Survivor - By Kaye Draper Page 0,62

would be holding the event in the evening this year, he had agreed that I could attend. He kept me in sight, and his aura was always with me, dampening my will as I wandered in the lantern-filled twilight. I didn’t mind it, if it meant I could be here.

I studied the faces around me. Most of the participants were physically or cognitively disabled, and it was a treat for them to get out at night like this. I wanted to touch each and every one of them and feel the vibrant life humming within them. I wanted to hug them and tell them that I knew how they felt- that I had been there before. I knew they wouldn’t believe me. Not now. Not looking as I did, walking on my new legs, moving with the grace of a dancer. Being told, “I know how you feel,” or “I understand,” had been a pet peeve of mine for five long years. No one can know how you feel. They can guess. They can try to imagine. But unless you are me, in my mind and body at that exact moment, there is no possible way for you to know how I feel.

Looking around me, I felt like this was the end of something. I felt like I had reached some sort of turning point. The world before me wasn’t my world anymore. I was an outsider. The graceful, whole, outsider who came to visit now and then, but wasn’t a resident.

That thought should have made me dance with joy, and in many ways, it did bring me great happiness. However, in some small way I felt that I had lost something valuable. I’d lost my place in the world, for a second time. And now I had to find it, again. I saw Peter headed my way with a puffy cone of cotton candy, and I gave him a blinding smile. My place in the world- it had him in it, that was for sure.

He handed me the cotton candy. “It won’t taste the same,” he said with a shrug, “but I thought you might appreciate the gesture.”

I nodded. If I had been my old self, I would be bawling right now, overwhelmed by the intense flood of emotions experienced by those with a dysfunctional frontal lobe. As it was, my eyes watered and I sniffed a bit. Peter seemed to sense my mood without having to ask. He took me by the arm and led me around the carnival. We stopped and spoke with participants we passed. They seemed awed by us, and I hated it. A burning was starting, deep in my chest, crawling up toward my throat. True night was falling, and it was time to eat. I licked the last of the sticky spun sugar off my fingers before sliding into Peter’s car.

I slipped my hand into his free hand while he drove. “I love you,” I whispered softly.

He smiled. “It will get easier,” he said with surety. “You just have to find your feet again.” He lifted my hand, making the koi charm shift down my wrist. “I’m here for you. From now on, you are my sole purpose in life.”

Me and the coven, I thought sourly. Something wasn’t right there, and I could feel it in his mind, always with him. The thought sparked the memory of a nightmare, and I had to blink hard to erase the shadow of death from Peter’s softly smiling face. His smile faded. Maybe I wasn’t hiding my unease as well as I had thought.

*****

Dusk was deepening into blackness as we silently made our way down the deserted sidewalk. This part of town housed business offices, most of which were had closed hours before. The only people around would be the employees staying late to do paperwork or clean offices. My soft, leather ballet flats were silent as I lightly flowed up the steps to the psychology office. The door was locked, but a quick twist of the old knob remedied that problem.

The small waiting area in the front of the office was dark, but a soft glow beckoned from down the hallway. We padded toward Dr. Walton’s office as one, the scents of leather and ink filling my senses. I had guessed right. The dedicated psychologist was still here finishing his paperwork and reviewing his notes and treatment plans. The old man had his head bent over a file, busily making notes. He paused to drum