Won't Let Go Read online

  “Is it going to matter? So what if we track him down, get the answers we need. Is it really going to make a difference? How can I begin to remember anything if my—” his eyes look down, sweeping over his clothes “—if my brain is dead?”

  There’s no answer to his question.

  He’s right.

  Totally right.

  How is he ever supposed to remember something if his real brain is locked? Not able to open its door to let something in or out except the Embry I see before me.

  “We just have to try harder,” I say. And then like in the movies, when someone gets an ingenious idea, the imaginary light bulb over my head flickers on, as if I’ve pulled the string. “You should come with me today.” Maybe Embry can’t learn who he is, or remember from a stupid newspaper article.

  But...if he actually saw, heard and felt something that was real, something that was a part of him—like his brother—maybe that would get those memories back.

  “Come with you? Outside?” he replies reluctantly. The corners of his perfect lips turn into a frown.

  Maybe his brother can give him the answers he needs, the ones that will set his body and soul free. “Yes.” I pull his hands from his lap, taking them into mine. They’re solid and cold. “I’m going to see your brother, Elliot. Maybe if you see him too, it would help.”

  “Elliot,” he says as though it’s a foreign word he can’t pronounce or understand. “But he’s in prison. He—did this to me.”

  “Embry, it’s the only option I’ve got right now. So—” Gripping his hands tighter, I stand and yank him to his feet “—lets go.”

  Reluctantly he follows, one foot after the other until we reach the doorway. I’m on the other side of the threshold when I realize Embry isn’t following me anymore. I turn to see him stopped inches from me, hands pressed on either side of the door-jam. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Embry takes a hand from the doorway and scrapes it through his blond hair, pulling the strands straight up for a brief second, then letting them fall this way and that and into his eyes. “In all these years, I’ve never left this room.” He sighs.

  I’m quick to shoot back, “Sure you have. You leave all the time.”

  His head slowly moves back and forth. “No, I haven’t. I’m either here—” his head flicks, motioning behind him and the room,“—or there.” The “there” referring to the in-between.

  I grin. “Huh. Well there’s a first time for everything.” I quickly lunge towards Embry, grab his hands, and pull. He’s made it through the threshold just as his voice cracks.

  “What if I can’t get back in?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  For like the next five minutes Embry is a kid, silently hopping from the hallway, through the door and back into my room.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  Just to make sure he’s not stuck and can get back inside the room. He even smiles, this bright toothy gleaming smile that is infectious, making me grin just as wide.

  “I can’t believe I never even tried,” he says, as I pop into the bathroom to throw some clothes on. During his game of hop-from-one-space-to-another he took the time to mention my attire or lack thereof.

  “How come you didn’t?” I raise my voice so he can hear.

  “Fear,” he says, and when I emerge from the bathroom his smoldering eyes tell me not to question it further. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest and feet crossed at the ankles. The sight nearly knocks the breath right out of me. Embry’s like the most valuable painting, framed perfectly as I sear his image into my mind and lock it away.

  Today he’s wearing slightly baggy dark wash jeans—they hang loose around his hips in an almost seductive way. His shirt is a simple gray button down, the top two buttons open and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With the buttons open on his shirt, I can see enough chest, pale and hard, to make me blush at the idea of wanting to see more.

  I push past him and walk down the hallway, afraid he can hear the intense pounding of my heart or quick gasps of air I breathe in. Because that’s just how beautiful he is.

  As I trudge down the stairs, I don’t hear Embry’s footfalls, but the crisp chilly air lets me know he’s still close—it’s so neat how he can make himself be heard or not heard. However, at the bottom of the landing, I skid to a stop. An extra push—Embry—against my back, forces me to grip the banister for support.

  “Going out, again?” Mom says with disappointment. It’s like déjà vu, only I know, I was here in this exact spot yesterday. Mom in her bathrobe, steaming cup of coffee clutched in her hands with the same saddened expression on her face.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m meeting—Allison,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly? Then suddenly I remember Embry and his presence that almost pushed me to the ground as he bumped into me.

