Spirits Read online

  “Aaahhh,” he said, coming up for a breath. “That hits the spot. Go ahead. Take a drink. Good for what ails ya.”

  Tori studied the contents of her bottle. She pulled the cork from it and inhaled vanilla, oak, and chocolate. Deeper, it smelled like Christmas. Allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. Rum, maybe, she thought. She sipped, and the flavors burst on her tongue. A hint of orange, a nip of cocoa.

  “There. That’s a girl. Now come on. Sit down here.”

  Tori followed his lead and sat on the hard concrete. The oily man took another glug. She tipped back her drink. The sweet, spicy, fragrant liquid slipped neatly down her throat.

  “Are you real?” she asked. The fact that she wasn’t a shuddering, terrified mess surprised her. The memory of snakes spewing forth from the man’s mouth was vivid in her head.

  The man wheezed when he laughed. “Do you think I’m real?” he asked.

  Tori gulped down more of the black liquor. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t even know if it matters. Maybe I did die already. Maybe I’m in Hell. God, it sure feels like it. All I know is, whatever I did in my life to hurt other people, I sure as fuck have paid in full, don’t you think?”

  The oily man pulled his knees up to his chest and took a long drink. “That’s not for me to say.”

  Tori took another pull from the bottle, and the liquor tasted like sour bile. She spat it onto the concrete, the rivulets gathered into an ink-black pool and soon braided together to form some gelatinous glob.

  She turned to face the oily man. Instead, she saw her father, dressed in shorts, his mayonnaise-colored belly bare, his swollen feet overflowing from a pair of flipflops. He held the bottle of clear liquid now and took a slug from it.

  “Hey, Pumpkin! I heard you weren’t doing so hot, so I wanted to come by and cheer you up.”

  Tori scrambled backward like a frightened crab. Dad’s smile grew broader and brighter. He took another drink and said, “That’s no way to treat your old man. Didn’t you miss me?”

  Her throat cracked. The inside of her mouth tasted like blood, and fear shook her when she thought about what might have been in the bottle she drank from.

  “Get out of here,” she croaked. “You don’t belong here. You’re dead.”

  Dad chuckled. “Dead? Where on earth did you hear that? I’m sitting right in front of you, aren’t I?”

  Tears dripped from her chin. She stood up, her cheeks expanding and contracting, and clutched the vessel so hard, she thought it might break in her hand. Dad hefted himself up. He looked even more bloated and yellow than she’d ever remembered seeing him. A puffed, gray hand rested on her shoulder.

  “I know you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, Pumpkin, but there’s one thing we can both agree on. You’re a lousy sack of shit, and it’s time for you to finally die.”

  His face contorted into a manic grin. Tori felt all the air leave her body, and she threw the bottle to the ground. It exploded in a spray of jagged glass. The black liquid showered the ground. It collected itself into a single, writhing entity that climbed its way up her leg and held her fast to the spot.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Honey. Is that any way to act? Now look what you’ve done. Didn’t Daddy teach you better than to waste perfectly good alcohol? Let’s get this in your tummy, where it belongs.”

  The rope of goo worked its way, sticky and gluey, up her body until it reached her mouth. It reared back and struck at her. She pulled her head away, but the goop pursued her until it slid down her throat and swam in her guts. It hit her like a cannonball, and she staggered onto her back. Her vision blurred as she made contact with the pavement.

  Dad sat next to her and pulled her into his lap. Her back cracked as he forced her onto his body. He swaddled her like an infant and put the container of clear liquid to her lips.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Time to take your medicine. I know, you don’t like the taste, but we’re all getting tired of your bullshit, so let’s swallow it down like a good girl. That’s it. Drink it all.”

  The fluid glugged in the bottle as she gulped, sending bubbles back in with every pull. It tasted bitter, almost like sucking on a dry aspirin. She wanted to spit it out and tried to resist the liquid pouring down her throat, but she couldn’t wrench herself away. Her father kept a grip on her and forced the bottle tight against her mouth. Tori’s head swam.

