’t sure you wanted to come back. You seemed so hesitant when we spoke on the phone with all that talk of joining the Forces this fall. I almost took you seriously.”

His training kept him from fidgeting. “I feel it’s my duty to protect my country and do my part to create a better future, sir.” He made no mention of the promises he’d made to people he hadn’t seen in ten years, promises he had every intention of keeping, heaven willing.

Long fingers spread in a questioning gesture as Garrison sat back. “Well, that’s easy enough to do through charities and other functions once you made a good future for yourself. I can call several universities and see if we can’t get you early admission. I know with your stellar record from the Academy plus a recommendation from me.” He dropped his hands into his lap. “You can have any sort of future you wish.” Garrison picked up his wineglass. “If, after, you decide you still want to pursue this path, I’m sure we can find something more suitable.”

Isaiah struggled not to grimace, not to lose his patience. None of this was anything he hadn’t already heard over the phone every night since his graduation three months ago. He had tried so hard to keep away, to uphold his own silent promise to himself, to her. Coming back was just cruel. But Garrison had badgered until there was no choice except to succumb and return to the last place on earth he ever wanted to see again. He didn’t understand why Isaiah wanted to join the army. Why he’d wanted to fight. But Isaiah had his reasons. Some were more selfish than others, but it was for the best.

“I don’t think university is the right option for me, sir.”

Garrison took a sip, set his glass down and waved a hand. “Then take a year off, think about it while you enjoy your youth. I know it will be nice to have you around the house for Christmas. It’s been horrendously quiet around here.”

He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t bite back the words burning in his mouth. “Where’s Amalie?”

Like shutters closing on a pleasant view of warm meadows, Garrison’s expression closed. Lines bracketed his mouth and creased the spot between his brows. His gaze dropped to his neatly folded hands resting in his lap.

“She won’t be joining us,” he said, his tone definite. “She will be having her supper in her room.”

It was Isaiah’s turn to avert his gaze. He scrubbed his wet palms down the thighs of his cargo pants. She didn’t want to see him. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It shouldn’t have hurt, but God, the pain was unbearable.

“How is she?”

Stop asking! Stop caring! Keep your mouth shut!
But he could never stop caring. He could never stop wanting her, needing her. The torture he’d suffered those twelve months away was infinite. Being skinned and salted alive was a pleasure cruise in comparison. But he needed to know. God, it was selfish, but he needed to know she was all right.

“She hasn’t been well.” Garrison toyed with the corner of his napkin. “Her conditions have worsened since you were here last.”

A jagged ball of rusted nails cut a bloody trail down the column of his throat, his chest and settled in the pit of his stomach. Spikes of ice pierced through his lungs, immobilizing every breath, freezing his blood. It was solely his grip on the armrests that kept him from leaping to his feet; kept him from charging out of the room; kept him from finding her, pulling her into his arms and begging her to forgive him. This was his fault. If she was worse, it was because of him, because of what he’d done, or because of what he should have done sooner. He did this to her. She was suffering because of him.

Garrison took up his wineglass once more and toyed with the stem. “If anything, things have been catastrophic.”

The food arrived on a gilded trolley, domed platters brimming with succulent meals fit for royalty. Somber-faced servers set the dishes on the table. One filled Isaiah’s glass with ice water. But his lungs were already frozen. His blood was clotted with splinters. The sight of food turned his stomach.

“Is someone watching her?” He slicked his lips, his voice a broken mirror reflecting every emotion crashing into him. “Is someone with her? Making sure—?”

Garrison raised a hand, signaling him to be quiet. His remarkably flat, cold eyes watched the ballet being performed around the table as trays were set in their proper places, glasses were filled and food was catered.

“We can serve ourselves,” he told the nearest server.

The man, staring respectfully at his feet, bowed his head, snapped smartly on his shiny heels and hurried to grab his trolley. The others followed his lead like dogs on a tether.

Garrison watched them, waited until they were fully out of sight before focusing on Isaiah once more. “After the mess Julia made, I can’t trust people not to talk and I don’t want word of Amalie getting out to certain people.”

“She’s alone?” Those two words were laced with anguish, with anger and disbelief.

“No, not alone.” Garrison sat back, hands folded neatly in his lap. “She has Gabriel — Julia’s replacement — who comes in five times a week to tutor her and Isabella takes up her food and makes sure the room is in order. Amalie and I have our meetings three times a week where we discuss her progress. I already mentioned to her that we would consider bringing more people into her life as soon as she makes more of an effort to get better. I do not want another horrific incident like with Julius Barnabas. You remember that, don’t you?”

