Message in a Bottle

**********

The old holiday standard “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” came to its rousing conclusion as John Smith turned onto his street. He smiled, enjoying the song’s sentiments and the bright winter afternoon. After a dawn of blowing snow and sub-zero temperatures, the sky was now a deep azure. Late-day sunlight tinted the snow with shades of orange and gold and icicles added an extra sparkle to houses trimmed with holiday finery. It was two weeks before Christmas and Mother Nature had dumped ten inches of fresh powder. Children called eagerly to one another as they played atop the banks pushed up by the plows. Adults were busy unearthing cars and clearing walkways. Their voices were lower but their faces betrayed a subtle bemusement at the fast moving storm that had closed schools and office buildings.

John glanced in his rearview mirror at the wrapped blue spruce sticking out of the back of the Rover. This was the first Christmas since the coma that he would put up a tree. 2001 had been spent in a corner of the Bannerman’s living room, watching JJ open presents while Walt made polite small talk. The next year was a mirror image, except that he and Walt had found some common ground and did not need three glasses of eggnog to loosen their tongues. The third year he had turned down Sarah’s invitation. The troubling issues of JJ’s paternity and the apocalyptic visions made him unfit company for family. John shared Christmas Eve with Bruce and a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps instead. A monstrous hangover kept him in bed until almost eleven am. Gene Purdy rounded out a perfectly miserable day by attempting to coerce him into having dinner at a local restaurant.

Then there was Christmas 2004.

The smile faded from John’s lips as he powered through the drift at the mouth of his driveway. Oh yeah, pleasant memories. Why did I have to go there?

The wedding of Sarah’s friends Alec and Maria proved cathartic. As Walt squired his wife around the dance floor, John let go of the past and looked to the future. He called Rebecca and their relationship accelerated from the tentative to the serious.

Summer turned to fall and after a month apart due to professional commitments, Rebecca flew back to Maine on Christmas Eve. John met her with flowers and a passionate embrace that drew indulgent smiles from fellow travelers. For the first time in years he could touch someone and not be assaulted by the past or future. He had often pondered his inability to read Rebecca and had come to only one conclusion—Rebecca was an open book. She did not know or want the John that had existed before 1995, nor did she seek solace from a traumatic past. The explanation did not make logical sense but then, neither did the ability that had torn his world apart.

The yearning to be an ordinary man was present every day of John’s life. Rebecca filled the need effortlessly. John held her for a long time at the airport, blinking away tears of gratitude. He wanted to be alone with her but there was a rhythm to their interactions that had held true from the start. To disturb it felt wrong. John took her out to dinner, content to wait. Candlelight, a bottle of wine and her soft laughter as they held hands across the table combined to make the perfect ambiance.

After dinner they walked through the 6th street Park. Several of the tall pines were decorated with multicolored lights and large reflective ornaments. The northerly breeze was sharp beneath a cloudless sky. Rebecca held his hand and studied the stars as they strolled. When they reached the empty fountain, John turned and tilted her chin. They had kissed before, a tentative and chaste pressing of lips. This was different. Cold flesh grew soft and malleable beneath his mouth as Rebecca leaned into his embrace. She tasted of bitter chocolate and her perfume tainted the air with soft musk. Their tongues tangled and parried in rapid strokes until they were forced to pull apart, breathless.

They went back to his house and made love into the early morning.

A year later the relationship lay in ruins.

John stopped beneath the arch and jammed the shift lever into Park. Suddenly the Christmas tree was a useless bundle of needles ready to lie dormant in his area rugs until March. The boxes of ornaments in the hallway were nothing more than a mess of ancient newspaper and fragile glass, more work than wonder. John shook his head. Stop it! Rebecca was a part of the past. Christmas was supposed to be a time of rebirth and peace, not wishful thinking or harbingers of blood and hellfire.

Taking a deep breath, John stepped out and slammed the car door. The sun was going down behind the hedge, throwing thick shadows across the snow. He walked the length of the Rover and started to untie the cord securing the hatch. A movement caught his eye. John paused and turned towards the street.

A blonde girl dressed in a thick parka and a pink scarf was crossing in front of the driveway.

John forced a smile. “Lindsay!”

The girl stopped and smiled back. John waved and pointed at the tree. She shrugged and stumbled over the mounded snow before reaching the smoother expanse of the open driveway. “You should call someone about that,” she said when she arrived at the back of the Rover. “Nice tree.”

“I’m sure Jimmy is very busy with this storm,” John answered as he fingered the tips of the branches.

“Oh, he plows your driveway too?”

John nodded. “I think he does the whole block.”

“Busy guy.”

“Uh huh. Did your parents mention my invitation?”

“The Open House thingy?”

John grinned. “Yes, that.”

“Yeah,” she looked at him quizzically. “Are you sure you want to? I mean crowds of people and all.”

“I don’t expect a crowd,” John replied dryly. Lindsay giggled and he flashed a sincere grin as he tugged the tree out and laid it gently on the ground. His mother had always said, “In for a penny, in for a pound”. The last Christmas party held at the Smith House had been the year before his coma. Ten years was a long enough hiatus. John did not want to wallow in self-pity, random thoughts of Rebecca notwithstanding. He had canvassed the street with invitations and hoped for the best.

“Did you want some help?”

“Huh?”

“Help?” Lindsay repeated, pointing at the tree.

John shook his head. “No, just saying hello.”

“So this is part of the…Open House?”

“Sure. An old-fashioned tree trimming.”

“We don’t do that anymore.”

John bit his lip. A little over four years had passed since Lindsay’s brother died suddenly while serving in the Middle East. At 15 and now the only child of troubled parents, John recognized the same seriousness in his own adolescence. He resisted the paternal urge to squeeze her shoulder. I’m sorry. God, you don’t know how much. “Hey, give me a hand, will you?”

“’Kay.”

The trunk of the tree was sticky with pine pitch. John inhaled the pungent odor with a wistful grin. Before Brockmore there had been Christmases with his father. Trips to the tree farm and hot chocolate in the truck on the way home. Hauling the tree through the house while his mother fussed good-naturedly about the slush and needles being tracked across the carpets. John remembered gingerbread and the scratchy records of Johnny Cash and Gene Autry on the stereo. Silver and glass balls and real candleholders clipped to the branches. His father murmuring advice while Vera watched from the doorway, coffee cup in hand. “You need good strong branches Johnny to keep the holders from tipping over and starting a fire. Spruce or pine, never cedar. Remember that.”

“Johnny?”

“Huh?” John blushed and wondered how much of the memories showed on his face. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“S’okay.”

Together they maneuvered the tree up the steps, through the foyer and into the living room. John had rearranged the furniture to make a space. Now he studied the spruce with a critical eye. “I hope it isn’t too tall for this room. I seem to remember some very tall trees in the past.”

“They had Christmas trees back then?”

He smirked, “Yeah, but they were made out of rocks and rawhide!”

Lindsay giggled again. “Sounds right, did you kill the deer yourself?”

“Funny.”

“I try.”

John laughed and turned to the tree stand sitting in front of the fireplace. “You want to hold this baby upright while I screw in the bolts?”

Silence.

“Lindsay?” He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. She was standing by the large bay window. Crimson and gold streaked her long hair and shadowed her face. Small hands cradled a picture of John and Vera Smith from his teenage years.

“Do you miss her?”

John straightened and came to stand beside her. “Yes.”

Lindsay sniffed loudly and put the picture back on the table. “They say it gets easier with time. It’s supposed to, right?”

They say?John swallowed a sigh. The revelations of his parent’s troubled lives were proof that the passivity of grief was a myth, in John’s opinion. Still, it was not his place to judge what Lindsay’s parents chose to tell her. “Who are ‘they’?” he asked carefully.

“No one,” she dragged her sleeve across her eyes and started for the door. “I gotta’ go. Mom will freak if I’m not in the house before dark.”

“Hey,” John followed her into the foyer. “Lindsay, talk to me.”

She paused with her hand on the door latch. Shadows flickered in her wide eyes and her mouth moved spasmodically. I’m missing something. John brushed tentative fingers across her shoulder.