  I’m afraid to look behind me to check if he’s still there.

  Her eyes stay trained on mine, “Oh...Well you should have some breakfast.”

  I realize then that she can’t see him. Maybe because he’s not there anymore. Or maybe I’m the only wacko in the Stone family who can see and talk to ghostboys.

  And as if just to remind me I’m slightly crazy, “You shouldn’t miss breakfast,” is whispered into my ear as Embry’s cool breath tickles my neck.

  A giggle escapes my lips.

  Mom raises her eyebrows, then turns on her heels, her long rope of brown hair whipping through the air as she walks away. Silently I count to five, heave a sigh and trace her steps to the kitchen, leaving Embry’s arctic presence behind.

  Once in the kitchen, box of Apple O's in hand, I flounce onto the stool and pour out my cereal. Mom wordlessly watches from the corner of her eye, lips twitching ever so slightly into a smile. It’s nice to see even if it’s simply because I did as she asked.

  One bowl of Apple O's, slurped up milk and a cup of coffee—no cream, no sugar. Later, I make my escape through the front door. Mom’s obvious interrogation wasn’t so bad. She seems to like this “Mysterious Allison” and wishes I’d bring her home to “hang out.”

  Until that moment, it never really occurred to me that maybe my being gone all the time, and Dad—who rises with the birds and works his head off—leaves the house all to herself but makes her lonely.

  As a kid, I was always happy to have Mom home. I didn’t have one of those families with two hard working parents. Dad made enough that shortly after they found out I was on the way, Mom quit her job as an insurance broker and never looked back. But now I see how lonely she’s really become. She doesn’t need to help me get dressed, or do my laundry, make sure my lunch is made, or clean up my toys.

  I’m all grown up now.

  Of course, I still need Mom—just not in the same ways I used to. Maybe I should suggest she go back to work? Or join a Bridge Club or something.

  I promise myself that tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll sit down and actually spend time with her. This move has probably been just as hard, or harder on her than it is me. I have to remember that, and I have to make that change I keep promising myself I’ll make. I have to be better and do better, especially when it comes to Mom. But Embry’s important too, and he needs my attention just as much, or more. I’ll have to figure out a way to juggle both.

  When I open the door and slide into my Mustang, I jump as a tidal wave of winter air bashes me from all sides. “Don’t do that!”

  I turn in my seat and wait for the swirl of colored grains to materialize, take shape and form Embry. “Sorry.”

  Dramatically, I rest my hand on my chest. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  He grins. “Oops.”

  Playfully I take my hand from my heaving chest and swat at him. But my hand passes through him and thuds against the seat instead. I look at him questioningly. “You’re not solid.”

  He shrugs. “I figured I’d better play it safe. I’m pretty sure no one but you can see me like this.”

 
Embry has a point, even though I still don’t understand how I can see him. “Fine,” I grumble and shake off the twinge of pain radiating through my hand from smacking the looks-softer-than-it-is leather seat.

  Fitting as it is, the Tri-County Correctional Facility is right smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Yet it’s close enough to civilization that friends and family can visit at the drop of a hat.

  Half way through the forty-five minute trip, I tense up. As I take a quick glimpse at Embry, I can’t decide who’s more nervous. Me or him. “I’ve never been to jail,” I say, my voice cutting through the near silence of the car.

  “That’s good to know.” Embry chuckles, but when I flash him a not-funny-look he shrugs. “Neither have I. At least I don't think I have.”

  I take a deep breath. “We’re really doing this,” I say, more to myself. And as if Embry senses the full brunt of my apprehension, he takes my hand from the shifter and holds it tight.

  I sigh.

  He’s solid again.

