Chapter Seven All The Small Things #2
“Thank you for all this information,” I murmur. “Come and see Johnny soon. I know he’d love to see you. Oh, out of curiosity—what happened to Nancy, Johnny’s sweetheart?” I ask, face carefully curious, even though I know.
“Well, that turned out to be the silver lining. You see, Nancy Benson had her cap set for Harry Rogers right from the start, but he wasn’t interested.
She took a shine to Johnny, but when Harry went in person to tell her that he’d died from a burst appendix, she just broke down and sobbed in his arms, and he sort of came to look after her.
Gosh, Johnny doesn’t know all this, huh? ”
“Nope,” I say, popping my lips over the last syllable. My stomach is roiling.
And other questions are coming to mind.
They were together every day at lunch. Could Harry have been poisoning Johnny slowly?
Nancy never showed up that night, or she would have found Johnny. Why didn’t she come?
Or did she—and then she left him there, because she wanted Harry, too?
Oh, my God.
I don’t know what to believe.
And I don’t know if a death certificate will really help. You can’t fake a ruptured appendix, can you?
But can someone with medical knowledge cause one?
I have to research.
And I don’t want to tell Johnny why.
I meet Amber at her car, and it’s all I can do not to sweep her into my arms and kiss her.
I watched the video she left for me. Five times.
“Hey, there’s my strong girl.” I smile and help her stand up. She’s moving a little better this time. I wonder if my “massage therapy” helps her.
“Johnny. Hi. I don’t have to—whoop!”
Amber’s voice is strained and tired, but it changes to a bright bubble of laughter when I sweep her up and carry her in. “I thought you might like to give those legs a rest—even though I’ll be massaging them soon.” I hesitate. That was what she wanted, right?
This is okay, isn’t it? Nancy married someone else—my friend—and murderer. It’s been decades.
Amber’s alone. Probably a little lonely.
“If you want that. Or we can just eat meatloaf and watch that show you were telling me about.”
“Mm. I’m in the mood for a massage. Johnny. I stopped for gas at Manny’s.”
“It’s nice it’s still called that. Is it his son’s place now?” I ask, floating her into the house and down to her room. I’ve got a few candles out this evening. Curtains drawn. I don’t know if it’s romantic or just peaceful, but either way, I hope she likes it.
“It’s him. Manny, your old boss.”
I damn near drop her. As it is, I set her down too hard, and she bounces on the bed, letting out a startled cry. “He’s gotta be over a hundred.”
“Um. Yes, I’d say he is. But he’s not a human. He’s... Well, you know the movie, Frankenstein?”
“Boris Karloff. Geez, kid, that was an old movie when I came out. My old man said he took my ma to see it so she’d hug up to him in the theater during the scary parts,” I laugh.
“Manny Finklestein is Frankenstein’s body double.
But in blue overalls and way sweeter. He’s going to come see you.
Because he’s... Well, he’s kind of in the same boat.
A member of the paranormal community. Seems like there are a lot of supernatural citizens in Pine Ridge,” Amber says with a tight smile.
I don’t know why she thinks I’ll be upset, but I’m quick to reassure her that I’m not. “Baby, that’s amazing!” I slap my hands together. “Old Manny! Oh, wow, I haven’t seen him—” I stop, face tight.
Amber’s face softens. “He’s the one who found you. You didn’t show up the next day. And um... I don’t want to ruin our night—”
“Our night?” I seize on the clue, even though this other stuff is far more important.
“I thought it might be special,” she whispers.
My eyes fix on her lips as she speaks. They’re gorgeous. Delectable lips. Lips that are, like every other piece of her, heart-shaped. I’m fixated on hearts and this woman. And I feel things in my heart I never felt when I was alive.
Could be that I’m just lonely.
Or could be that I finally understand what Harry Rogers was hinting at.
There are some people that you want, that you’ve got your eye on, and nothing else will do. The more that I’m with Amber, the more I want to stay near her—and the more I realize that I never craved Nancy this way.
You were alive. Stupid and spoiled, didn’t know what you had.
Amber is like... Something rare for you, that’s all. Don’t make it more than it is, Miller.
Amber’s lips are moving again. “Manny is coming to visit you—and soon you can go visit him. He told me there are things called Spirit Bottles. You can travel if someone carries you in one. I don’t know all the details, but I’ll find out. And I’ll find the coroner’s report, too.”
I nod. “We don’t have to talk about all of this now, do we?” I don’t understand why I’m hesitating. I’ve been waiting for answers for years.