***Lindsay sat cross-legged on a single bed and stared out the window into the night. Rain slid down the glass in fat droplets and rumbled the shingles above. She wore a pair of headphones and was mouthing the words to the song playing on the radio resting on the bed. Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap, twirling and tugging an object John could not identify. He stepped nearer and caught the glint of metal in the weak glow of the streetlight.

A chain?

Closer inspection revealed a small metal rectangle etched with numbers and letters.

Dog tags.

John shivered and looked up. Lindsay cried silently, the song forgotten.***

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

“That’s what everyone says.” She slammed the door on her way out.

Damn-it! John shook his head and wandered back into the living room. He slumped onto the couch and stared belligerently at the tree. Is it too late to call the whole thing off? What was that Grisham book “‘Skipping Christmas”? Purity of intentions meant nothing. Lindsay was hurting and he felt powerless to do anything but watch.

More than a neighborhood urchin, John counted Lindsay as a friend. Her gentle nature and honesty were a welcome respite from the turmoil so often shown by his visions. With her father’s blessing, John tutored her in science and taught her to play chess. Lindsay was attentive and mindful of his psychic abilities and the way they worked. Visions from her were rare and until now involved school or boyfriends. The latter John quietly monitored for signs of abuse or stress. Fortunately, her relationships were surface and fleeting. He did not relish the idea of reporting a case of unprotected sex or worse to her parents.

The phone buzzed, putting an end to reverie. John lurched to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. “Hello?”

Christmas carols with a soulful edge poured through the receiver. “Ho ho ho, my friend.”

“Hey, Bruce. What’s up?”

“I’m headin’ into the city to pick up my girl. You need anything for the party tomorrow night?”

John glanced around the dark kitchen, not seeing or caring at the moment. “I don’t think so.”

The music lowered abruptly. “John?”

“What?”

“What’s up, man?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh.” Bruce muttered. “You do know who you are talking to here, right?”

“A kept man?” John quipped weakly.

“Tina’s gonna’ kick your ass for sayin’ that.”

“I rest my case.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bruce paused, allowing the sounds of traffic and the muted lyrics of ‘Silent Night’ to bleed into the silence. “Listen, John, don’t just sit in that house,” he said. “Go watch a hockey game, hang out with Sarah and the family, do something will ya?”

“I just picked up a Christmas tree. It will probably take me half the night to get it set up straight. Don’t worry about me.”

“If you say so.” Bruce grumbled.

“Thanks for the call. If I think of anything I’ll let you know, okay?” John could not assuage Bruce’s concern; their friendship was too tight. Usually that was an asset but tonight it just made him feel worse. “Get off the phone, man, the roads are getting slick.”

“Take it easy, John.”

“Yeah, you too.” He hung up and leaned against the edge of the sink. It was going to be a long night.

Midnight came and went before the spruce took its place in the corner of the living room. John collapsed in bed and dozed restlessly until dawn. Bloody carnage haunted his dreams: Rebecca, Stillson, DC a smoking ruin—his future self laughing maniacally as a series of friend-heavy coffins were lowered into the ground. He woke covered in cold sweat and gasping for air that did not reek of char.

Just one day without this. Is that really so much to ask?

Apparently, it was.

John rolled out of bed and wandered into the bathroom. Exhaustion clung like a chilly blanket and he turned the shower up to near scalding temperature before stepping inside. A half hour of steady pounding ran the water out but left him no warmer. Irritated, John stepped out and dried off.

The house felt monstrous and sullen, as if in denial of the impending holiday. John dressed quickly and walked downstairs. The kitchen was cloaked in thick shadows. He snagged the leg of a stool with his foot as he walked through. Biting back a curse, he reached for a mug in the cupboard above the coffee maker. He poured half a cup and sipped experimentally.

Cold water?

John looked at the clock on the machine. The display read 7:15. The timer was set for 7:30.

Disgusted, he poured the water back into the top of the pot and went into the living room. The tree was a prickly, disquieting silhouette in the corner. Shrugging away a persistent shiver, John turned on a lamp and pulled open the drawer of the desk beneath it. A variety of objects occupied the space: nail clippers, a stapler, a package of paper clips and a pair of scratched sunglasses. He brushed them all aside and pulled out a pale yellow envelope edged with a vine pattern in the upper left corner.

Jesus, why do I do this to myself?

His fingers nudged the torn flap aside and slid out the single piece of stationary.

Put it away!

John carefully unfolded the sheet. He had read the letter several times and each new visitation brought anger and quiet pain. John sighed as his eyes fell to the signature.

Love, Rebecca

In all the time they had spent together, John had garnered only a handful of visions from touching Rebecca. Most of them were related to Rachel’s disappearance. The last was the most painful—a lie to shield him from her ultimately futile attempt to assassinate Greg Stillson. This letter had been waiting for John upon his return from Washington D.C. Neither paper nor ink had ever given him any indication of how she felt. He was left to interpret the words like any jilted lover. Normalcy at last.

Greg Stillson’s machinations had sliced Rebecca from his life as neatly as a razorblade. John’s inability to defend her emotionally and physically from the congressman spawned a more personal hatred than the looming threat of Armageddon ever had.

John reread the letter and felt the familiar burn of unshed tears.

Dear John,

I know you wanted to say more to me when we were standing under the bridge. I’m glad you didn’t, it just would have made things that much harder. I love you but right now I wish I didn’t. I came so close to making a huge mistake and even now I wonder. I wonder if I should have shot the bastard and taken the consequences. Surely, the world would have been better off? God, I wish I knew for certain and even with all you can do, I don’t believe you have the answers.

Either way I’ve lost you and selfishly, I am glad. I won’t have to watch you die trying to save a world full of people that will never know the wonderful man you are. I don’t think I can live with your gift. I honestly thought I could, I honestly wanted to. I guess that makes me weak. I’m hoping it also makes me human and therefore understandable if not forgivable.

I’m sorry.

Love, Rebecca

John crumpled the paper into a ball.

Why did I let you walk away without telling you how I felt? Why did I question those feelings when you were standing there, waiting and wondering? Damn it!

He could hear Rebecca’s voice in the words and feel her sadness months and miles in the past. Stillson’s broadening political influence and his engagement to Miranda Ellis just made the impressions more vivid. The irony of Greg’s happiness and the pain he had inadvertently caused the Caldwell family was palpable. For once, the congressman was not to blame. John blamed him anyway. It was easier than examining the insecurities that kept Rebecca at arm’s length even as she struggled to get closer.

I should have let you help. I should have let you in.

He shook his head and looked at the crumpled letter.

I drove you to this.

John knew it for truth and yet a tiny part of his brain clamored inconsolably in opposition.

Knowing I was ill, knowing what I faced, you chose to walk away. How could you do that to me? To us?

The question churned John’s stomach and beaded his forehead with cold sweat.

Enough!

He blew a shaky sigh and put the ball of paper on the desk. It crinkled loudly in the silence as it slowly uncurled. After a moment, John bent and spread the sheet flat. The what-ifs of the situation did not bear contemplation. Rebecca was gone, the letter the last reminder of what could have been. He should not dwell on it but he could not walk away—not yet, anyway.

John refolded the paper and slid it into the yellow envelope. His fingers lingered over the return address before he placed it back in the bottom of the drawer. He returned to the kitchen, resolved to find meaning in a day already grown wearisome.

Preparations for the open house consumed the morning and early afternoon hours. John had considered hiring some help from a local agency. The morning’s unwelcome introspection made him grateful for the distraction. He threw himself into each item on the extensive list with vigor. By two p.m. the kitchen was ready for the caterers to arrive at five. He had no intention of trying to prepare a variety of appetizers and potables for a large volume of people. In the three years since his ‘date’ with Dana Bright, John’s culinary skills had deteriorated from adequate to non-existent. He suspected that a complete lack of social interaction beyond the occasional meal out with Bruce or the Bannermans was the cause. Rebecca had filled that void in his life like she had done so many others.

