1
CAROLINE BEAUMONT
New Orleans, Louisiana
Present Day
My death comes gently despite its violent nature.
The dark thought materializes in my mind, unprovoked. Like always, it’s a mystery. I can’t discern where it comes from, what prompts it, or what it’s about. Nor do I understand what it means.
Welcome to Caroline Beaumont’s life.
It’s November and the bar’s bathroom is drafty. The water from the faucet is frigid when it hits my already-icy hands. I allow the water to run for a minute, but it shows no signs of getting warm. That comes as no surprise. Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop is primitive if you ignore the electric bartending gadgets behind the bar. Oh, and the video poker machines at the bar. Candlelight is the only illumination in the whole place. It’s a cool vibe that New Orleans tourists and locals alike love.
The bathroom lighting is almost nonexistent. It makes seeing my image difficult, but I can guess at how I appear––pale. I’m always pasty-looking after one of my episodes.
My fingers fish in my clutch for my favorite lip balm. The color is red dahlia, a subtle tint of sheer scarlet. I feel the appreciation of my chapped lips as I spread a thin layer of balm across them. My skin absorbs the much-needed hydration and softens when I rub them together.
Some added color to my lips should help my washed-out face. With luck, the girls won’t notice since it’s dark in the bar.
I examine my reflection. Long, golden corkscrew ringlets, the ends less curly because I need a trim. Eyes the color of a sunflower field––a mix of green, brown, and gold. A pretty girl is what others see when they look at me, but the world––except for my beloved grandmother, Coco––doesn’t see the true me. And especially not my friends. I wonder how they’d react if they learned the truth about the crazy side of Caroline Beaumont.
It’s my face I see staring back at me in the mirror at this moment, but that isn’t always the case. Sometimes there’s a redhead in the mirror. Her hair is a stunning shade of copper, her eyes deep mahogany. It’s a lovely hair and eye combination––not something that you see every day. She’s a real beauty, but I don’t know who she is or why I sometimes see her face in the mirror instead of my own.
A man makes his presence known as well, but that’s a conversation for another time.
Enough of this. I can’t stay in the bathroom all night.
Two of the people in my life who should know me to my core––but don’t––are sitting at a table waiting for me to return from the bathroom. They don’t know that I’m hiding while I’m having one of my bizarre episodes. Why would I keep it from them? Because I don’t trust them to see the depths of my darkness and still love me the same.
The woman who adopted me and swore to love and mother me as her own child can’t stomach me as I am. How can I expect them to?
I’ve accepted my fate as a freak of nature. A misfit. I’m strange inside everyone’s Instagram-perfect world. I’m forced to fake it… which I’m pretty good at. My friends only get to see the stable version of Caroline, the one who has everything in her life under control.
It’s draining.
A round yellow mass of medicinal substance––one pill when I wake and one pill before I go to sleep—is the standard treatment for a person like me. At least that’s what both my most recent doctor and Google have to say on the matter. I’ve been taking this psychiatric drug, or something similar to it, twice a day since I was a young teen, although it’s rare for schizophrenia to present in females before their late twenties. I could think of a thousand other ways I’d prefer to be the exception to the rule.
Every single day of my life, bar none, I swallow those pills because a man with a bunch of framed medical degrees hanging on his office walls, many of them crooked by the way, says that I must if I don’t wish to be committed to a behavioral health center for noncompliance. I’m not sure one should trust a man who looks at crooked frames every day on the wall and chooses to not straighten them.
My family and friends like calm waters. No ripples allowed. So I take the stupid pills to keep them happy. I pretend that all is well, but it isn’t and never has been.
The medication suppresses hallucinations and suicidal tendencies. That’s what the medical professionals say.
Lies.
The medication doesn’t prevent the voices, visions, or random thoughts from manifesting in my head. And as far as suicidal thoughts go…
One must die in order to be born again.
Here we go––another dark and random thought popping into my mind out of nowhere. But there’s a difference this time. It strikes a very sensitive nerve in me when one brings up birth and death in the same sentence.
I don’t choose to think about that right now.
A drink is what I need. Some of the dark stuff, straight and tall. Something stronger than me. Something that’ll make the thoughts, and voices, and visions go away. At least for a little while so I can enjoy my girls’ night out with my besties. It’s been too long since I got out and had a little fun. It’s time to put the crazy aside and let my hair down.
“Oh my God, Caroline! We came up with the greatest idea while you were in the restroom.”
I might be eager to hear this idea if it was coming from Teagan, but Riley isn’t known for coming up with the best ideas.
