The Time Seekers (The Soul Seekers Book 2) (21 page)

I dried off and stood before the mirror. I combed my hair.

I reached for the towel again. No more pinkish discharge appeared.

Jesse stood waiting for me outside the bathroom. He acted kind of angry over how long it had taken, but I smiled and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Are you nervous?” I asked, moving to the bed to put on the new set of clothes he’d bought for me last night. He’d been gone for over two hours and had come back with an armload of clothes, shoes, magazines, newspapers, and a new electric guitar strung over his back.

He stood back and let out a whistle over the new jeans I slipped on. He’d also bought two black leather jackets: one for me and one for himself. Everything almost fit. The jeans were a little loose, which I was glad about. I used my old belt to make them fit, then rolled up the bottom cuffs a few inches.

“No. I’m not nervous,” he said finally, coming to put his arms around me. “I’m excited.”

“Good.”

His lips met my neck. “I’d be nervous if you weren’t with me.”

Outside, it was bitter cold, and there were people everywhere. On the sidewalks, the streets, people yelled, blasted their horns. It was as if New York was the artery of civilization, pumping and beating with an urgency to live and earn and be something.

Jesse hailed a cab, this time with a fist full of money held out to entice them into stopping.

“I wish you wouldn’t show off money like that,” I complained to him before getting into the taxi. “We’ll get robbed.”

“I’ll smash the face in of anyone that tries.”

We both settled in, and the driver, an older man with gray hair sprouting out from under a Yankees’ baseball cap, sped around a line of cars. I had nothing to say to Jesse; it was obvious he was high-strung at the moment, nervous about meeting his father. The driver swung us onto 59th, and soon we were cutting straight through Central Park. Joggers in expensive sweat suits ran past homeless people that littered the sidewalks near the road. Street vendors set up their stands with clouds of steam rising.

Jesse’s hand met mine across the seat. He had an expression of complete terror.

“Relax,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”

“What if he ignores me? What if he calls me a liar? I can’t handle it, Emma.”

“Yes, you can. We’re here, and you have to do this.”

He threw his head back against the seat and swallowed hard. “I just don’t want him to ignore me.”

Jesse’s profile was elegant with his long roman nose and sensitive little mouth. Full brows raised up to a head of hair, combed back with water and styling gel. “If he ignores you, you’ll still be okay. You’ll make it someday, Jesse. Okay? The world’s going take one look at you and go crazy.”

He turned to me. “Someday, someday. I need it now.”

Touching his face, I leaned in to place a kiss on his lips, and he kissed back, pulling me closer in the seat. “Thank God you’re with me.”

I could sense his worry, his tension. It buzzed in the cab like an electric wire cut in half. I needed it to keep away the thoughts which kept coming back. As long as Jesse was around, I’d never have time to stop, to remember, to think.

We pulled up to the Dakota apartments, a building similar to the Plaza Hotel, only smaller in size. A huge arched entrance was blocked off by an iron gate, but I could see past it to a little courtyard inside the encasing building with a circular fountain turned off for the winter.

Our driver let us off in front, and Jesse handed him the fare with a generous tip.

“Thanks,” Jesse said, in a hurry to get out. I scrambled out the door behind him, and together we glanced up at the massive gothic structure with emerald turrets pointing to the sky.

“This is it, Emma,” he whispered. “He’s in there. I’m gonna see him for the first time in my life. And God help me, he’s gonna see me.”

A jogger bumped into my shoulder as he ran past, and Jesse grabbed my hand to pull me out of the way. “Don’t act like such a tourist. Let’s get some coffee or something, then we can go find a bench to sit on.”

Despite the jacket I wore, I was still cold. The coffee helped. Holding it kept my fingers from freezing off, at least. We sat on a bench across the way, right in front of Central Park, and stared at the apartments. The sun rose high, and the streets filled with more cars and taxis; the sidewalks grew thick with people rushing to get somewhere. No one seemed happy. No one even noticed us. It became obvious how one trick of living in the city was keeping your eyes averted from other people. Someone may want something, take something from you.

Jesse’s leg bobbed up and down. “Where
is
he?”

I could sense him in there. I didn’t tell Jesse, but there was a life inside the building so vivid and pulsing with love and brightness, it could be felt outside. “Just wait,” I said.