Heavy clouds filled the sky as the afternoon wore on. John tried to ignore the unruly sensation that the gathering storm was an omen. All but a handful of invitations were to residents living on the surrounding blocks. Bruce and his date had the furthest to travel, next to the Bannermans. Nothing short of a blizzard would delay either party. Gene Purdy was out of town, a small miracle that John felt only modest guilt for enjoying. He did not wish to spend this already difficult evening trying to comprehend the disturbing visions triggered by the good Reverend.

Paranoia? Signs and portents?

John filled a glass with water from the tap and took a long drink. Such frivolity was cliché and a part of him was mortified for even considering it. Still, the visions had fostered a vein of suspicion and the macabre since his awakening. He could not dismiss the sensation entirely.

The kitchen clock read 3:55 when John came back downstairs from a second shower and a shave. The doorbell chimed as he entered the living room.

Bruce!

He grinned in relief and went to the door. “Merry Christmas…”

The stoop was empty.

Almost.

A clear plastic bag lay in the center of the hard rubber mat. Inside the bag was a piece of folded lavender paper. The grin faded and an involuntary tremor traveled up John’s spine as he studied the offering. It’s just a piece of paper! A gust of wind swept through the arch and lifted the edges of the bag. John watched it rise and fall back to the exact same spot. He licked his lips and looked up. Whoever left this, had to have left tracks, too.

Wind-driven snow peppered his cheek and neck. John rubbed his arms against the chill and looked around the empty yard. The asphalt driveway was freshly plowed and showed no sign of passage. The dirty edges were undisturbed by stumbling feet. His only recourse was to touch the bag.

John’s fingers twitched against his leg as he knelt down. This is ridiculous! Drawing a steadying breath, he brushed the surface of the plastic with his fingers.

***Dark, swirling mist boiled up from the snowy yard. John swiped irritably at the fog and flinched as cold metal touched his skin. Pulling his hand back, he gasped aloud at the thick slices marring the fingertips. Blood bubbled from the cuts and trailed down over the heel of his hand. His fingers twitched reflexively and new gashes opened the length of his wrist. Raw, ragged lips gaped apart to reveal tendon and bone. The mist thickened, coating his skin and seeping into his nose and mouth. In the distance someone screamed…***

John gasped aloud and stumbled backwards. His back slammed into the door jam and the air whooshed from his shriveled lungs. What, where, who was that? The sound of an approaching car penetrated the nightmare haze. John pressed chilled fingers to his throbbing eyelids and gulped for air. Control…breathe…

The car crunched over the grit at the mouth of the driveway and John looked up. He noticed Bruce’s friendly wave and raised a weak hand in reply. Bruce would recognize his discomfiture in a matter of seconds. Rattled but determined to hide it, John strolled casually down the steps and across the width of the driveway.

“Merry Christmas, my brother!” Bruce called cheerfully as he rounded the back of his car.

Tina Weston flashed a shy smile as she stepped out. “Hey, John.”

“Hey yourself,” he replied amicably.

She twirled her gloves through her fingers, clearly at a loss as Bruce leaned across the backseat.

John bent and brushed a kiss against her cool cheek, hoping to put her at ease. A vision of Bruce and Tina seated contentedly on a rocky beach at sunset flashed through his clouded brain. He pulled back wearing a reassuring smile.

“We will drink no wine before its time,” Bruce quipped as he pulled two shopping bags from the back of the car.

“Ernest and Julio Gallo, right?”

Bruce grinned. “Man, if that isn’t dated.”

“Everything old is new again,” John reminded.

Tina laughed and took one of the bags. “Tell that to my knees. Too much basketball in High School.”

“I can fix that for you,” Bruce mumbled, ducking from her friendly swat.

“Do you two need a room?”

“You’re offering?”

John rolled his eyes and reached for the last bag resting on the seat. “Just being the consummate host.”

*** “Call 911!” Bruce shouted in a voice thick with horror. John reached for his cell phone. It tumbled free of his grasping fingers and clattered across the snow-covered steps beneath his feet. He reached down and gasped aloud at the crimson stream trickling across his palm and down onto the clean, white snow.***

“Are you okay?” Tina asked hesitantly

“John, are you trying to give the oil company a Merry Christmas or what?” Bruce remarked from the steps. “Your door is wide open!”

Shaken, John shrugged and tried to ignore Tina’s concerned frown as he replied. “I was cleaning and got overheated. Go on in.”

Bruce barked a laugh. “Must be a special occasion if you’re cleaning house!”

“Must be,” John repeated quietly. He took a firmer grip on the grocery bag and bumped the car door closed with his hip. Tina stepped aside, her brown eyes large and unreadable. John sensed the questions but held his tongue. She would not understand and he did not have the patience to explain what little he did know. “It’s cold out here. Come inside, Tina.”

She followed him across the driveway and up the steps. “Is this yours?”

“What?”

Tina held out the plastic bag. The lavender paper was partially obscured by a dusting of snow.

John nudged open the front door. “Yes. Could you put it on the foyer table for me please?”

“Sure thing.”

“I am impressed,” Bruce announced from the kitchen.

John groaned at the sarcastic remark. “Yeah, right.”

“What a beautiful tree!” Tina exclaimed.

He pointed at the boxes of ornaments relocated to the living room. “Take a look.”

“You don’t mind?” she asked uncertainly.

“No, of course not.”

Tina smiled and John endured a jealous pang. Bruce was a lucky man. Tina was smart and beautiful, but still possessed the ability to be charmed by the simplest things. Rebecca had been equally easy to please. Greg Stillson had managed to twist her sweet nature into a dangerous obsession. One more reason to hate the man.

“John, where’s your punchbowl?” Bruce called out.

“Excuse me.” He left Tina to the delicate task of unpacking ornaments and carried the last bag into the kitchen. “Did you forget where I keep everything? It hasn’t been that long since you were here!”

“Never mind, I found it. Pass that over, man.”

John hefted the groceries onto the counter. “What did you buy? This thing weighs a ton!”

Bruce grinned. “I know you got people coming in for the big stuff but I thought a little Christmas punch might lighten the mood.”

“My mood is fine,” John snapped.

“What’s up with you?”

John busied himself with the fresh fruit rolling across the counter. “What else do you need for this punch of yours?”

“Lewis family tradition,” Bruce answered in a more subdued tone. “Step out and take a seat.”

John forced a pale smile. “The caterers will be here in about 45 minutes.” Bruce grunted and turned to look in a bag resting beside the sink.

Very nice.John swallowed a groan of dismay. Way to deflect suspicion! He left the kitchen, intent on returning to the foyer. He could not hide his uneasiness forever but he needed more information. Horrors be dammed, he had to touch the bag.

“Oh these are beautiful, John,” Tina exclaimed. “Where did you get them?”

John sighed and reluctantly redirected his steps. Bruce had told him that Tina found his abilities unnerving. Spouting tales containing random images of blood and gore would certainly put a damper on the evening. It was dark in the vision, I’ve got time Clinging to this tiny thread of logic he plastered a smile on his face and walked into the living room.

Tina stood beside an open box slowly peeling back layers of yellowed tissue from a blue tinted glass ball. “You have some gorgeous pieces here. My mother collects antique ornaments.”

“Sounds like an interesting hobby,” John said. “All of this stuff belonged to my parents.” He sat on the couch, as far away from Tina as he could manage without being overtly rude. He did not want to chance brushing against her or the ornaments. Better, safer, to sit and relate the history without reliving it. He tried to keep up a thread of conversation above the distant clatter of utensils. Tina seemed as uneasy as he felt however and eventually excused herself and went to join Bruce in the kitchen.

Another stellar evening at the Smith family asylum.

The chime of the doorbell shivered across John’s raw nerves. He schooled his features into what he hoped was an inviting expression and went to the door. “Merry Christmas!”

“Hi, Johnny.”

“JJ! How’s it going?”

“Good. Is that Bruce’s car outside?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen mixing up some sort of science experiment.”

“I heard that!” Bruce shouted.

JJ laughed. “Oh, this is for you.” He held out a red foil wrapped box.

