Wanderlove (2 page)

Christo brought this upon himself, I reminded myself, hoping to feel consoled.

It didn’t work.

So I turned the knob up on the car stereo, hoping some music might tune out my doubtful thoughts.

I still couldn’t keep the guilt at bay. Dimly, I wondered if I would ever be able to hide from this betrayal. For the millionth time it seemed, I questioned myself on whether or not I was making the right choice.

As if on cue, my cell phone rang. I turned down the stereo volume and picked up the phone carefully, afraid of the thing. When I didn’t answer, the screen displayed a new text message.

It was from Dad.

Weighing the phone in my hand, I debated whether or not to read it. I drove for nearly three miles before I finally decided.

In the end, I opened the window and chucked the phone out of the car.

Out of my reach.

I didn’t want to know.

I couldn’t face the consequences of what I’d just done.

Getting rid of the Mercedes proved to be the worst possible idea. I found this out in Pensacola after I’d already ditched the car. I located the nearest bus station, hoping to find a one-way ticket to Clearwater. Apparently, bus routes are canceled during tropical storms. The entrance to the building was locked and a sign read that the station was closed for the evening. I groaned. Of course the bus station would be closed. I wondered why this sensible deduction had never crossed my mind earlier. I ended up retreating back to the Mercedes, deciding to take my chances with it.

I stayed off the major highways, choosing to take the back roads instead. Lina warned me to stay out of sight. The back roads proved to be far more dangerous though. The storm was raging through the area now, needling rain beating against the car furiously. I had only just made it out of Tampa when the road flooded completely. It was coming down so hard, I could barely see anything through the windshield.

A giant oak tree that had fallen across the way came into view at the last second. My heart stopped. I slammed on my brakes, feeling the tires hydroplane. Luckily, the car stopped just in time.

I breathed heavily as the full impact of what might have happened hit me. A few minutes passed before I stopped shaking.

Once I calmed down, I realized that there was no way I could get around that tree in such a tiny automobile. But I’d prepared for anything. I pulled out my raincoat, quickly slipping it on and raising the hood over my head. I’d come too far to stop now. My determination demanded that I continue, even if that meant finishing this trip on foot. My grandmother’s house was probably about ten to fifteen miles from where I was parked. I could either walk the rest of the way or find some shelter and then call her in the morning. I would’ve had to leave the car behind sooner or later, anyway.

Walking proved to be a fatal decision. I walked for nearly five miles before I came face to face with my untimely death.

The rain had been pouring relentlessly. I could barely see a foot in front of me. A ledge by the road dropped off into a ditch nearly ten feet below the ground. By the time I realized this, my footing caught on a tree branch. I fell straight down, hitting my head upon a hard stone.

Numbly, I stared up into the trees and sky, maybe in shock.

This is it, I realized. I’d come so close, yet I was still so far. And now I was nearing the end of my life.

This life, anyway.

It was really no wonder I couldn’t seem to recall my past lives if this was how I spent them all. Larceny. . .crime. . .dishonoring my father. Who would want to remember such an existence? I probably shouldn’t even try. The world would be a much better place with one less gypsy in it.

I felt a wetness on my scalp, near my temple. I was certain it wasn’t the rain. Too warm and too sticky. I knew I should try to find help, and I attempted it, but that turned out to be one big catastrophe. A cloud of dizziness swarmed over me like a hive of angry bees. It was too much to bear. My earlier burst of determination faded entirely. My body spent, I sank back into the muddy ground, giving up. I found if I remained very still, the pain was almost bearable enough to attempt sleep. I closed my eyes, feeling the rain drops pour over my face. I prayed that if there was a God, that he would please grant me sleep while I died.

I tried to remember the words to Zetta’s lullaby through my cloudy brain. It was such a pretty song. I began to sing the words aloud as I closed my eyes, willing myself to grow tired. I’d fallen asleep a thousand times before as Zetta had sung to me, so I knew each word by heart. And yet, I wasn’t even sure what the words meant. It was just an old Romanian lullaby. But the lyrics were still so lovely to me. Zetta’s voice had always sounded very tranquil as she sang it. She added a certain mesmerizing, somewhat dreamlike quality to the tune. I tried my best to mimic her, hoping I would drift off quickly, hoping that I wouldn’t have to feel the pain of death.