I hold up my empty glass. “Let me guess. Another round of drinks?”
“That’s a good idea too, but no. Teagan and I want to get psychic readings on Jackson Square.”
I feel like I missed a lot while I was hiding in the bathroom. I must have been in there longer than I thought. “Why in the world would you want to do that?”
“Because it would be fun. And it’s something different to do,” Riley says.
Teagan is the levelheaded one who I can count on for good decision making, but she’s leaving me hanging tonight.
A psychic reading, a real one, for someone like me in front of Teagan and Riley could be disastrous. I can’t let them discover my secrets.
“I think it’s a terrible idea. You realize that every con artist in New Orleans looking to make a quick buck is on Jackson Square tonight.”
Riley shrugs. “Sorry. It’s two against one. Teagan and I win.”
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this.
Our server places a glass filled with some dark stuff, neat, on the table in front of me. It’s poured high. Looks like a double from the looks of it. I didn’t order the drink, but it arrives as if on cue. I can use it about right now.
“The gentleman sitting at the corner table sent this over. The one wearing the white shirt,” our server says.
Men think they impress women when they send over a free drink, and perhaps some women are dazzled, but I fall into the category of women who want to figure out what he hopes to gain by purchasing a drink for a stranger.
What can I say? Cynical is my middle name.
No, not really. It’s Alexis.
I admit it. Today’s dating scene has tainted me and my outlook on modern love.
“Johnny Walker Blue Label.” A tilt of the server’s head and a lift of one brow follow her words. “In case you’re unaware, he sent the good stuff to you.”
“I’m familiar with Johnny Walker.” All labels. A little too familiar if I’m being honest about it.
Blue is the best and most expensive, but I’m not prejudiced against any of the other colors: red, black, double black, gold, green, platinum. They all do the same job, some a little smoother than others.
The price of the whiskey doesn’t impress me. It makes me more suspicious about this guy’s motives for sending it to me. “Did this drink come straight from the bar? No detours on its way here?”
“I picked it up after my bartender poured it. Only she and I have handled it and my eyes never left this tray for a moment. No one has tampered with it.”
Riley laughs. “Caroline’s not planning to be featured on the next episode of Dateline.”
“You got that right.”
A thank-you to the sender is in order. It’s the perfect excuse to turn around and get a better view of this guy.
It’s difficult to see him across the dark room, but our eyes connect. The corners of his mouth lift, one side a little more than the other, and three words come to mind.
Handsome. Charming. Mischievous.
First impressions are everything. You can read a person’s energy without hearing them utter a word. And I like the vibe that Mr. Blue Label is giving me.
Pointing to the glass of whiskey, I mouth, “Thank you.”
His response is a sharp lift of his chin. Hmm… cocky. I like it.
“He’s cute,” Riley says.
“Very cute. You should go over and talk to him,” Teagan says.
“I prefer to let him come to me.” He would not send me a drink and then duck out before he introduces himself.
Teagan leans forward and smiles. “He’s coming this way.”
Riley laughs. “That didn’t take long.”
“Good evening, ladies,” he says.
“Hiii.” Our voices are a choir, each of us singing a different key and overlapping when we reply.
“How’s it going tonight?”
“Gooood.” We sound like a junior-high glee club.
“Happy to hear that. Have you been here long?”
We’ve been here long enough for the drinks to send me to the bathroom twice. But in all fairness, it was one trip to use the facilities and one trip to hide out during my episodes. “We got here about an hour and a half ago.”
He holds up his drink. “You’re ahead of us. I’m on my first whiskey of the night.”
“Blue Label?” It’s unlikely that he’d send me one and not have one for himself.
“You guessed it. I hope it’s all right that I sent one to you.”
“More than all right. Blue Label is great. Thank you very much.”
He glances down at the glass. “Are you sure? I can’t help but notice that the glass is still full.”
“I was about to drink it.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That didn’t sound so pushy in my head.”
“No worries.”
“I’m Landon, by the way. I should have started with that instead of cross-examining you.”
“Are you an attorney?”
“I am. It shows, huh?”
“A little. I’m Caroline and these are my best friends, Riley and Teagan.”
He gestures to the table in the corner. “Those are my buddies, Nathan and Tanner.”
Teagan, Riley, and I swap obligatory waves with the guys. They’re good-looking, but nothing compared to Landon.
“Is this a girls’ trip to New Orleans from somewhere else?” he asks.
“We’re locals. We live in Metairie.”