John’s fingers twitched restlessly at his sides. “Put it under the tree, would you?”

“’Kay.”

“Where’s your mom and…oh, never mind, here they come!”

Sarah trotted up the steps as JJ disappeared into the house. “Merry Christmas, Johnny,” she greeted, brushing a kiss onto his cheek.

“The same to you.”

“I’ll skip the kiss,” Walt said with a wry grin.

“I appreciate that,” John shook his hand. “Glad you could make it.”

“I’m on call, I’m afraid. Roscoe’s out of town visiting his sister, Joseph Laramie’s wife is due any second—you know the drill.”

“No problem.” John stepped aside and closed the door. Fortunately, he had felt only the warmth of friendship when touching Sarah and Walt. The specter of the earlier visions continued to hover at the back of his thoughts: a promise that the rest of the evening would not go as smoothly.

The caterers, a couple in their late 50s, bustled into the house five minutes later. Sarah took charge and relegated all of the men to the living room without argument. John stood back and watched. He was too anxious to sit still and enjoy the quiet conversation of friends, or even JJ’s enthusiasm over the latest video game. On some level, he resented Sarah’s interference. The feeling was due more to the lack of having her as a distraction, than any great desire to be ‘in charge’ of this little soiree. Any remaining excitement had leached into the snow at the first touch of the plastic bag still resting on the foyer table.

Conversation ebbed and flowed in the living room at his back. The sounds of glassware and metal tinkled in counterpoint to the selection of Christmas carols softly playing on the stereo. John lurked in the doorway of the dining room. His mind replayed the visions in vivid detail over and over, shrouding the room in a crimson haze. There was something familiar about the stairs. He reached for the memory and suppressed a grunt of frustration as it slid skittishly out of reach.

“Don’t move,” Bruce warned as he carried a tray of full glasses past John and into the living room.

John blinked and held still. He had not noticed his friend walking out of the kitchen though his eyes had been directed straight towards the doorway. I’ve got to get a handle on this!

Bruce returned a few moments later. He deposited the tray on the sideboard and held out a glass. “Try this.”

John accepted the drink and offered a silent salute before taking a sip. The punch was fruity and tart with a warm afterglow as it slid down his throat. He took a larger swallow and nodded appreciatively. “Good tradition.”

“Daddy was strict but he always seemed a little looser around the holidays. I could never figure out why until the year he decided I was old enough to sample the Christmas punch.” Bruce smiled ruefully. “I left six months later.”

“Cheers, man.”

Bruce clinked his glass. “Thanks.” He studied John for a long moment. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh,” Bruce mumbled over his shoulder as he walked back into the living room.

John drained his glass and secreted it behind the napkin holder on the sideboard. The alcohol content in the punch was high and already filling his chilled insides with a comforting heat. He needed to keep a clear head.

“Johnny, the caterers are asking if it’s okay to put out the cold hors d'oeuvre?” Sarah called out softly.

The invitations read 6:30. John looked at his watch and frowned. 6:42, was anyone going to show? “That’s fine, Sarah.”

She exchanged some words in the kitchen before joining him with a full glass of punch. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not.” He lied, expecting—needing—her to see the truth.

Sarah squeezed his arm.

***Silver garland and fabric-covered balls decked the small artificial tree in the corner of the living room. Sarah, cradling a baby close against her chest, sat beside the neat stack of wrapped gifts beneath. She held the baby’s hand and sang softly in his ear. The infant wriggled and a husky masculine laugh rose above the muted tones of “Away in a Manger”

John looked up and flushed with jealousy as Walt walked into the living room with a pair of wine glasses. He knelt down and kissed Sarah’s pursed lips. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

She nodded and brushed hastily at the tears sliding down her cheeks. “JJ’s first.”

“I know this is hard for you.”

The baby cried softly and Sarah stroked his knuckles with the ball of her thumb. “No, you’re here. I couldn’t ask for a better father for JJ.” She looked up with a strained smile. “Neither could Johnny.”***

The vision slid down and away like a receding tide. John pulled in a shaky breath and patted Sarah’s hand. The ‘gift’ of the past was unexpected, though not unwelcome. He had never asked about the holidays spent without him. The idea was too painful before the revelation of JJ’s paternity and in its aftermath felt pointless, until now.

I should have.

“You saw something, didn’t you?”

“JJ’s first Christmas.”

Sarah’s smile was bright and bittersweet. Her hand trailed down and briefly gripped his fingers. “That’s not all you’ve been thinking about tonight though, is it?”

He shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “It’s Christmas. A lot of old memories in those boxes.” Alerting Sarah or Walt was pointless at this juncture. He needed five minutes to touch the bag and read the note inside.

The muted ring-tone of a cell phone cut through the quiet conversation in the living room. Walt answered with short terse words and hung up moments later. John turned at the sound of heavy footfalls on the hardwood floor.

“Kathy Laramie went into labor and Joe has to go to the hospital. There’s no one to cover for him at the station,” Walt explained.

“What could be more appropriate than a baby on Christmas!” Tina enthused from her seat on the couch.

Sarah nodded agreement and crossed the room to kiss Walt on the cheek. “Be careful. I love you.”

“Love you too, don’t wait up.”

Doubt niggled at the edges of John’s mind as he walked Walt to the door and pulled his coat from the closet. The visions meant something to someone but who? Walt had been around John long enough to know when to run with information and when to sit back and wait for details. John rubbed a hand across his forehead, frustrated that the difference did not seem as obvious in his own mind.

“Hey, you okay or what?” Walt asked.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s nothing.”

“Look, John, I’m sorry about this.”

He waved off the apology. “I understand.”

“Still,” Walt gave his shoulder a companionable squeeze. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“Thanks. Drive safe.”

The foyer clock struck the hour as the door closed. John turned and considered the bag on the table. A loud metallic crash and the tinkle of glass made him jump. “What next?” he growled as he followed the sounds of muttered expletives.

“I’m so sorry,” the caterer exclaimed when he entered the kitchen. John stared at the remains of his mother’s glass serving tray scattered across the floor. The older woman stood to one side, her gray eyes wide and helpless.

“It’s okay,” John assured with a tired smile. It was not but there was nothing to be done.

After cleaning up the glass, John helped Tina and Sarah finish trimming the tree while Bruce directed from the couch. 7:30 came and went without a single guest. John refilled his punch glass and settled in a corner of the couch. The visions weighed heavily on his mind but he could not see a way to dismiss himself from the group without inciting demands for explanation he did not have. The party itself was an unequivocal failure. He tried not to look morose as he listened to the uneasy chitchat in the kitchen and the more amicable conversations of his friends. Eventually, JJ retreated to John’s bedroom, Gameboy and snacks in hand. The majority of the food was put away and the caterers prepared to leave, their faces fixed in masks of polite pity. The chime of the doorbell seemed to catch everyone unaware. Savoring a glimmer of hope amidst a cloud of anxiety, John scrambled to his feet and reached the door as the bell rang a second time.

“Happy holidays to you, John.” Alan Davis said as the door swung wide.

“The same to you both.” He took a cookie tin and a bottle of wine from the other man and bent to give Maggie Davis a brief hug. “I’m glad you could come.”

“I’m sorry we’re late,” she excused as they stepped inside. “The historical society was sponsoring a holiday house tour this evening and we promised to attend. The last stop was way out on Rt15, the Jeffords’ homestead. Do you know the place?”

John deposited their offerings on the table, careful not to touch the bag, and hung their coats in the closet. “Yes, I remember it. Nicely decked out I’m sure?”

Alan nodded. “Circa 1900 farmhouse. Beautifully restored.” He rubbed his hands together. “I do hope Lindsay hasn’t eaten you out of house and home.”

An awful certainty gathered tight and hard in the pit of John’s stomach. He licked dry lips, positive they could hear the pounding of his heart in the silence. “Lindsay isn’t here,” he whispered.

Maggie smiled nervously. “Are you sure? Maybe she snuck in when you were entertaining other guests.”

Oh God…

“There aren’t any other cars in the yard.” Alan murmured.