I wondered how much it hurt, the part when the heart stops beating. . .

Suddenly, it was as if I had no weight. I was floating with breeze as it carried me away. Someone’s talking, saying something. . .but I had thought I was alone. As I found the courage to open my eyes, I saw him.

He was an angel, sent to deliver me to the next life. Only angels could look like he did. So beautiful, so perfect. . .I lifted my hand to touch his face, to make sure he was real.

He
was
real.

“You’re going to be all right!” he told me, trying to shout over the storm. Yet his voice seemed muted, fading in and out. Or maybe I was the one fading. It certainly felt like I was going to black out at any moment.

“I’m going to lift you now!”

His strong arms enveloped me and I felt him lift me to his chest. Warmth. . .it was truly satisfying just being surrounded by his warmth. Curiously, I wondered if the beautiful angel was taking me to heaven. It didn’t seem possible I would be sent there. Unless he was a dark angel, transferring me to hell. Now
that
I could believe.

“Is she okay?”

More voices flooded in to my foggy world. They became a little clearer, one by one, each of them distinctly male.

“She has never had a strong tolerance for pain,” one of them noted loudly.

I heard a car door shut. The constant droplets of rain no longer needled me along my face and arms. I sensed we had moved into some sort of vehicle. When did that happen?

“I felt a small lump on her head and a cut by her temple.”

“She must have fallen from the ledge by the road. Damned long fall, if you ask me. You sure there is no other damage?”

I could feel the pressure of the angel’s hands carefully checking my arms, my legs, and then rotating my wrists and feet. I could hardly understand why angels would check for broken bones. I guess I must not be dead, after all.

“Just a few scrapes and bruises.” Then I heard a sigh, sounding strangely like relief. “Nothing serious.”

The voices carried on, though I drifted off. I was exhausted. And whoever these strange men were, it seemed they didn’t mean me any harm.

Pink flowered curtains. Lavender scented pillows and sheets. An antique bookshelf filled with a collection of Jane Austen and several cook books. I blinked a few times, trying to piece together my surroundings. I didn’t freak out like some people would have. I suppose I was used to it by now, constantly waking up in different places.

As I absorbed the traces of familiarity in this bedroom, I quickly realized that I was in my grandmother’s house. This room hadn’t changed since I’d last been in it. But. . .how did I get here?

Slowly, I began to sit up. An intense pain in the back of my skull began to throb. I immediately leaned back against my pillow.

Whoa. I knew that type of pain wasn’t an average headache.

Carefully, I ran my fingers over the back of my head, searching for the source. Sure enough, I felt a small lump bulging from my scalp. I fingered the wounded area, feeling threadwork running along the cut. Someone had stitched my head back together. I was grateful not to have been conscious for that.

I wasn’t sure what had caused the wound. Things were not entirely clear. I knew I had been trying to get here-to my grandmother’s house. I was on my way. . .but never made it. Something awful happened, delaying me.

Oh yes, it had something to do with the water in the road. The image of a flooded highway appeared in my foggy mind, a giant tree sprawled across the way. I remembered leaving my car behind. . .

But how did I get hurt? I pressed my mind for answers, trying to sort things out piece by piece. I could remember everything up until the time I decided to walk. But afterwards. . .I had no idea.

The doorknob slowly twisted, catching my attention. It creaked open and my grandmother stepped inside the room.

“You’re awake,” she said, beaming. “How do you feel?”

The sight of my grandmother was so achingly nice. Everything about her put my body at ease, even the sound of her voice. It meant I didn’t have to run anymore. It meant I was safe.

“Like a train wreck.” My own voice surprised me. It was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. I wondered how long I had been asleep. Judging from the soft amber hues of the sunlight streaming in through the nearby window, I assumed it was nearly evening.