  “Empty. Good girl! How do you feel?”

  Tori spat liquid she held in her mouth right into the man’s face. He frowned like a petulant child.

  “That was not very nice, Victoria. Not nice at all. I think I’m going to have to punish you for that.”

  She could barely sit up straight and flopped back onto the chilled walkway. Her father towered over her, his face distorted and misshapen from the angle and perspective. He looked like a funhouse mirror reflection of himself. A knee jerked back and a foot ricocheted ahead. Toenails, overgrown and yellowed, jabbed into her ribs as the flipflopped foot made contact. Air puffed from her diaphragm, and she rolled into the fetal position in a vain attempt at protecting herself. More blows followed. A fist connected with her shoulders as she tucked her head into her arms. Another foot stomped down onto her leg. The flesh twisted beneath it, and Tori heard herself cry out. Breath ragged, she whimpered. Dad collapsed upon her and smashed the entirety of his weight against her, crushing her to the pavement. The pressure squeezed her guts until dizziness overcame her and darkness enveloped her.

  Chris Silver lay in bed, stomach twisted and sour. Even on good days, it was this way. It wasn’t a good day, and it hadn’t even started. He hadn’t felt the urge to drink in years, but it was getting to him today. Just one wouldn’t hurt. Just one. It was a lie he told himself from time to time. He’d never actually succumbed to it, but there was an itch beneath his skin this morning, and he hoped he could find other ways to scratch it.

  He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and felt the soft plush of the carpet. He padded to the bathroom and took care of his most pressing concern. Having shaken the dew off the lily, he creaked and groaned out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He tiptoed past Emmy’s room. Chris couldn’t bring himself to think of it as anyone else’s room. His last day on earth, that would be Emmy’s room. Five years after she died, he’d forced himself to put the crib and the dresser out by the road for the garbage man. That was thirty years ago, and he still hated himself for that. The walls were the same soft rose-pink Margaret had chosen. Chris had picked up the paint days after they brought Emmy Viola home from the hospital. He knew the room needed to be updated and repainted. The carpet was as old as the house. But where was he going? He’d be dead in a few years, probably, and décor would be someone else’s problem. It was Emmy’s room. It would always be Emmy’s room.

  Yet, someone had taken her room, and he felt a twinge of guilt for that. He imagined that if Emmy had lived, she would’ve shared. He’d invented the grown-up version of Emmy in his head. She was petite with the same strawberry blonde curls, only styled more maturely. Grown-up Emmy was generous and polite with only a hint of her father’s self-righteousness, just enough to be endearing instead of obnoxious. Grown-up Emmy would’ve gladly given her room to a woman in desperate need of help, he decided. The pang of guilt eased but didn’t die completely. It never went away.

  He filled the coffee carafe with enough water to make a couple of cups for himself and his guest, popped in a filter, and scooped out two tablespoons of ground coffee. The rich aroma invigorated him. He hoped the smell would perk his guest, and they might attend an AA meeting together. He needed to go to one himself. The stress of having a drinker in his home was getting under his skin.

  Still, he understood she’d been through a lot. Sleep might be what she needed. He would be as quiet as possible until she emerged.

  The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed. Steam lifted up as the deep brown liquid dripped into the carafe. He moved to the living room and flipped on the television. Channel six offered an infom
ercial for a salad tosser. Chris flipped past the early morning news broadcast to a 90s sitcom with a bad laugh track. He couldn’t handle the news. For the first thirty years of his life, he’d watched the news religiously, but stories of death and destruction and the awful things people do to each other depressed him so much, he had to stop. Now, any time he saw the vacuous, empty, emotionless faces of news broadcasters, he flipped to another station. He knew more than anyone what humans were capable of.

  He watched the characters of the sitcom get into a variety of stupid misunderstandings that even the most nitwitted person could avoid in real life. The coffeemaker beeped, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The floor was cold against his feet. He checked the thermostat on the way and bumped it up to seventy. The burner groaned and hummed and, before long, heat came down from the vents.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, black. The thought of watching the boring misadventures of a bunch of thirty-something folks held little appeal for him. He took a steaming-hot first sip, that sip that hits the bloodstream and jumpstarts the heart. He walked to the French doors that led to his greening, moss-coated back porch. Vines and brown grass waved in the brittle breeze. The swing set rusted like a shipyard hulk in the twisting brambles.