“Small world. My buddies and I are from Metairie too.”
Strong arms encircle my upper body from behind. I struggle but the man is larger and stronger than I am. I’m unable to free myself from his grasp, but I knock us off-balance and we tumble to the ground, myself facedown with him on top of me.
Grass.
Soil.
Oleander.
Linen permeated with sweet tobacco.
Listerine overpowered by smoker’s breath.
Sweat and musk blended with Castile soap.
Hair tonic.
Blood.
So many smells rush at me at once.
The man kneels on my back, pressing his weight against my spine. He’s heavy, and the pain is excruciating. Then he wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes.
My struggle exhausts me, and it’s useless against his strength. His large hand, strong with a silky, smooth palm, squeezes my throat using an iron grip.
Lying facedown in the grass beneath the beautiful live oaks of our summer home isn’t the deathbed that I envisioned for myself. No. I’m supposed to have solid gray hair and wrinkled skin. I’m supposed to be surrounded by my children and grandchildren. Instead, my light is extinguished far too soon.
It’s a terrible thing to listen to the conversations happening around you, and pretend that all in the world is marvelous while you experience the sensation of being strangled to death. Even if the whole thing is only happening inside your head.
Please, whiskey. Make my episodes go away. Give me calm thoughts.
A quiet mind is a beautiful thing.
With one big gulp, I finish the smooth amber liquid in my glass, and another is there to replace it within minutes thanks to Landon.
His friends join us and our first conversation comprises small talk. I learn the basics about Landon from Metairie––how old he is, where he went to school, what area of town he lives in, what he does for work. He’s handsome, successful, and engaging. My first impression is that he ticks a lot of boxes.
“Would you guys be interested in going to Jackson Square with us?”
Oh no, Riley. Why did you have to ask that?
“What’s going on at Jackson Square tonight?” Tanner says.
“We want to get psychic readings,” Riley says.
“That’s cool,” Nathan says.
I’ve never had a reading, but I imagine that it’s a deeply personal thing. If the reader is authentic, it could reveal private information that you wouldn’t want others to be privy to. You shouldn’t invite strangers to be part of that.
I’ll go if Teagan and Riley insist. I don’t want to raise red flags, but I learned an important lesson a long time ago: keep your crazies to yourself.
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Present Day
My death comes gently despite its violent nature.
The dark thought materializes in my mind, unprovoked. Like always, it’s a mystery. I can’t discern where it comes from, what prompts it, or what it’s about. Nor do I understand what it means.
Welcome to Caroline Beaumont’s life.
It’s November and the bar’s bathroom is drafty. The water from the faucet is frigid when it hits my already-icy hands. I allow the water to run for a minute, but it shows no signs of getting warm. That comes as no surprise. Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop is primitive if you ignore the electric bartending gadgets behind the bar. Oh, and the video poker machines at the bar. Candlelight is the only illumination in the whole place. It’s a cool vibe that New Orleans tourists and locals alike love.
The bathroom lighting is almost nonexistent. It makes seeing my image difficult, but I can guess at how I appear––pale. I’m always pasty-looking after one of my episodes.
My fingers fish in my clutch for my favorite lip balm. The color is red dahlia, a subtle tint of sheer scarlet. I feel the appreciation of my chapped lips as I spread a thin layer of balm across them. My skin absorbs the much-needed hydration and softens when I rub them together.
Some added color to my lips should help my washed-out face. With luck, the girls won’t notice since it’s dark in the bar.
I examine my reflection. Long, golden corkscrew ringlets, the ends less curly because I need a trim. Eyes the color of a sunflower field––a mix of green, brown, and gold. A pretty girl is what others see when they look at me, but the world––except for my beloved grandmother, Coco––doesn’t see the true me. And especially not my friends. I wonder how they’d react if they learned the truth about the crazy side of Caroline Beaumont.
It’s my face I see staring back at me in the mirror at this moment, but that isn’t always the case. Sometimes there’s a redhead in the mirror. Her hair is a stunning shade of copper, her eyes deep mahogany. It’s a lovely hair and eye combination––not something that you see every day. She’s a real beauty, but I don’t know who she is or why I sometimes see her face in the mirror instead of my own.
A man makes his presence known as well, but that’s a conversation for another time.
Enough of this. I can’t stay in the bathroom all night.
Two of the people in my life who should know me to my core––but don’t––are sitting at a table waiting for me to return from the bathroom. They don’t know that I’m hiding while I’m having one of my bizarre episodes. Why would I keep it from them? Because I don’t trust them to see the depths of my darkness and still love me the same.