“Here, take this.” She handed me a glass of water and some aspirin. I gratefully obliged. My throat felt so dry, like I hadn’t had anything to drink in weeks.

After downing the entire glass, I glanced back towards my grandmother. She had placed her wrinkled hand over my forehead, checking my temperature. Oddly enough, her hand was the only part of her body that was wrinkled. She still looked as beautiful as I remembered.

“Either you haven’t aged one day since I last saw you or you’ve made friends with your plastic surgeon.”

She made a noise, sort of like a
humph
. “I haven’t had any surgeries, little girl. This is all natural.”

I raised a skeptical brow. I highly doubted she was telling me the complete truth.

“Unless you count a few Botox injections.”

I smiled. Miriam West was the epitome of perfection at all times. I never once caught her with a hair out of place, which, I noticed should have been peppered with gray by now. Instead she had locks the color of glossy mahogany. That was Miriam though, the woman who refused to age.

She pushed her lenses closer to her eyes to better observe me. Her eyes were still clear, with the same warm shade of brown I remembered.

“Well, you look like you did quite a bit of growing up since the last time I saw you. Apparently you’re not a little girl anymore. How old are you now? Fifteen?”

“Seventeen,” I answered her promptly. “You already know that.”

She chuckled. “I see you have turned into a little lady. You’ve become quite stunning, my dear. Even for the train wreck you claim you are.”

Miriam always knew how to cheer people with flattery.

“Thanks, Grams.”

Then, with a note of seriousness in her voice, she took my hand and asked, “So what happened, Lola?”

What happened? The question seemed so simple. I shook my head. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t get it out. And if I said it out loud, it became true. If I acknowledged it, it meant it was real.

I didn’t want to be the daughter who betrayed her father. I didn’t want to tell Miriam I was a person who could do that.

“Can I stay with you for a while?” was all I could manage to say.

“Of course.” Her answer was without hesitation. The tears I had been harboring for the past few weeks began to water in my eyes. It was a bizarre sort of thing. I rarely ever cried.

“I really appreciate it.”

“Child, don’t thank me for something you never had to ask me for in the first place. My home is your home. You should know that by now.”

In truth, this house was the only real home I’d ever known, even though my father would hate to hear me admit it. “
Your home is the world, Lola
,” he told me on a regular basis. That was our firm belief. We didn’t live like Miriam did. We didn’t conform to the norm.

“You’re going to have to tell me eventually, you know. I suspect it won’t be long before I hear from your father.”

I nodded. I owed it to her to explain everything. As much as I didn’t want my grandmother, or anyone for that matter, to know what I had done.

“I just need a few moments to pull myself together,” I admitted uncomfortably.

“You can tell me over dinner.”

“I will,” I promised. “Hey, how did I end up here, anyway?”

Miriam shifted, looking away from me. “My neighbors found you.” She didn’t offer any further explanation, almost like she didn’t want to explain.

But then I remembered-the angel! The night was coming back to me now. I shook my head at the revelation. I’d thought the angel was merely a projection in some strange dream. A figment of my imagination. “So someone that beautiful really does exist.”

“Pardon?”

Too late, I realized I was voicing my thoughts aloud. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “How did they find me?”

“You mean how did they find you in the tropical storm you were insane enough to venture into
on foot
?”

My face began to heat with embarrassment. I suppose I hadn’t put much thought into my actions during my momentary lapse of sanity.

She shook her head, clearly in disapproval.

“Get dressed, little girl. There are some clothes in the wardrobe. All we could find on you was your handbag. I put it in the drawer of the nightstand.”

“I left everything,” I said. “Except for a little cash and a few necessities.”

She nodded. “I’ll take you into town when you’re feeling better. I don’t think you have a concussion, but we should go to the hospital, just in case. I cleaned and stitched that gash on your scalp, but Lord knows I’m not that great with a needle.”

“
No
,” I asserted with great emphasis. “No hospitals.”

Miriam clicked her tongue. “What is it with gypsies and hospitals?” she scoffed, leaving the room.