Isaiah nodded. “Has she…” he trailed off, too numb to formulate the nagging words.

Garrison shook his head. “She assures me she no longer sees things, but there are times I see it in her eyes, the way she moves. I keep our meetings to her room. I notice she’s more relaxed there. I’ve told her that until she makes more progress, she will be confined to her room. I think this saves me from having to constantly hover over her and make sure she’s not going to do anything stupid.”

Isaiah didn’t want to imagine it, didn’t think he had the nerve to continue sitting there when the image of Amalie — tiny, fragile Amalie — sitting alone and sick in her room, kept rotating around in his skull. But now that it was there, digging roots into his brain, he didn’t know how to shake it.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but does she need to be locked up?”

“It’s for her good, Isaiah. I know it sounds harsh and unreasonable right now, but I can’t have her wandering about, talking to herself! Can you imagine the chaos that would cause if someone were to see? I have enemies watching my every move and major backers that would not hesitate to pull their funding if word of Amalie got out. These people don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to bring her this far. I can’t have them getting wind that, here I am trying to cure mankind of retardation and my own daughter is mentally challenged. Do you understand?”

He didn’t. Maybe he was too blinded by emotion, too overcome by the ever present need to protect her, but he didn’t like the idea of her being stored away like some dirty secret. He didn’t like her being alone. The latter killed him, destroyed him, devastated him. The very idea that she was somewhere in the maze of rooms and corridors, alone, maybe frightened, slashed at his heart.

Garrison sighed when Isaiah sat torn between two voices. “It’s for her own good, Isaiah. I promise you. Everything I do is to help make her better.”

Amalie

Soft sunrise kissed the liquid navy in passing, as splinters of light pricked the early dawn. Pools of gold stretched across the ceiling of her room, trickled down the walls and painted everything with fire. The sweet fragrance of roses, sea salt, vanilla and citrus washed through the room, surrounding her, willing her decaying senses to rise.

Beyond the barricade of her confines, the low moans of the damned seeped through the cracks, pricking her, but not with the same ferocity as they once did. She was no longer the scared little girl hiding from the voices. She had learned long ago to simply ignore them when they begged for her to come out and help them.

It was just another day, she thought, closing her eyes. Another day she would have to endure. Another day of fooling herself into believing she wasn’t insane when the voices urged her otherwise. After twelve years, it really shouldn’t have been as hard as it was to block them out. But they were a steady trickle against stone, eventually even the toughest granite would crack.

She drew the sheets up over her head and blocked out the warmth of the sun trying to probe the empty shell that was her body into what could resemble a shred of animation. She just didn’t want to be warm, to feel alive. There was no reason to.

Across the room, the penetrating sound of locks disengaging and brass grinding on brass pressed through the silence. Hinges squealed as the door was opened a crack. She didn’t have to look to know Isabella had poked her head in, hazel eyes wide, glassy with fear as they darted like a frightened rabbit around the room. She had a feeling Isabella was always waiting to be ambushed by her. Maybe the maid thought one of those days she’d walk in and get a pillow in the face. It was, after all, the only weapon Amalie had.

When she deemed it safe, the maid padded hurriedly across the room, her soft, rapid patter reminding Amalie of a small creature scuttling to safety. There was scuffling as she set out Amalie’s breakfast on the desk. No rattling of china. No clink of silverware. No clunk of glass. But there was the familiar rustle of Styrofoam against wood. Then the quick scurry of Isabella’s feet as she retreated, much faster than when she’d entered. The door cracked in closing. The locks snapped into place sharply, the sound of thunder slicing heaven and earth.

Amalie was left alone with the sound of her own breathing and the rush of the ocean as company. It was Monday, she wouldn’t see anyone for another four hours. She was safe for four hours.

Detangling herself from the sheets, Amalie padded to the washroom. Chilled hardwood floors gave way to icy laminate. She no longer winced at the contact.

At the sink, she washed her face with water too cold to contain any heat, taking great pains not to glance into the wrapped mirror just inches from her face. She hadn’t seen her own reflection in a year.

The mirror wasn’t real. The glass was distorted like the mirrors of a funhouse. Her father thought this would be safer for someone like her. But she couldn’t look into the gilded frame without shuddering at the demon staring back at her. She was almost certain it was the same monster hiding inside her, the one that made her this way. Made her like her mother. Her father saw it every time they were together. She could see it in his eyes. If he tried to mask the anger, the hatred and betrayal, he never did a very good job.