The world spun sickeningly and settled askew. John turned towards the living room. “Bruce, could you come in here?”

Bruce sauntered into the foyer. “What’s up?” His tone turned serious at the uneasy expressions on the Davis’ faces. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I hope,” John whispered furtively. To Alan and Maggie, he said, “There were people here earlier. Maybe I just missed her. Come inside and warm up.”

The older man stared at John. “We should go back to the house. She probably just fell asleep on the couch.”

“She hasn’t been feeling well today,” Maggie added faintly. “That’s why she stayed home this evening.”

John avoided touching either parent for a second time. The air crackled with suspicions and any vision gleaned would show instantly on his face. He barely contained a sigh of relief when Sarah appeared in the doorway of the foyer. “Alan, Maggie, this is my friend Sarah Bannerman. She’ll take good care of you while we step out for a minute.”

“What’s going on?”

John pushed Bruce through the open door and closed it on Alan’s alarmed question. “Come on!”

Snow swirled up and around them in fitful gusts as they sprinted down the driveway. “Where are we going?” Bruce puffed when they reached the street.

“Over there.” John pointed to the Davis’ house diagonally across from his own. “Hurry!”

No, this can’t be happening!

Alan Davis’ shout of concern chased them across the street. Time seemed to slow as memory of the vision and the hard edges of reality collided in John’s mind. Bruce charged up the stairs of the big gray house and pushed through the front door. Christmas lights reflected a cheery red and green on the hardwood floor as he disappeared up the stairs. John slipped and fell hard against the porch railing.

“Call 911!” Bruce yelled in a voice thick with horror.

John reached for his cell phone. It tumbled free of his grasping fingers and clattered across the steps. He reached down, expecting to see a trail of blood and momentarily confused when he did not.

“I need towels and gauze. Get in here, man!”

“Lindsay!” Alan shouted.

John glanced towards the street and shook his head. “Stay here,” he pleaded softly, knowing Alan would neither hear nor obey.

The older man started forward and then turned at the dull slap of his wife’s running feet on the bare pavement. “What’s going on?” Maggie demanded. John turned away and entered the house. God, don’t let her in here please!

John moved through a world devoid of all sensation, save sound. He reached the 911 Operator as he found the first aid supplies and stumbled into Lindsay’s bedroom. She slouched in a tangled heap on the carpeted floor. Face stark white and streaked with tears, slit wrists crossed demurely in her blood soaked lap. John relayed the situation with clinical detachment. This rag doll was not his friend, her blue eyes glassy and her breath coming in faint gasps between chapped lips. The scene was surreal like so many visions before it. John fought reality like a rage against the storm, until he heard the distant wail of sirens and the higher keen of Maggie Davis’ screams.

“This isn’t your fault, man.”

John slumped in the passenger seat of Bruce’s car and did not reply. No force on earth could make him believe those words and the sincerity behind them filled him with a sickening ache.

I should have seen this coming. It was right there in front of me!

Repulsed by the bitter truth, John stared out the window at the holiday finery decorating the streets of downtown Bangor. Layers of pretense dangled from awnings and doorways. Piles of fake snow cluttered window displays graced with mannequins adorned in velveteen. Red and green packages tied with ribbons and thread crowded around plastic carolers and a crèche crouched in the real snow outside a stone church. John blinked and the world blurred for a moment behind angry tears.

“John?”

“What!”

Bruce maneuvered around a crowd of revelers spilling from the theater and took the turn to the highway. His leather gloves creaked against the steering wheel, tightening and loosening in unspoken reaction to John’s defensive tone.

What do you want me to say? Gasping softly, John covered his eyes with chilled fingers. The touch of Bruce’s hand on his shoulder elicited a spate of shivers. It’s my fault! Suddenly the car was stifling hot, awash in shades of red and black. “Pull over, Bruce.”

The car veered to the side of the onramp and John stumbled out and leaned over the guardrail. He vomited the remains of his scant meal, clinging to the cold metal for support until the spasms subsided. When he could breathe normally, he returned to the car and collapsed in the seat. Bruce handed him a bottle of water and several napkins. John cleaned up and rinsed his mouth, spitting into the slush before slamming the car door closed.

Tossing one’s lunch was embarrassing enough. Having your best friend for an audience when that friend knew precisely why you were an emotional disaster area was beyond pathetic. John leaned back and closed his eyes. At the very beginning of their association he had discovered that it was virtually impossible to lie to Bruce. It was an insult to the man’s intelligence. Bruce Lewis gave a damn when no one else knew how to approach John Smith. That support had never faltered, not even when John came to doubt his own heart. John had always believed in Bruce’s council, until now. “You don’t understand.”

Bruce glanced sideways. “Enlighten me.”

John sipped from the water bottle, unable to meet Bruce’s eyes. “I don’t think I can.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

It was the first time Bruce had raised his voice since discovering Lindsay Davis hours earlier. “I didn’t…listen,” John winced at the stammer and tried again. “I think she was trying to tell me something.”

“You think?”

“Yes.” Oh God, just leave it alone. The image of Maggie Davis pacing the hallway outside of Lindsay’s room flashed through John’s mind. He cringed inwardly. I should have made the time to read the note!

“What happened before Tina and I got to your house this afternoon?”

“Nothing.”

Bruce snorted loudly as he accelerated past a semi truck. “You think I didn’t notice the look on your face when I pulled up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sarah isn’t the only one who knows when you’re hiding something.”

The sullen note in Bruce’s voice took John aback. “I know,” he acknowledged, feeling instantly foolish and guilty for having tried. “I can’t explain right now.”

“You mean you don’t want to.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s the truth.”

“And if it is?”

“Look, man, after all the stuff we’ve been through together do you honestly think there is anything—anything—you can’t tell me?”

John summoned a watery smile. “Well there was that incident with the rubber gloves and the women’s underwear. “

Bruce snorted. “Your mind, man.”

“Hey, I didn’t know where she was stuck, just that she was!”

Bruce rolled his eyes and refocused on the road. “You gonna’ spill it or what?”

John closed his eyes and rocked his head against the seat. Slick roads, black ice, a swerve and a spray of shattered glass and twisted metal… He sighed at the hateful images painting the inside of his eyelids. A hope, a wish, or a prayer for comforting darkness so he did not have to face the reality of what he had failed to do? Pathetic!

The car slowed and eased down the ramp to the secondary road leading into the outskirts of Cleaves Mills. John shook himself, surprised that he had dozed away the majority of the 30-minute drive.

“Almost there,” Bruce murmured.

Then what? John had resisted thinking about his empty house and the note lying in wait on the foyer table. The inevitable was fast approaching however and the sudden swell of anxiety caught the breath in his throat. “Bruce?”

“What?”

John licked his lips and stared fixedly at the passing houses. I can’t do this… I have no choice.

“What happened, John?”

John swallowed back the lump in his throat and glanced sideways. “She left a note.”

“You’re sure it was from her? You read it?”

“No, I touched it—sort of.”

“Sort of?”

John shook his head, disgusted by his own cowardice. “Just before you showed up I heard the doorbell. There was a note in a plastic bag on the steps. When I touched it…” He related the visions connected to the note and the grocery bag in a flat tone.

I didn’t know! How could I be sure!

The thoughts screamed in denial and bled away into the darkness. It was a lie John could not believe, even in the privacy of his addled brain. Could not speak it and look Bruce in the face.

The car slowed and the floodlights of the Smith house splashed across the windshield, illuminating the snow and dirt stuck to the glass. John’s heart was pounding. The beginnings of a migraine flared crimson halos across his vision, leaving him feeling drained and angry. He closed his eyes and sighed. “What the hell do I do now?”

Bruce put the car in neutral and shifted in his seat. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, this wasn’t your fault.”

John’s eyes flew open and he stared at Bruce. “How can you say that? She wrote a note and I was too chicken to read the damn thing. I sat on my ass and nursed a drink while she took a knife to her wrists. Don’t you get it yet?”

“Calm down and think this through.”

