Borrowed Souls (Soul Charmer #1)(19)
Callie surprised herself with a genuine laugh. At least someone was looking out for her. “Nah, Lou, I got more problems than a shot of your shitty tequila can fix.”
“You underestimate just how much tequila can fix.”
“It’s been a rough one.” Callie bit back the details. As soon as Josh had been taken, she’d needed to pluck her heart from her sleeve and stash it deep. Bottling her feelings was second nature to her. “Too bad they don’t make something strong enough to make you forget how sucky your life’s gotten.”
Louisa put down the knife, clearly not kidding around anymore. “They do. It’s called meth, and you and I both know it ain’t worth it.”
“Yeah,” Callie whispered. Lou’s son was addicted to the bathtub drug. He’d stolen from her, but hadn’t liquidated her savings. Callie hoped her experiences with Josh could keep Louisa from making those same mistakes, but deep down, she knew they wouldn’t. She and Lou were the same. Family came first, even if that family abused your love.
Lou grabbed a fresh batch of green onions. “You want to talk about it?”
Yes. “Not now, but thanks.”
Lou’s voice lowered when she spoke again. “Some of the ladies from my church have tried that soul borrowing thing. Bette said it eased her guilt. Father Domingo told me the church wouldn’t look down on anyone who used it to ease past transgressions. I know you wouldn’t be using it to cheat on anyone, so it’s safe to try it, I suppose. Don’t know what you’re caught up in, but maybe it could help.”
Callie stiffened. She couldn’t escape her thoughts of the Soul Charmer. Last week the comment would barely have scratched the surface. Now it dug under her skin. Seven days ago, soul magic was merely an easy escape whispered among sinners or advertised next to strip joints in the final pages of Gem City Weekly. How quickly perceptions could shift. “Nah,” she eked out, for Louisa’s benefit.
Her boss nodded, and turned back to her vegetable prep. They worked quietly for several minutes. Callie prepared meal trays and Louisa chopped everything she needed for her chicken tortilla soup. It was nice to focus on the mundane. Food was security, and today, more than usual, Callie clung to it like her favorite blankie.
It couldn’t last; it never did. “Trays are done,” Callie eventually called over her shoulder as she wheeled the cart near the kitchen’s side door and locked it in place.
“Thanks, but can you go ahead and take them on down to the ward?” Louisa was asking a big favor, and yet she couldn’t have been more casual about it. Either that, or she was full of bullshit. “Jo’s out sick today,” she tacked on after seeing Callie’s death glare.
“Fine,” she muttered, as she unlocked the wheels and started rolling the metal cart out of the kitchen.
The unyielding astringent scent of the Home grew stronger with every step she took toward the psych ward. Not that anyone at Cedar Retirement ever called it such. No one needed to be reminded that getting old could make you crazy. There were plenty of things out there that caused mental health issues, but the reminder that time was one of them was simply too unnerving for the staff.
Callie neared the first set of locked double doors, and fished in her pocket for her access card. Ninety percent of the residents in the ward were dementia patients. They were the reason Callie didn’t want to visit. She could handle sick. She could cope with old. She could not, however, swing sweet people whom you couldn’t trust. That was the ward. She wanted to be a better person, but the wing behind the locked doors gutted her. She’d been stabbed with a pen the first time she’d visited.
She’d been in the process of setting a tray out for a kind lady, commenting on the beautiful floral arrangement on a side table. The irises at the center were Callie’s favorites. The woman, Sara, said her son had brought them, and invited Callie to take a closer look. She’d obliged. The head nurse later told her the lighting change in the room had set Sara off. The woman had become convinced Callie was her long-dead husband’s mistress who had arrived to steal her flowers. That kind elderly woman had then jammed a ballpoint into Callie’s thigh. A couple centimeters to the right and she could have nicked the tendon.
Trusting people was a luxury. The ward illustrated that beautifully.
“Excuse me. Can you let me in there?” A woman with a thick braid draped over her shoulder and piercing blue eyes stopped Callie outside the ward’s entrance.
Occasionally family members—the ones shitty about visiting—asked for directions. Callie could put on a customer service smile when required. “Who are you visiting? I can point you in the right direction.”
“I’m not visiting. I’m here to treat the residents.” Saccharine sincerity bubbled over the confidence in each word. The lady was laying it on thick, and Callie didn’t quite buy it.
The woman might actually need to be secured in the ward herself, despite being a couple decades younger than most residents. It wasn’t the weirdest thing to have ever happened at the Home, and it didn’t hurt to be a little extra careful. “Oh, I see. Can I see your employee badge?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t work here. Not like that, anyway.” With a sweet smile plastered on her face, the woman wiggled her fingers at Callie. “Massage.”
The flowing skirt and spacey countenance she wore matched the profile of those who visited for therapeutic massage. Except for one element. “Okay. Where’s your table?”