  A single swing rocked back and forth. The movement drew him closer to the door. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d turned the lock and threw open doors. The cold rippled through his thin, striped pajamas. He could see her, staring out behind a curtain of curls. Her stare was wistful. She didn’t appear to be pained or sad or even happy. She just offered up a vision of what might’ve been but wasn’t. Couldn’t be.

  Grief squeezed him like a vice. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her out there, playing with her toys––decades-old relics that would never bring joy to anyone. His breath hitched, and he doubled over, the mental pain jabbing like a thousand daggers. Could she see him? Did she remember dying? Was she trapped? Did she feel pain when she died?

  The last question haunted him each and every day. He visualized the semi smashing into the back of the car, the panels crumpling, his child screaming and crying as the metal twisted into her body, ripping the life out of her. And Margaret. His college sweetheart. She’d be forever fresh-faced and freckled with skin as smooth as silk. Her body would never sag with age. They’d missed the chance to grow old together, to learn to love the little imperfections that came along as death neared. Wrinkles and the silver strands that wound their way through thinning hair. The aches and cracks that came with getting out of bed in the morning. He’d never had the chance to truly love her unconditionally. And the void left by her absence was a chasm he’d never be able to fill.

  He recalled the last time he saw Emmy out there. He wasn’t even sure he’d really seen her at first. She peeked out from behind a lilac bush, curious but cautious like a rabbit. He’d been cooking a meal long since forgotten and set the pan in the sink. A mist waved back and forth in the dim evening, and he didn’t give it much thought until he turned. There was a face. Her face. It forced all the breath out of him, and he crashed through the back door, ripped down the stairs, and raced toward her. He wanted to grab her and swing her through the air and hold her to him and smell her sweet, soft hair and kiss her plump baby cheeks. But as soon as he reached her, she was gone, and he was broken anew.

  Chris resisted the urge now to rush out and scoop her up and beg her to stay. She hadn’t visited often over the years, but she did seem to show up when he was low and thinking about drinking. Or about joining her. He’d never told anyone about the nights he lay in bed, salt from his tears stinging his face, considering a razor blade in the bathtub or a cocktail of pills and booze. Comics always pulled him back from the brink. The idea that everyday people could do extraordinary things and save the day gave him hope.

  QuickSilver was a joke at first. A funny idea that he, a paunchy goofball, could be a superhero. It was a way to escape, so he started creating stories in his mind about QuickSilver’s adventures. Those stories took on a life of their own, and before long, he couldn’t control it anymore. It became bigger than he was, so he stopped fighting it. And he had helped people. If that was his fate, who was he to question it––or try to stop it?

  Emmy’s form faded and disappeared completely. Dejected, he moved back inside. His chilled skin felt numb against the heat from his kitchen. He clutched his coffee cup and drank deeply. It wasn’t enough, though. He set the mug back down and threw open the cabinets one by one, finally searching beneath the sink. He rushed to the hallway bathroom and pulled open the cabinet under that sink. Listerine would taste awful, but that’s all he had. Scope would’ve been better. He twisted the white cap and held it under his nose. It smelled like some facsimile of mint mixed with medicine and chemicals. Chris set it down and put his hands against the countertop, breathing deeply. The bandage that covered most of his face alarmed him when he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. He looked like a ghastly version of himself, a person he didn’t even recognize. He needed a meeting. Going now would be better than sucking down the antiseptic, foul-tasting mouthwash just for the alcohol. If he was that desperate, it was time to get help.

  Chris put the cap back on the mouthwash and marched to Emmy’s old room. He knocked lightly and listened at the crack. He tried a little louder but still heard nothing, so he turned the knob and eased himself inside. The room was empty. The air mattress had been slept on, but there was no sign of Tori.