John’s fingers were trembling and chalk-white as they kneaded the vinyl of the dashboard. “I didn’t light the fire at Cathy’s steakhouse. I didn’t slam a truck into the side of Kate Moore’s car. I sure as hell didn’t crush Rachel Caldwell’s skull in with her camera. But I knew!” He stared sightlessly out through the windshield “Every time I knew and I tried to set it right. This time the knowledge was practically in the palm of my hand and I didn’t do a fucking thing.”

“You’re responsible for the whole world now?” Bruce leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. “After everything that’s happened with Stillson, Rebecca, Alex Connors: haven’t you learned anything?”

“You don’t understand.”

“John.”

“You don’t have to live in here!” he shouted while pointing at his head. “You don’t have to see these things and try and figure out a way to live with them!”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Bruce murmured gently. “But I do know that you can’t control everything that happens. No one can keep that many balls in the air.” Bruce laid a hand on his trembling forearm. “I know you’re not responsible for what happened tonight and deep down you know it too.”

John wrenched free and pushed open the car door. Bruce’s words and touch offered solace he could not accept. He slammed the door and lurched up the steps, heedless of his friend’s worried shout. Go home and leave me alone! He fumbled the key and finally fitted it to the lock. The door closed as the car engine roared and tires chirped on the bald tar beneath the arch.

John punched in the alarm code and fell back against the wall, breathless and shaking. A stilted sob caught in his throat as he rubbed tiredly at his throbbing temples. You’re wrong, Bruce. I would give my soul to know otherwise but it would be a lie. You’re wrong! John sighed and started to push away from the wall. The light of the overhead fixture glinted off the bag resting on the table. He stared, transfixed by the uneven grain of the lavender dye coloring the paper inside the plastic.

What do you want from me? What else have I failed to do because I couldn’t face the obvious?

John practically sprinted up the stairs to the second floor.

John swam back to consciousness to the sound of pounding on his front door. He blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and noted the bar of sunlight seeping beneath the drawn blinds. Morning? What time is it? Rolling out of bed, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bureau mirror. Wrinkled clothing, red eyes, skin a pale gray—nightmare material. Who the hell is banging and why?

The events of the previous night flooded back as he made his way down the stairs. John stopped on the landing and white-knuckled the banister for support. Oh God! He wasn’t ready for the Davis’ grief or Lindsay’s funeral let alone the questions and accusations that would follow. Swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat, John walked down the last few steps to the main floor. His mind was running wild and he needed to pull back. Speculation would make things worse, though he honestly doubted it could be any worse than burying a child decades before her time.

“I’m coming!” The banging ceased as he stepped into the foyer. Plastic glinted in his periphery and John stopped mid-stride. He turned and glared at the bag, feeling the irrational urge to tear it into fine bits of lavender and plastic confetti.

The door started to vibrate again. Startled, John turned away and reached for the latch.

***Alan Davis stood on the step. His body quivered with each beat of his balled fist against the door. “I know you’re in there, Smith!” he whispered vehemently.***

John sighed at the momentary flash and opened the door.

“Where is it?” Alan demanded.

“What?”

“She left a note. I want it.”

“Mr. Davis I…”

Alan’s gloved fist connected with John’s jaw in a sudden, fierce jab.

***Lindsay lying motionless in her hospital bed. Maggie Davis stroking back her lank hair and staring out the window into the bright sunshine.***

John’s body spun with the force of the blow. He fell back into the foyer and up against the table. The plastic bag whispered to the floor. John kicked it into the corner out of sight. He straightened and rubbed lightly at his bruised jaw. The sucker punch was small reward for an angry, grieving father. The man deserved to read his daughter’s last words but a small, desperate part of John knew that he had to see them first—as Lindsay had obviously intended.

“You knew!” Alan shouted, “That’s why you ran out of here last night!”

“I wasn’t sure until you arrived here without Lindsay.” Truth, but oh so little in the face of reality! John licked dry lips. “Is she … dead?”

“She’s alive, no thanks to you!” The older man shook a trembling finger in John’s face. “For four years I let you be a part of our lives. You Goddamned freak of nature! I let you tutor my only child because Maggie asked me to. I let Lindsay spend time with you because of what you did for Maggie after Eric died.” The finger folded into a fist. “I trusted you and this is how you return that trust?”

“I didn’t know.” John looked away, stung by the insult and half expecting to be hit a second time.

“Bullshit!” Alan snapped. “It’s written all over your face, you lying bastard!”

The man lunged and for a second John considered leaving himself open to the attack. He had dared to feel a sense of relief at Alan’s news. Letting the man vent his rage seemed a small price to pay for an emotion he did not deserve.

“I let you”

Alan’s words echoed through John’s mind and he raised an arm to block the first wild swing. The man grunted, teetering slightly as he struggled for balance. John stepped into the second attempt. The wet slap of flesh against flesh sounded as he caught Alan’s fist in his palm. The momentum behind the punch wrenched John’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth and shoved Alan back against the door.

“Son of a bitch!”

“You let me?” John countered with a heat that surprised him. “You encouraged her to visit me after Eric’s death. Asked me to tutor her in science.” He winced at the blossoming ache in his shoulder. “I never pushed to be a part of your lives.”

I should have.

Alan dragged a hand across his mouth. “I trusted you.”

“To do what?” John asked.

“What the hell good is all this hocus pocus if you can’t help protect her?”

What?

Alan turned and looked out the open door. “You knew about Eric’s plane?”

John leaned against the wall. “Yes.”

“You kept it from Lindsay because you didn’t know how to tell her, right?”

“Yes.”

Alan pivoted slightly, one brown eye fixing on John’s face. “You protected her because it was the right thing to do?”

John nodded.

“Ever since that night,” the older man heaved a sigh, looking away. “Ever since you visited the house and talked to Maggie we’ve trusted you to watch out for Lindsay’s best interests.” He chuckled bitterly. “What else could happen with a psychic watching over her whenever we couldn’t?”

John sighed raggedly. He should have been incensed by Alan’s revelation but only sorrow presented itself. This was not the first time John had been used. He had grown to expect it. For all his overt rejection of the divine, John’s life was remarkably similar to a clergyman’s. Confessions bestowed in vivid detail by those who are often unwilling but desirous of forgiveness. Alan was admitting his failings as a parent in the heat of a pain he had only begun to touch. Eric’s death lay open and unaccepted four years later. Lindsay’s grief more burden than either of her parents could handle.

Does that absolve me?

John turned and walked into the house. He did not care if Alan followed or left. The answer to the random thought was a resounding NO. Whether he had asked for the responsibility was not the issue. He should have been listening.

“…Maybe it’s this burden you carry around with you. This enormous responsibility you’ve given yourself. You can’t save everyone…”

Rebecca’s word spoken in another time and place came flooding back. A low moan escaped John’s lips as he sat down on the couch. I can’t save everyone but I should be able to save those closest to me. What’s the point if I can’t see the pain right before my eyes!

The front door slammed. “I’m sorry,” John whispered.

John did not remember when he ventured into the kitchen and, forgoing coffee, decided on a large glass of Bruce’s holiday punch instead. Somewhere in the back of his frazzled mind lurked the caution against over indulgence. Visions while intoxicated were extremely disorientating. The ability to heed warnings of any kind slipped away after the third serving however, and coherent thought disappeared shortly after the fourth.

He munched on party leftovers and spent the afternoon lounging on the couch. An old movie and a football game served as entertainment. He fell asleep during the fourth quarter of the game and woke to the insistent buzz of the telephone sometime after dark.

Rolling off the couch and onto his knees set the world on a dangerous tilt. John groaned and dropped his forehead into one sweaty palm. Very good, Mr. Smith, stellar performance. For my next magic trick, I will attempt to cross the room in a straight line.

Yeah, right.

The phone buzzed—once, twice, three times—drilling into his muzzy brain until it hurt to breathe. Go away!

“…Hi, you’ve reached the home of John Smith. Please leave a message after the tone and I’ll return your call as soon as possible…” BEEP!

John crawled back onto the couch and pulled a blanket over his shoulders.

“Hey, man, I know you’re there.”