  It’s moments like this I tend to forget what he really is and relish the thought of what he could be—to me. I can see so much in him, even though I know so little. Certainly he’d make an amazing boyfriend. He’s almost always gentle, considerate. When I talk, I feel he’s really listening, absorbing every word that flows through my lips. And the buzz of electricity and emotion that passes through his touch seems to surge my heart with so many feelings. I swear. I swear it up and down, we could have something real. Amazing.

  But then I’m slammed back into reality, knowing it might never be. That he might be better off going to heaven than spending the rest of his life in a hospital bed, nearly dead to the world.

  I’m not going to allow that to happen, though. Not now, not ever. I want Embry to be real so bad it hurts, but I’m not going to condemn him to that kind of life either. I’ll do everything I can to get him to cross over, to help him, even if it means I can never have him.

  “Don’t cry.” Embry releases my hand and fingers away the wetness seeping from my eyes. “Please don’t cry. I’ll protect you.” And I’m not sure if he means from the horde of potentially deranged inmates we’re about to be in the presence of or if he means something else. He shuffles down the bench, closer to me. “Always,” he whispers and kisses my cheek.

  And like a dam forcing the water back, it breaks.

  I break.

  And silently, tears stream down my face.

  Why did I have to fall for someone I might never be able to keep?

  Chapter Fourteen

  I pull myself together, insist to Embry a million times that I’m fine—while not telling him why I was so upset. I exit the Mustang and head towards the Correctional Facility.

  I’ll have you know this isn’t like in the movies. It’s not a one hundred year old building crumbling beneath its weight on its own private island. There are no moats filled with flesh eating sharks or piranhas. Instead, it’s rather bright and cheery looking, something reminiscent of a hospital or library. Even with loops of barbed wire on the tall fences it’s not nearly as menacing as I expected. Large windows encase the building—bullet proof, I assume—and as I draw near, there’s even green grass, shrubs and flowerbeds full of colorful blooming flowers.

  On the inside however, it’s stuffy. Guards stand at attention in every corner, and this is just the lobby. Behind thick paned glass a strict looking, grey haired man sits at a computer. He’s dressed in blue and yellow fatigues, and I’m pretty sure I can see a gun holstered at his hip.

  Upon my approach, he looks up. “Can I help you?” he says. His voice is scratchy, maybe from too many years of chain-smoking.

  Reaching into the cool air for the presence of Embry for extra strength, I step towards the glass. Raising my chin as though I have every right to be here, I say, “I’d like to visit Elliot Winston, please.”

  I’m ushered into a small room, and this is like airport security times ten! I’ve never been so intimidated. The guards make me empty my pockets and my messenger bag. They go through everything with a fine tooth comb. I walk through metal detectors. I am scanned from head to toe with one of those wands—arms out and legs spread. And just when I think they’ve seen every possible inch of me, they pat me down. You'd think Elliot was a serial killer on death-row, the way they poke and prod at me. Finally when they give the all clear, I’m handed a visitor badge and shoved into another room. All the while Embry stays close, sending sweet chills up my spine.

  This new room reminds me of a doctor’s office. White walls, boring art that looks like it was done by a three-year-old or an elephant and uncomfortable plastic chairs. No magazines. Other people are waiting, lining the walls with grim faces. I take a seat by a young mother with an infant perched on her lap. She’s cooing to the baby, smoothing down the unruly black tendrils of her hair. This is no place for a baby, I think. But who am I to judge. The mother, inked arms, bleached blonde hair and skin ultra tanned—I hope it’s spray on. If not, can we say skin cancer?—is very adoring to her daughter, listening contently as she babbles and whines.

  I can’t help looking around at all the faces before me. We’re an interesting mix, the young mother/daughter duo, a man in a crisp, clean business suit, graying hair combed over a balding head, a lawyer perhaps, a slim, lanky man in coveralls, clutching a hardhat, me and don’t forget my ghostboy. Never have I seen so many walks of life in such a tiny room. It manages to ease my mind somehow, knowing it doesn’t necessarily matter where you come from. Anyone can know someone in prison. Criminals can be made from anyone.

