Fated (The Soul Seekers 1)

hile now. Ever since I mentioned it that time we were on location in New Zealand when you refused to believe me, just like you refuse to believe me now. But just because I stopped mentioning it doesn’t mean it stopped happening. I mean, have you ever stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, you’re wrong? That there just might be more to this world than you and the oh-so-smart-white-coat-crew want to believe? You’re all so eager to draw scientifically based, logical conclusions—to reduce me to some convenient, textbook diagnosis—but you can’t. It’s just not that easy. And I wish—” I pause, curl my hands into fists that lay useless in my lap as I fight to catch my breath. “I wish that just this once you would listen to me instead of them! I wish that just this once you would trust what I tell you!”

My voice ends on a high, frantic note that seems strangely out of place in this quiet Venice Beach neighborhood. And when Jennika noses the car into the drive, she’s barely come to a stop before I’ve already opened the door and made a mad dash for the house.

“I’m exhausted,” I tell her, using the key Harlan gave me to let myself in. “The meds are starting to kick in and…”

I’ve barely made it past the threshold before my knees fold and buckle beneath me, as Jennika rushes up from behind, anchors her fingers under my arms, and half-drags, half-carries me to the sofa bed where she eases me down onto the soft yellow sheets, props a pillow under my head, and carefully tucks the blanket around me as I drift into a deep pool of nothing.

* * *

I wake to the sound of Jennika’s phone—her Lady Gaga ringtone making it as far as the second verse before she rushes out of the kitchen and snatches it up from the recycled-glass table.

Careful to keep her voice muffled and low on the first hello, she checks on me, sees I’m awake, and repeats herself in her normal tone, chasing it with, “Yes, this is Jennika.” Which is soon followed by an incredulous, “Who?”

She squints in confusion, drops onto the nearest chair. Her free hand reaching for the Diet Coke she left on the side table, bringing it to her lips, then abandoning it to the table again before she can even take a first sip. And though I strain to hear the voice on the other side, all I can determine is that it sounds like a female.

Maybe.

I can’t be too sure.

“I’m sorry, but—” She shakes her head, her voice growing edgy, fingers plucking at the long silver necklace she favors this week. “I don’t get it. If you truly are who you claim to be, then why now? Where’ve you been all these years? It’s not like I haven’t tried to reach you, you know? But you were nowhere to be found. It’s like you fell off the face of the earth!”

When she catches me staring, she’s quick to abandon her spot and head for the kitchen, shooting me a backward glance that warns me to not even think about following.

I lay still, pretending to comply. But really I’m just waiting to hear the familiar sounds of Jennika settling—the screech of a chair sliding away from the breakfast table—before I creep toward the doorway and press my body hard against the wall in an effort to listen without being seen.

Trying to remember when she’d used that phrase before. So many people have come and gone from our lives—Jennika has made sure of that—but there’s only one she’s described in that way, as having dropped off the face of the earth.

There’s only one other person who’s proved to be even more elusive than Jennika and me: my dad’s mom. My long-lost grandmother, who, according to Jennika, didn’t even make it through her son’s funeral.

Paloma Santos is her name, and it’s only a moment before Jennika confirms it.

“Fine. Let’s just say that you are Paloma. You still haven’t answered my question, which is—why now? Why nearly seventeen years later? What could possibly be the point of all this? Do you have any idea how much you’ve missed?”

And while I have no idea how Paloma might’ve answered, since from where I stand the call is pretty one-sided, I do know that whatever she said was enough to silence Jennika. Other than a sudden hitch in her breath, it’s a while before she speaks up again.

“How—how did you know?” she asks, her voice growing thready, thin. The words soon followed by: “Well no, I’m afraid you can’t speak to her. It’s—it’s not a very good time.”

I press closer, daring to peek around the door frame. Spying a glimpse of Jennika now slumped over the breakfast table, one hand propping up her head, while the other clutches the phone to her ear. Her words coming quickly, hard to follow, when she says, “She’s a smart and beautiful girl. She’s a lot like her father. She’s got my green eyes and fair complexion, but the rest is all him. I’m sorry you missed it, Paloma, I really, truly am. But now is not a good time. We’re going through a bit of a rough patch. There’s been an … incident. And while I—what?” Her spine straightens as she grips the phone tighter. “How could you possibly know about that?”

She turns toward the doorway, more as a precaution than having any real sense of my presence. But I’m quick to slip out of sight, biding my time until she pipes up again and I venture a peek.

She rocks the chair back on two legs, absently rolling the hem of her vintage Blondie concert tee between her forefinger and thumb. Jaw clenching as she nods, listens, nods again. Carrying on like that until I’m practically bursting with curiosity, wondering what the heck my long-lost grandmother might be confiding.

“Yes, I remember,” Jennika finally says, setting the chair right again and staring blankly at the table’s intricate zebra wood grain. “He loved you deeply. Respected you immensely. But he wanted to live his own life, his own way. He wanted a life outside of New Mexico. And now, after failing with him, you think you can get a second chance with Daire? Surely you’re joking—”

While the words sound strong, Jennika doesn’t. And I can’t recall one single time in all of our lives when I’ve seen her looking so lost and defeated.

“She’s been treated. Sedated. The first doctor in Morocco kept her heavily medicated, but it didn’t last. Nothing does. They just keep playing with the doses, trying to find something that clicks. They’re treating her like a guinea pig, and now they tell me they’re running out of choices. Claim they’re going to have to—” Her voice breaks as she covers her face with her hands. Taking a moment to steady herself before she straightens her spine and says, “They want to institutionalize her. Keep her under lock and key and heavy surveillance. And to be honest, I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. I’ve taken some time off work, but soon enough I’ll have to return. I have bills to pay, a living to make, and it’s not like I can drag her along like I used to. She can’t fly, and even if she could, it’s not like I can keep her constantly drugged and restrained. And now you call. The last person I ever expected to hear from. Just out of the blue. How’s that for coincidence?” She laughs, but it’s not a real one, it’s more like a longing for one.

Her shoulders slump as she returns to heavy listening mode, her silence broken by occasional comments like “Herbs? Seriously? You think that’ll work?”

Followed by, “Paloma, with all due respect, you haven’t seen what I’ve seen—you have no idea what she’s capable of!”

And then, “So those are my choices? Really? Sixteen years of parenting and that’s what I’m left with? And excuse me for asking, but how can you be so sure? I hate to say it, but Django was just seventeen when you lost him!”

When she goes quiet again, I’m just about to bust in—just about to let her know I’ve heard every word—or at least Jennika’s part—and I’m not the least bit happy about it. They’re deciding my future without my consent. Not stopping to think that I might want a vote.

My arm outstretched, about to grab hold of her shoulder, really let her have it, when she turns, her smeary, red-rimmed eyes meeting mine, not the least bit surprised to find me lurking behind.