Part 2 (1/2)
Julie shook her head. ”How can both of those things be true?”
”They just are,” I told her. ”What's the problem?”
”So it's your physical body that's twenty-six?”
”No, the body is twenty-nine.”
”Then what part of you is twenty-six?”
”My soul.”
Julie shook her head again. I went to Adam for help.
”All right. . . Adam says, because your body and your soul have always been joined together, they're basically reflections of each other. They're like twins.”
”You mean they look the same? Souls have an appearance?”
”Of course.”
Julie laughed. ”So my soul has crooked teeth?”
”I guess,” I said, glancing at her mouth. ”If your body does. And it's got the same-color eyes, and the same build, and the same voice -- and the same age. But for us, it's not like that. None of us is in the body all the time, so there's not that same connection. Adam says --”
”Who's Adam?”
”My cousin.”
”This is another soul? Like your father?”
”Yes.”
”And how old is Adam?”
”Adam is fifteen.”
”Has he always been fifteen, or has he gotten older?”
”He's gotten a little older,” I said.
”How much is a little?”
”Well, it's hard to say exactly. It depends on how much time he's spent outside. Adam used to steal time in the body, the same as the others; if you added up all that stolen time, plus the time he's been allowed out since my father took over and started building the house, that would tell you how much older he's gotten. My father thinks it's about a year, but Adam won't say.”
”He doesn't want your father to know how much time he really stole,” Julie guessed.
”He doesn't want to have to explain what he did with it,” I told her.
”Souls only age when they're in control of the body?”
”Of course.”
”Why?”
”I don't know. That's just the way it works.”
”What does Adam say about it?”
”Adam says. . . Adam says it's the same reason you don't get better at poker unless you play for real money. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means.”
”That's OK,” said Julie. ”I think I do.”
She picked up the pitcher to pour herself some more beer, and noticed that my gla.s.s was still full.
”What's wrong?” she said. ”You don't like stout?”
”I don't drink, actually,” I confessed, feeling caught out. ”House rule.”
”You sure?” She held up the pitcher, which still had more than half the gallon in it. ”If I finish this myself, you may have to carry me out of here.”
”I'm sorry. I should have said something.”
”No, it's all right. I should have asked.” Julie gestured in the direction of the bar. ”Do you want something else?”
”No, really, I'm fine.”
”Suit yourself. . .” She refilled her own gla.s.s, then said: ”So tell me something about your soul.”
”What do you want to know?”
”Well, what do you really look like? If I could see your soul and compare it to what I see now, what would be different?”
”Oh,” I said. ”Not that much, actually. I look a lot like my father, and my father looks more like Andy Gage than any other soul except. . . well, it's a very close resemblance.”
”But there are differences?”
”A few. My hair's darker, and my face is thinner -- it's put together a little differently, too.”
”What else?”
”Well, scars.” I pointed to a jagged line above Andy Gage's right eye. ”Jake -- he's another one of my cousins -- Jake did this one time when he had the body. He tripped and fell against the edge of a gla.s.s table. Jake's soul has the same scar, but mine doesn't, because --”
”Because it didn't happen to you.”
”Right.”
”What about this one?” Julie touched a spot on the body's left palm, just above the ball of the thumb. Her fingers were cool and damp from the beer gla.s.s, and felt good in a way I hadn't experienced before. But when I realized what she was talking about, I pulled the hand away from her.
”That's just something my father did once,” I said. ”He stuck himself on a bill spike.” I think Julie could tell there was more to the story than that, but she didn't press me on it.
”Any other differences?” she asked.