Not now, Bruce!

“Pick up your phone, John.” Pause, more demanding. “I left you there at midnight, pick up!”

John rolled over and covered his exposed ear.

Bruce blew a long sigh and said in a softer tone. “Look, I know you’re feeling like shit about all of this. It doesn’t seem to matter what I say so…”

John tensed and pulled the hand away from his ear.

The statement dangled for a long moment then, “I made a call this morning. You’re gonna have some company tonight. Should be in about an hour. Pick up, would you.”

Company? You’ve got to be kidding! John clambered to his feet. The world dimmed and spun alarmingly before he was able to catch his balance. Cursing softly, he staggered into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver from the wall. “Bruce?”

“Hey! Were you sleeping?”

“Something like that.” John cleared his throat. “Who did you call?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Bruce paused and clicked his tongue. “But then I wasn’t sure what they might walk in on. You’ve been in the punch.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t drink very often. It’s not hard to tell.”

“Yeah, well, there are reasons for that,” John rejoined with a touch of resentment. “Who did you call?”

“How much did you have?”

“What difference does it make? Who the hell did you call?”

“Get yourself cleaned up.” The connection ended with a sharp click.

John slammed the receiver into the cradle and leaned against the wall. He was not in any shape to entertain and had no desire to explain his opinions to Bruce or anyone else. The facts were irrefutable. It did not matter that Alan Davis’ grief had kept him from being a proper father to his daughter. The man was right. Lindsay’s emotional well-being was, at least partially, John’s responsibility by virtue of their friendship.

John’s hand drifted up towards the phone and fell back to his leg with a dull slap. It was pointless to call Bruce back. The man had made up his mind. John rubbed absently at his jaw, remembering another bruise put there two years before by his friend. He did not doubt Bruce’s sincerity or the good intentions of whoever was coming to visit. Still, he could not suppress a flare of ire. Just let me sort this out on my own… Because I’ve done such a good job so far!

Frustration cleared John’s mind, though his limbs still felt sluggish. Wincing at the telltale signs of an emerging hangover, he drew a glass of water from the tap and found the bottle of aspirin in the drawer beside the sink. Downing three pills, he tossed the empty bottle in the trash and took the glass upstairs. The screaming headaches induced by Wey and his future self were a thing of the past—for the most part. John was grateful for small favors but wondered at the recent relapses. The first had occurred during his short-lived reunion with Alex Connors. The second during the unexpected trip down memory lane brought on by the house refurbishment.

Is it really over or am I destined to wind up on Dr. Jaeger’s operating table after all?

John pondered the question as he stripped and entered the steaming shower stall. Throwing his cane into the Potomac had seemed like the wisest course of action. He rarely needed it for walking anymore. The visitations by Christopher Wey and his future self were detrimental both physically as well as psychologically. There was no point in continuing the association if he was slowly killing himself in the process. Then again, how could he live to harass himself in the past if the headaches were really as debilitating as they seemed to be? Was the pain the real reason he turned bitter and obstinate or was it the sheer volume of destruction that Stillson caused?

John leaned against the warm tile and closed his eyes, sinking into the comforting drone of the spray. The paradoxes made his head throb harder than the hangover.

Is there really a point to all of this? Why should I care?

John tilted his head back and let the water prick his closed eyelids and rinse the fuzz from his mouth. He reached blindly for the shampoo and slathered some into his hair. Memories rose like wraiths, coloring his world in vivid flashes.

Dana Bright smiling as they walked out of his front door…Natalie Connors staring dreamily at the travel brochures for Italy… Walt’s warm hug after he helped cure JJ… Sarah squeezing his shoulder the night they told ‘their’ son the truth… JJ laughing at Bruce’s story about ‘Aquaticus Cleavus Millius’… Bruce dispelling his doubts after the Murphy assault with kind but firm words of advice…Rebecca’s voice, warm and soft, sending him to ‘the beach’…

The comforting montage of recollections came to a screeching halt. No, Bruce, you wouldn’t. Would you?

John rinsed out the shampoo and turned up the heat to counter the ice spreading through his chest.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid? Bruce knows better. Yes, he certainly does.

John turned off the water and stood motionless in the semi-darkness of the bathroom. He shut off the ventilating fan and let the steam billow out from the stall and surround him in a moist, warm cocoon.

Bruce, you didn’t.

But John knew he had.

I could leave.

The obvious insanity of the idea settled in as the steam evaporated and the chill of the house spread over John’s tingling skin. He groaned and yanked the towel off the rack. Besides the lingering effects of the alcohol, there was Bruce’s tenacious nature to consider. Once he made a decision the man was intractable. It was a trait John admired—most of the time.

Back in the bedroom, John began to rummage through his drawers. What does a man wear when seeing an old flame for the first time in eight months? He pulled out a gray, cable-knit sweater and then shoved it back. Opting for a long sleeved black turtleneck and a pair of jeans.

The disinterested look?

John rolled his eyes and shoved his socks and underwear drawer closed with a determined grunt.

The description was the furthest thing from the truth. Rebecca, like Dana before her, had ended their relationship without warning. John expected, hoped, that either woman might walk back into his life. Neither had indicated that they felt the same and he had concluded in the interim that he was too old-fashioned, or just plain scared, to do anything about the situations. John preferred not to dwell on the more obvious reason. He had let go of Sarah. Accepted reality, though his heart had to be dragged kicking and screaming right up till the last moment. Walt was a good man and happy to provide for her in every way necessary. John admired him for stepping forward in the full knowledge of what Sarah could and could not give him. For a long time he hated him for the same reason. Time brought a tentative balance that John struggled to maintain in the face of his own needs and those of the Bannerman family.

What could Rebecca possibly bring except more indecision?

John finished dressing and ran a comb through his hair. The reflection staring out of the mirror gave him the creeps. Face gaunt, his left cheek a mottled purple and blue from Alan’s fist. Eyes red-ringed, dark and glassy from booze and exhaustion.

Pick your horror flick. I could play the lead!

Shaking off the unwanted thought, John walked downstairs and into the kitchen to start coffee. He found an apple to quiet his rumbling stomach before moving to the living room and turning on the television. The plastic bag nestled in the corner of the foyer pulled insistently at his tired mind. Demanding a measure of attention by simply existing. After the confrontation with Alan the note and its contents no longer seemed so urgent. John sat down on the couch. Guilt bore down upon him, heavy and stifling hot. Not since the incident with Harrison Fisher had John tried so hard and failed so utterly to deny a vision.

John picked up the remote from the coffee table and tried to relax. His body refused to cooperate, sending sharp twinges across his bruised shoulder and back. Random memories of visions and reality interrupted the more tangible imput of sitcoms and movies. John channel-surfed with an air of desperation and finally settled on a football game being played in a snow squall. Watching the two college teams scrabble around in the slush was good for a wince and a smile but little else.

The chime of the doorbell sounded inordinately loud above the muted babble of the announcers. John turned off the television and sat very still, torn by the irrational need to flee and the reality of the woman standing outside the door. Common sense won out at the second ring of the bell. He stood and walked slowly to the door. Outside, a car engine revved and pulled away. John grimaced. Bruce would retreat as far as the street and park. Close enough to make sure Rebecca got inside before she froze, far enough to avoid any confrontation with his aggravated best friend. Bracing for a vision, John grasped the latch.

Nothing.

John summoned a wan smile and opened the door.

Rebecca Caldwell had not changed. A spray of snow glittered in her blond hair and on the shoulders of her long wool coat. Her eyes were dark and unreadable in the shadow cast by the overhead light. She smiled tentatively. “Hi, John.”

“Hi.”

“You’re looking…well.”

John shrugged at the polite lie. “Come inside.”

Rebecca stepped past and stood in the center of the foyer. She shed her coat at his gesture and watched him hang it in the closet. “Bruce called me.”

“I didn’t know you two had kept in touch.”

“We didn’t,” she assured hastily. “I gave him my cell phone number when I was living in town. In case he needed to reach…you.”

The last word fell like lead. John walked into the house without looking at her. “Coffee?”