So why do I just want to rub my hand along Amber’s beautiful, upturned face? Caress her cheek and hold her smile steady? “What’s the matter? You nervous?”
“About tonight? No. About telling you this part? Yes.”
“What part?” I whisper.
Amber takes my hand and pulls me onto the bed next to her. Our arms brush. Legs fuse. The tingles start, heavier, harder, almost pulsations. It makes it hard to talk. To think.
“Harry Rogers was the medic who came when Manny found you. He wept over you like a brother. Nancy hadn’t been told, hadn’t shown up.”
I sit up straighter, blinking. “No?”
“No. Apparently not. Johnny,” her voice is heavy.
“I have plenty of questions about everything that happened to you. I don’t know what to believe.
If what Manny says is true, Harry Rogers didn’t hurt you, and he considered you a real friend.
Nancy didn’t come, because... well, because she had a crush on Harry first, and when he came over to give her the bad news, they sort of clicked. In their grief, you know?”
I nod, jerkily, chest tight.
“Do you remember taking something called syrup of ipecac?” Amber asks, taking my hand in hers and rubbing slow circles on my knuckles, her soft, warm skin flirting with seeping into my room-temperature form.
“I had to. To get the poison out. Or whatever it was.”
“Only, you were already feeling sick before, right?”
“Nerves. I was about to propose.” And no wonder it felt wrong. Nancy wasn’t mine. Just like Harry said.
“Yeah, see, that’s a good explanation. Unless you were also being poisoned by the guy you ate lunch with every day, a guy who worked in a hospital and had access to drugs that might be fatal.
Or... You could have been suffering from an inflamed appendix.
And while I was waiting for my appointment today,” she swallows, “I went on my phone and looked up some things. If you already have an inflamed appendix, you should not take ipecac. It causes violent stomach contractions and puts so much pressure on the appendix that it can burst. When it bursts, it dumps tons of bacteria into your body, and peritonitis can set in—fast.”
I go cold. See-through. Misty. I’m just a shadow next to Amber as a harsh possibility sets in.
I was already feeling sick that week. Off and on. Every time I thought about marrying Nancy, asking her—going all the way and making it legal... My stomach roiled, and I had the nagging little thought that love should feel different.
But then the pain didn’t go away. It got worse. And it got worse the closer I got to proposing.
Yes, because the nerves were worse.
Or, your appendix was getting closer to bursting.
What makes one burst? Gotta look that up.
But not now.
“Johnny? This is just what pieces I’m putting together. If Harry Rogers poisoned you, he’s still at fault. You took the ipecac because of him.”
“Or because I thought he’d do that—even though he was an Army medic who’d saved hundreds of lives.
Even though he never raised a voice or a hand to me.
Even though up until that day, I would have told you I would have trusted him with my life.
Jesus H. Christ,” I whisper, and it’s a broken prayer.
“What did I do? Did my suspicious mind kill me?”
“No! I don’t... I don’t think so. There are some pieces missing.
Who’s to say he didn’t clean up evidence when he came with the ambulance after Manny called them?
And why didn’t Nancy come? And what’s the cause of death?
That’s the real answer we need! A person can say anything, but the doctor’s examination will tell us the truth.
We still won’t know if poison prompted the inflammation.
You know, I’ll go look right now—” Amber rises.
I pull her back, solid in a blink of an eye. “Don’t go tonight. Don’t go looking any more tonight,” I whisper.
My head droops. I start to fade again, but Amber leans into my shoulder, and her living, heart-beating warmth unfreezes my tongue. “What if this was all a stupid mistake?”
She squeezes my knee, and for a blinding moment, only the pleasure of her touch matters.
“I used to say that a lot. Not, ‘What if this was a stupid mistake?’ but ‘This is a stupid mistake.’ One car accident. One driver looking at his phone. One careless moment from some rich teenager—” Amber’s voice shakes with anger, then breaks and crashes down, almost tearful, “ruined years and years of study and work. Wrecked my body and my health. My happiness. My relationship.”
“I know, hon.”
“But if I hadn’t been in that wreck, I wouldn’t be here, with you.
And... Without your mistake, you wouldn’t be here with me—if it even was a mistake.
I have more research to do. And I know being with me for a week or two doesn’t balance the scales, but maybe it helps. A little. You help me. A lot.”
I squeeze her fingers between mine, and I’m solid enough not to melt into her, or pass through her. Just buzz against her, our nerves singing together.