The energy came closer. After almost a whole morning of waiting, I saw someone emerge from the shadows of the arched entryway, with a very petite figure behind him. Jesse shot from the bench and almost risked his life crossing the street to get to John. I followed, carefully of course, dropping my coffee into a nearby trashcan after I’d made my way across.

“John, John!” Jesse shouted, but another guy cut in front of him. He had an odd appearance; thick plastic glasses and a head of greasy, uncombed hair. Jesse pushed to get past, but then a throng of fans—who hadn’t been there mere seconds ago—rushed forward as well. Jesse was forced to the back, but he kept yelling John’s name.

With Yoko already in a waiting car, John signed autographs for anyone near enough to reach. He admonished a few words with a sarcastic tone before making his way to the car. The door shut, and it drove away.

I couldn’t bear to meet Jesse’s eyes. It was enough to sense his devastation.

“I’m sorry, Jesse.”

He ignored me, deciding instead to hit a few choice words at the crazy fan who’d gotten in his way. The guy mumbled an apology, but he seemed unaffected, deaf, standing there clutching his signed album cover with a slow and stupid smile.

“Dammit!” Jesse grabbed my hand and led me across the street to a nearby cafe. We walked inside and sat down at a little table. “I almost had him, Emma. If that asshole hadn’t—”

Embarrassed, I gave a look of apology to the waitress who had come over to take our order. Jesse said he wanted another coffee and a sub. I checked out the sandwiches on the menu, but nothing sounded good to me. In fact, I felt a bit nauseous. I told myself it was the stress.

“Just a water,” I said, ignoring Jesse’s scowl.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

His face softened for a moment. “Sorry you have to do this. I’m so sorry, Emma. I want to try again, though. He’ll be back later.”

Try again. Fine. It would help to keep me from thinking. Images had begun to cut into my brain—of William, and our last night together, of his eyes before I faded back into the future with Jesse. Of the dream I’d had of him by the long bay windows and little sailboats going by. Was it really only a dream? Would I ever see William again? The idea of never seeing those eyes again was like a death, like my heart had lost a whole chamber and would never work again in full capacity. He’d said he needed me. Why did everyone have to need me so much?

Peering at Jesse’s nervous face, I told myself I did make the right decision. Life was always begging something of us, wasn’t it? All the time I’d been with William I’d thought of Jesse, and now when Jesse was here, I thought of William. My life would always be a paradox of choice, apparently. Hard, terrible choices I’d always regret.

Jesse’s order came, and he offered me a few bites. “C’mon, Emma. Eat something!”

I decided he was right and took a few nibbles on a wedge of the sub before he devoured the rest. We left the cafe with a renewed sense of purpose; it wasn’t as cold as before with the sun released from the shadows of buildings now. We took a little walk through the park, stopping by a lake reflecting the sky in glassy blue with little clouds.

Back at the apartments, Jesse asked a guard through the gate when John would be coming back. I heard a gruff voice say, “Not ’til late, kid. Real late.”

At dinnertime, we headed to another cafe further on down the road, then a record store, and then a bookstore. We visited nearly every shop in the vicinity before coming back to the Dakota Apartments late in the evening. Jesse paced. When he saw the crazy fan was still there, he mumbled a few threats to keep out of the way next time.

“You got your autograph, what the hell are you hanging around for? I got important business with Mr. Lennon. Stay out of my way or I’m gonna get really mad,
if
you catch the drift.”

I leaned up against the wall, wishing my new leather jacket was more effective at keeping out the chill. The sunlight had faded, and even the buildings with their lights turning on, and Central Park with all its beautiful canopy of trees, couldn’t keep me entertained. I felt strange, not tired or sick. There was a dread inside of me I couldn’t explain. It seemed to be coming from the male fan, but his face was so blissfully devoid of emotion I couldn’t imagine him to be the sole cause of my apprehension. And it couldn’t be Jesse. What I felt from him was extreme anger and stress, but nothing else. I watched the fan again and saw him clutch at his pocket. My stomach twisted.

Jesse kept pacing, and I stood there. What could I do? Something bad was about to happen, I knew it. And then I felt the energy, the beautiful electric energy coming closer. Soon a car approached, the same one from earlier, and I saw John emerge from the back seat. He waited for Yoko to crawl out before starting a confident stride toward the security gate.

Jesse shot forward. “Mr. Lennon, I got something to tell you. Please, you gotta listen.”

John ignored him, still walking forward as if no one had spoken.

“Please, I’ve been waiting my whole life!”