The woman who adopted me and swore to love and mother me as her own child can’t stomach me as I am. How can I expect them to?
I’ve accepted my fate as a freak of nature. A misfit. I’m strange inside everyone’s Instagram-perfect world. I’m forced to fake it… which I’m pretty good at. My friends only get to see the stable version of Caroline, the one who has everything in her life under control.
It’s draining.
A round yellow mass of medicinal substance––one pill when I wake and one pill before I go to sleep—is the standard treatment for a person like me. At least that’s what both my most recent doctor and Google have to say on the matter. I’ve been taking this psychiatric drug, or something similar to it, twice a day since I was a young teen, although it’s rare for schizophrenia to present in females before their late twenties. I could think of a thousand other ways I’d prefer to be the exception to the rule.
Every single day of my life, bar none, I swallow those pills because a man with a bunch of framed medical degrees hanging on his office walls, many of them crooked by the way, says that I must if I don’t wish to be committed to a behavioral health center for noncompliance. I’m not sure one should trust a man who looks at crooked frames every day on the wall and chooses to not straighten them.
My family and friends like calm waters. No ripples allowed. So I take the stupid pills to keep them happy. I pretend that all is well, but it isn’t and never has been.
The medication suppresses hallucinations and suicidal tendencies. That’s what the medical professionals say.
Lies.
The medication doesn’t prevent the voices, visions, or random thoughts from manifesting in my head. And as far as suicidal thoughts go…
One must die in order to be born again.
Here we go––another dark and random thought popping into my mind out of nowhere. But there’s a difference this time. It strikes a very sensitive nerve in me when one brings up birth and death in the same sentence.
I don’t choose to think about that right now.
A drink is what I need. Some of the dark stuff, straight and tall. Something stronger than me. Something that’ll make the thoughts, and voices, and visions go away. At least for a little while so I can enjoy my girls’ night out with my besties. It’s been too long since I got out and had a little fun. It’s time to put the crazy aside and let my hair down.
“Oh my God, Caroline! We came up with the greatest idea while you were in the restroom.”
I might be eager to hear this idea if it was coming from Teagan, but Riley isn’t known for coming up with the best ideas.
I hold up my empty glass. “Let me guess. Another round of drinks?”
“That’s a good idea too, but no. Teagan and I want to get psychic readings on Jackson Square.”
I feel like I missed a lot while I was hiding in the bathroom. I must have been in there longer than I thought. “Why in the world would you want to do that?”
“Because it would be fun. And it’s something different to do,” Riley says.
Teagan is the levelheaded one who I can count on for good decision making, but she’s leaving me hanging tonight.
A psychic reading, a real one, for someone like me in front of Teagan and Riley could be disastrous. I can’t let them discover my secrets.
“I think it’s a terrible idea. You realize that every con artist in New Orleans looking to make a quick buck is on Jackson Square tonight.”
Riley shrugs. “Sorry. It’s two against one. Teagan and I win.”
I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this.
Our server places a glass filled with some dark stuff, neat, on the table in front of me. It’s poured high. Looks like a double from the looks of it. I didn’t order the drink, but it arrives as if on cue. I can use it about right now.
“The gentleman sitting at the corner table sent this over. The one wearing the white shirt,” our server says.
Men think they impress women when they send over a free drink, and perhaps some women are dazzled, but I fall into the category of women who want to figure out what he hopes to gain by purchasing a drink for a stranger.
What can I say? Cynical is my middle name.
No, not really. It’s Alexis.
I admit it. Today’s dating scene has tainted me and my outlook on modern love.
“Johnny Walker Blue Label.” A tilt of the server’s head and a lift of one brow follow her words. “In case you’re unaware, he sent the good stuff to you.”
“I’m familiar with Johnny Walker.” All labels. A little too familiar if I’m being honest about it.
Blue is the best and most expensive, but I’m not prejudiced against any of the other colors: red, black, double black, gold, green, platinum. They all do the same job, some a little smoother than others.
The price of the whiskey doesn’t impress me. It makes me more suspicious about this guy’s motives for sending it to me. “Did this drink come straight from the bar? No detours on its way here?”
“I picked it up after my bartender poured it. Only she and I have handled it and my eyes never left this tray for a moment. No one has tampered with it.”
Riley laughs. “Caroline’s not planning to be featured on the next episode of Dateline.”
“You got that right.”
A thank-you to the sender is in order. It’s the perfect excuse to turn around and get a better view of this guy.