  The surge of adrenaline started, and he ran out the front door. Someone was in trouble. Someone needed QuickSilver.

  CHAPTER 19

  Orange daylight poured over her face, and Tori groaned. She expected to roll over and find her dad snoring next to her, but he was nowhere to be found. It was more of a relief than she expected. Her ribs ached, and she tasted blood. Something had beaten the shit out of her, there was no doubt about that. She sat unsteadily and studied herself. Purple, thumb-shaped ovals were already forming in the meaty part of her arms. She rolled her jeans up and saw bloodied welts slashing up her shins. Thick, brown-red scabs formed on her knees where she’d fallen on the craggy asphalt.

  Someone shuffled along on the walkway. Keys jangled. Tori eased herself up and stood. Her knees buckled under the strain, but she fought to keep herself up. Her legs quaked and her elbow shook.

  “Lady, we don’t open for another hour. If you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call the cops.”

  It was the same man who’d sold her beer the day before; he was wearing the same flannel shirt and dirty jeans.

  Tori coughed, and something that tasted subterranean chunked into her mouth. She swallowed it back down.

  “I think I’m hurt,” she said.

  Mr. Flannel was halfway inside the store, and he already had his phone out. The cowbell clanged.

  “All right, fine,” Tori huffed. “That’s some downhome motherfucking hospitality right there. I’ll go die in the street.”

  Her body groaned as she hobbled, determined to just keep putting one foot after the other until she reached the rough asphalt. A hissing sound caught her off guard, and she expected to see the wriggling mass of appendages that marched her down there the night before. She smelled like urine, and it took her a few seconds to realize she’d pissed all over herself. Even so, her most pressing concern was getting back to Chris’s house so she could retrieve her purse and buy more beer. The memory of the oozing black goo she’d drank disgusted her so much, she put her hands to her knees and stopped walking. She felt like she might puke, but she choked it back down. She wondered what it was. She also wondered about the clear liquor her father––no, it wasn’t her father; it was some mental construct intended to rip her insides out––poured down her gullet. Whatever she’d consumed, it wasn’t enough, and the urge to drink again seized her.

  That’s right. Drink some more. It’s about time we ended this, don’t you think? Haven’t you hit rock bottom yet? You did just spend the night on the concrete in front of a c
onvenience store. Oh, but how you’ve fallen. Can you see that? Or are you too far gone?

  It wasn’t lost on Tori. She knew how far she’d fallen, only it didn’t matter anymore. She’d tried to fight it, but it overpowered her. Did she have any fight at all left in her?

  Her legs ached. Her feet felt like ground hamburger. The road was still raw against her exposed feet. She limped. Her purse would be back at Chris’s house, and if she could just get back there, she might be able to walk back and get more beer. Or maybe she could convince Chris to let her borrow his car so she could go to Harrington’s to get what she really wanted. Maybe vodka. Maybe more gin. Beer had never been her drink, but it would do if she had no other choice.

  She made the turn onto Chris’s street. A car raced toward her, and she staggered into dry, fragile bushes. The branches cut into her skin. The car screeched to a halt. Chris jumped out and ran over to her.

  “Where have you been?” His voice was agitated and accusatory. It almost made her laugh, but she let the question hang in the air long enough that it made her irrationally angry.

  “I don’t have to tell you where I’ve been,” she spat. Tori would be hard-pressed to explain it. She wasn’t certain she understood it herself.

  Chris’s face puffed and turned crimson.

  “Do you want to die?” he screamed.

  Tori tried to walk around him. If she could just get back to his house, she could get her purse. Her most pressing need had nothing to do with the man in front of her.

  “Quiet, I’m trying to get something to drink,” she said.

  He stepped in front of her and crossed his arms over his chest. It was the same action he’d taken to scare off the boys who chased her all those years ago. She wanted his help. She wanted him to save her. But that thirst demanded to be quenched, that gaping maw had opened up again, and it was like trying to deny herself oxygen. Right now, she felt like she had been holding her breath.