From the shadows I saw the fan reach into his pocket. My breath caught. I knew then he intended to kill John. Douse that beautiful light. Steal it. Erase it from the earth for all eternity. He was crazy, sick in the head. Selfish.

Without thinking, I reached into my purse. The revolver was still inside. Oh God, how did it work again? It felt like a century had passed since I sat up on the bluffs shooting at my handmade target of Marcus’ head. But my fingers knew what to do. They found their placement and raised the gun up to eye level. When the fan raised his gun to John’s back, I pulled the trigger. A loud explosion cracked through the air, causing Yoko to scream as John fell to his knees.

Jesse screamed, too. He thought John had been shot. He came running to me, eyes incredulous. “What did you do, Emma!” He grabbed the gun from my trembling hands. “What the hell did you do?”

I shook my head, unable to speak, then pointed to the body across the way which had slumped to the concrete. Jesse jerked his head toward it, and gave an intake of breath. “Oh God.”

“I had to. He was going to shoot John.”

Yoko ran to her husband, crying in relief when he held up a hand to her.

“I’m okay, Mother, I’m okay.” He stared at the man, at the blood seeping out, and the gun falling loosely from a lifeless hand. Then he noticed me. “Fuckin-A, that chick just saved me life, I think.”

I started to cry. I’d shot someone. I’d killed.

And I’d saved.

With Yoko’s help, John stumbled to his feet. The gate was open now, and he walked into a little entrance to speak to the guard. Soon there came a blasting of distant sirens which made their way closer and closer until they were right in front of the apartments, with lights shooting painfully into my eyes.

Ambulance workers checked over the would-be killer’s body before placing it on a stretcher. As they sped away, someone came to take his gun off the sidewalk, then they came over to speak to me. I answered a million questions, not understanding what I was saying or doing. They asked me if I had known something. Why did I have a gun? Was this planned? What was my name, my age, my place of residence? It never stopped.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Jesse speaking to John. His face was excited, smiling. John stood listening with a cigarette in hand. Yoko smoked too, taking puffs of a long thin cigar with a dull expression on her face.

I relinquished my revolver to the police. Who needed it? Who wanted it? I was done with instruments of death. Take it away from me, please.

They said they’d call. There would be court dates and lawyers, newsmen. No, no reporters please. I didn’t want to be in the news. Please, I needed to go lie down. Let me go home.

I looked at Jesse again. He stood alone. John and Yoko had gone inside, and his expression of excitement was now one of anger. After the police left, he came to my side. “He said he doesn’t care, Emma! He doesn’t fucking care! He says he’s got a million kids out there, probably.” Jesse started crying. “Yoko said she’d send me a check. A fucking check! I don’t want their money!”

He glared up at the building for a long, angry moment. “I’ll show him. I’m going to make the best fucking album the world’s ever heard, and I’ll show him. He can’t ignore me then, right, Emma?”

I nodded. A dull pain grew in my abdomen, and in the next second a fountain of liquid warmth released from my crotch and spread down into my new jeans.

Jesse’s expression changed. He stared at my thighs. “Hey, how’d you get that guy’s blood on you? You weren’t even near him.”

Yes, yes, that’s what it was. Someone else’s blood. Not mine.

¤ ¤ ¤

The next morning after coming back from a local women’s clinic, I stood in the ornate shower stall at our room in the Plaza Hotel and watched blood seep down nonstop on little white tiles. They’d given me ibuprofen and a box of Kotex. I would bleed for weeks.

Jesse stood outside the bathroom, waiting. He hadn’t said much, but he appeared sorry, and I could tell it was sincere. He’d offered to buy me things, feed me, hold me, listen to me. But I had nothing to give. Only blood.

So many choices, right and wrong. So many I couldn’t take ownership of, and couldn’t accept.

I stood before the bathroom mirror and stared at myself for a long time. My stomach was flatter now, and I hated it. My pale yellow hair was stringy and lifeless. I hated it, too.

Jesse had left one of his rock magazines on the bathroom counter, and I stared, thinking hard. Look at all the hot girls with their spiky hair and black eyeliner. That’s what he liked. That’s what the world wanted.

William used to tell me,
never cut your hair.
Paul had called me
Yellow Bird
.

I was no longer theirs.

That Emma had died.

I took hold of the scissors Jesse had been using to cut holes in his jeans and held up a long section of my hair. Gold fell into the sink. Followed by more. Mountains and mountains of gold.