It’s difficult to see him across the dark room, but our eyes connect. The corners of his mouth lift, one side a little more than the other, and three words come to mind.
Handsome. Charming. Mischievous.
First impressions are everything. You can read a person’s energy without hearing them utter a word. And I like the vibe that Mr. Blue Label is giving me.
Pointing to the glass of whiskey, I mouth, “Thank you.”
His response is a sharp lift of his chin. Hmm… cocky. I like it.
“He’s cute,” Riley says.
“Very cute. You should go over and talk to him,” Teagan says.
“I prefer to let him come to me.” He would not send me a drink and then duck out before he introduces himself.
Teagan leans forward and smiles. “He’s coming this way.”
Riley laughs. “That didn’t take long.”
“Good evening, ladies,” he says.
“Hiii.” Our voices are a choir, each of us singing a different key and overlapping when we reply.
“How’s it going tonight?”
“Gooood.” We sound like a junior-high glee club.
“Happy to hear that. Have you been here long?”
We’ve been here long enough for the drinks to send me to the bathroom twice. But in all fairness, it was one trip to use the facilities and one trip to hide out during my episodes. “We got here about an hour and a half ago.”
He holds up his drink. “You’re ahead of us. I’m on my first whiskey of the night.”
“Blue Label?” It’s unlikely that he’d send me one and not have one for himself.
“You guessed it. I hope it’s all right that I sent one to you.”
“More than all right. Blue Label is great. Thank you very much.”
He glances down at the glass. “Are you sure? I can’t help but notice that the glass is still full.”
“I was about to drink it.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That didn’t sound so pushy in my head.”
“No worries.”
“I’m Landon, by the way. I should have started with that instead of cross-examining you.”
“Are you an attorney?”
“I am. It shows, huh?”
“A little. I’m Caroline and these are my best friends, Riley and Teagan.”
He gestures to the table in the corner. “Those are my buddies, Nathan and Tanner.”
Teagan, Riley, and I swap obligatory waves with the guys. They’re good-looking, but nothing compared to Landon.
“Is this a girls’ trip to New Orleans from somewhere else?” he asks.
“We’re locals. We live in Metairie.”
“Small world. My buddies and I are from Metairie too.”
Strong arms encircle my upper body from behind. I struggle but the man is larger and stronger than I am. I’m unable to free myself from his grasp, but I knock us off-balance and we tumble to the ground, myself facedown with him on top of me.
Grass.
Soil.
Oleander.
Linen permeated with sweet tobacco.
Listerine overpowered by smoker’s breath.
Sweat and musk blended with Castile soap.
Hair tonic.
Blood.
So many smells rush at me at once.
The man kneels on my back, pressing his weight against my spine. He’s heavy, and the pain is excruciating. Then he wraps his hand around my throat and squeezes.
My struggle exhausts me, and it’s useless against his strength. His large hand, strong with a silky, smooth palm, squeezes my throat using an iron grip.
Lying facedown in the grass beneath the beautiful live oaks of our summer home isn’t the deathbed that I envisioned for myself. No. I’m supposed to have solid gray hair and wrinkled skin. I’m supposed to be surrounded by my children and grandchildren. Instead, my light is extinguished far too soon.
It’s a terrible thing to listen to the conversations happening around you, and pretend that all in the world is marvelous while you experience the sensation of being strangled to death. Even if the whole thing is only happening inside your head.
Please, whiskey. Make my episodes go away. Give me calm thoughts.
A quiet mind is a beautiful thing.
With one big gulp, I finish the smooth amber liquid in my glass, and another is there to replace it within minutes thanks to Landon.
His friends join us and our first conversation comprises small talk. I learn the basics about Landon from Metairie––how old he is, where he went to school, what area of town he lives in, what he does for work. He’s handsome, successful, and engaging. My first impression is that he ticks a lot of boxes.
“Would you guys be interested in going to Jackson Square with us?”
Oh no, Riley. Why did you have to ask that?
“What’s going on at Jackson Square tonight?” Tanner says.
“We want to get psychic readings,” Riley says.
“That’s cool,” Nathan says.
I’ve never had a reading, but I imagine that it’s a deeply personal thing. If the reader is authentic, it could reveal private information that you wouldn’t want others to be privy to. You shouldn’t invite strangers to be part of that.
I’ll go if Teagan and Riley insist. I don’t want to raise red flags, but I learned an important lesson a long time ago: keep your crazies to yourself.
Did you enjoy this excerpt of The Soul Always Remembers?
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