  The thick metal door opens with a loud click, and a guard comes into the room. She’s tall, buxom, and very, very serious looking. She gives a spiel I’m only half listening to because in that instance I notice Embry’s presence is gone. Suddenly, the heat of an un-air-conditioned room hits me. Where could he be?

  I don’t get the chance to wonder long, because quickly, silently everyone forms a single file line and follows the guard out the door. Slipping into formation, I follow everyone’s lead. We trek down a hallway, through two other thick metal doors—they’re manned by more guards with holstered pistols—each opening with a loud buzz that rattles the walls and sears my eardrums with irritation. Eventually, still in a tight single line, we find ourselves at our final destination.

  This is like the movies. A long hallway, split in half by thick, shatterproof glass with tiny holes—for talking—and tiny stools. The female guard tells each one of us which booth we’re in. I’m last. “Booth twelve,” she says, her voice matching her stern expression. Stiffly, I make my way down the row of people until I get to the end. I take a seat and desperately wish Embry was here with me.

  My booth has a small stool, two small jutted out walls that separate me from the person to my left. Hardly the amount of privacy I wish I had to call out to Embry. Instead I’m forced to wait. Suddenly my bitten off fingernails seem like the most important thing in the room. I inspect them, pick and tear at the cuticles, and even chew the nubs as if they are a light snack.

  The rattle of a door rocks me from my stupor. Faintly, chains jingle as dozens of feet shuffle against the cement floor just as bright orange reflects off the window. I stand and stare down at Elliot Winston. He’s Embry’s twin, if that were possible. They’re only one year apart, but identical in features—bright ocean blue eyes, sandy blond hair, tall, slim but muscular build. And the same sharp line of the jaw and perfectly manicured eyebrows.

  Like the other inmates, Elliot is clad in an orange jumpsuit, thick block numbers emblazoned across his chest, and shackles around his wrists—and probably his ankles. He looks at me with complete confusion, eyes narrowed as they sweep up and down my body.

  Elliot finally sits down, resting his elbows on the small ledge of the table. I too sit, ignore the pounding in my chest, and lean in towards the small holes in the glass.

  Taking a deep breath, I begin, “I’m here about your brother, Embry.”

  Elliot takes h
is arms off the table, leans back on his stool, and a tortured, distressed look crosses his face. “Oh man, is he—did he...die?” He scrapes a shaky hand through his shaggy blond hair.

  Embry where are you? I scream inside my head, but say, “No, no, he’s not dead.” My own voice is just as shaky as the hand Elliot pulled through his hair. You can have an entire conversation built up inside your head, swear up and down you know the right and wrong words to say, and yet, when you are in the moment, everything disappears. Which seems to be happening to me a lot lately.

  Immediately Elliot relaxes, re-folding his arms across the ledge. “Then who are you? What are you doing here?”

  I’ve been asking myself that same question.

  But I don’t get a chance to respond as Elliot quickly adds in a hard tone, “I’ve told your people a hundred times—I don’t know where my parents are. So if you’re here—” His eyes, so similar to Embry’s, scrutinize me "—to get me to pull the plug, I won’t. I won’t let him go.”

  “Uh—” I stutter in confusion. Then, a breath of frigid air blows through the room, and I sigh with relief. He’s back. Just knowing Embry’s here, all my confidence comes flooding back. “No, that’s not why I’m here. But—the hospital wants you to take your brother off life-support?”

  Suddenly, Elliot’s face becomes hard.“What’s it to you? You still haven’t told me who you are.”

  Quickly I say, “An old friend of Embry’s. I’m here to get the story straight, if you will.”

  Elliot’s eyes narrow. “An old friend you say? I sure don’t remember you comin’ around.” He gives me a grin that makes my skin crawl, makes me feel...dirty. “I’m sure I’d remember you.” And then he winks.