“Please. It’s gotten very cold.”

“Winter in Maine.”

“Yes,” Rebecca followed him into the kitchen. “I remember.”

Of course you do. John pulled out two mugs and added milk to his. Rebecca took her coffee black, just one of the many little details he wanted to forget. “How’s work?”

“Busy. It’s a tough time of year for teens.”

“Uh-huh.” He turned and waved a hand towards one of the stools beside the bar. “Sit down.”

“Two and a half hours on a plane, another hour in the car. No, thanks, I’d rather stand.”

John nodded, certain that more than travel stiffness was keeping her up. Placing her mug on the island he reached for a stool. The promised hangover was sending up electric flares at the edges of his vision, in spite of the aspirin. Deciding that impropriety was better than collapse, he sat and sipped his coffee.

Rebecca walked around the edge of the island, avoiding John as she passed. She stopped in front of the window and looked out across the side yard. Streetlights painted the humps of snow in shades of amber and ice-blue. Icicles glinted from the eaves of the garden shed and encased the tree limbs overhanging the rose beds. She cradled her mug in both hands and kept her focus outside when she spoke. “Bruce is worried about you and so am I.”

You would never know it from my end! John stared at the milky swirls floating in his coffee.

“He told me a little of what’s been going on over the last few months. Stillson, Alex Connors,” she swallowed audibly, “Your father.”

“When did he give you this update?”

She blinked at the veiled hostility. “A little bit on the phone, more in the car on the way from the airport.”

“So you’re ‘up to speed’ are you?” John muttered while making little quotation gestures with his fingers. Rebecca turned and leaned against the sink, affirming the supposition with a flick of her eyes. “Your conclusion, Dr. Caldwell?” he whispered tightly.

Rebecca put her mug on the counter. “Please don’t take it like that.”

“How do you expect me to take it?”

“We’re concerned.”

“We?” he repeated caustically. “What happened to ‘I’?”

“That’s not fair.”

John stood, noting the way her arms crossed defensively over her chest. You have nothing to fear…or do you? He stepped back, intentionally putting greater distance between them. “Talk to me about fair, Rebecca.”

“What?”

John met her eyes, stunned by the questions and sadness mirroring back. “Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about that,” she said. “I came because of what happened to Lindsay Davis. I thought I might be able to help. And,” she paused, dropping her gaze to the island between them. “Because Bruce said you were upset. He thought Sarah was too close.”

John winced at the irony of the assumption.

“He didn’t know anyone else who could reach you.” Rebecca added softly.

“So you thought you would give it a try?”

Silence

“The hospital is in Bangor, remember?”

“I remember.”

“But you thought you would come here instead?”

Rebecca nodded into her chest.

John leaned on the counter. “Same question,” he said more to himself. “Why?”

“The truth?”

The doubt behind the reply would have given him pause under different circumstances. Sitting in the kitchen surrounded by the faux cheer of the holiday, it only served to aggravate. “That would be nice.”

“Because I owed it to you.”

So, it’s come to this? Duty? Obligation? Drop in on the poor slob and make sure his cheese hasn’t slipped entirely off his cracker? John reached for his coffee cup, thought better of it, and walked out of the kitchen.

He sat on the couch and stared at the blank television. He expected to hear the slamming of the front door at any moment. Dismissal he no doubt deserved, though the molten rage churning inside him said otherwise.

“That’s not what I meant.”

John did not have to turn around to know that Rebecca was standing in the doorway, her faced fixed in a pensive frown. There had been so many mistakes. His immediate negativity was not the least of them. John rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. He did not want this conversation anymore than she did but the time for denial was long past. “Tell me why you left.”

“You know why,” Rebecca murmured as she sat on the opposite chair.

John looked at her through laced fingers. “I want to hear it.”

“Why? So I can hurt you again?”

“So I don’t have to wonder!” he snapped. She reared back and he tried again in a kinder tone. “Because I don’t know how to live with the questions.”

Her laugh, quick and brittle, made him shiver. “Welcome to everyone’s reality.”

“No,” John slowly sat up. His eyes drifted over the furnishings and photographs and finally met hers. “Just yours.”

“I didn’t know…”

“You knew I was sick,” John interrupted. “You were one of the few people I told about Armageddon. I needed your help!”

“As what? A nurse? A sounding board?” Rebecca countered, her voice rising noticeably.

“Jesus, no!” On impulse, John took her limp fingers in his. The world remained stubbornly fixed and for the first time in months John wished for a sign to guide his runaway emotions. He tightened his grip. “Because of what everyone else takes for granted. I can touch you and not know everything. You can keep your secrets.”

“Some of them,” she corrected gently.

“Some of them,” he allowed with a weak smile. “I never had to pretend with you, Rebecca.”

“That’s part of the reason why I left.” She pulled free and stood up. “Did you get my letter?”

John closed his eyes and leaned back, collecting himself. “Yes.”

“Did you read it?”

A dozen times! He settled for a wary nod.

“I thought you were going to die, John.”

He looked up and watched her cross the room to the Christmas tree. One slim hand reached out and cupped the blue ornament Tina had so carefully unwrapped the night before. A tear tracked down her check and splashed onto her wrist. Rebecca did not flinch.

“I thought, this man is going to die and I can’t just sit here and watch it happen,” she continued woodenly. “I didn’t know a thing about Greg Stillson when Rachel got involved with his campaign. Afterwards, I started to pay attention to the Washington rumor mill. Most of it was pretty positive. I thought, what could happen to Rachel up there? I didn’t do anything to protect her and then…” She let go of the ornament and moved to finger strands of tinsel. “Then I arrived in town to find her missing and you were here. I thought, well, you know what I thought.”

“I know.”

Restless hands moved on to a wooden rocking horse and a cloth angel with a brass halo. “I got to know you and what didn’t terrify me, fascinated me. I’m no different than anyone else. It’s horrible and God I’m sorry about it but you wanted the truth.”

John pushed disappointment to the back of his mind. Rebecca was only human. Would I be any different were the situation reversed? He did not wait for his conscience to pick up the thread. Beneath his indignation lurked a glimmer of understanding. It was more important to listen—at least for the moment.

Rebecca touched a tiny pewter picture frame. “Are these your parents?”

John rose and went to the tree. The ornament had slipped his mind in the chaos of the preceding day. He looked at the smiling youthful faces now yellowed with time. “Their wedding day. June 10, 1962.”

“They were married for a long time.”

“She never legally divorced him. Not even after the committal.” John bit his lip, jolted by the memory of the vision in Dr. Jenson’s office.

“I couldn’t give you that,” Rebecca murmured thickly as she stepped away from the tree.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You would have.”

John gestured helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“I do.”

John opened his mouth to protest and closed it with a muffled snap. He had never actively considered where their relationship might be headed. It was too difficult a concept with his burgeoning health crisis and Stillson’s career to monitor. Hearing her certainty solidified vague thoughts and added weight to his claim to Sarah that Rebecca was the first woman since the two of them that he really cared about. John resented the assumption but could not in good conscience deny it.

Rebecca walked to the couch and perched on the edge of the cushions. “I was, I am, afraid for you.” She cupped a hand over her mouth, breathing shallowly into the palm for several moments before glancing up. “I meant what I said under the bridge and in the letter.”

John nodded, rubbing absently at his bruised cheek.

“Where did that come from?”

He laughed beneath his breath. “Alan Davis.”

“He hit you?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s assault.” Rebecca countered sharply.

“I knew,” John whispered.

“Knew? About Lindsay you mean?” She gasped at slight tilt of his head. “Oh God, John.”

“I owed him at least one good belt.”

“No, you didn’t.” Rebecca pushed loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Lindsay needs help. That’s what suicide is, a cry for help.”

“I wasn’t listening!” The words seeped out in a strangled hiss. John swallowed hard. Voice lent reality and self-control crumbled to dust. “Was it so much to ask for a little peace? Isn’t that the spirit of the season? I tuned her out because I wanted to forget that Alex Connor’s parents are spending their first holiday without their son who could have made this world a better place!”

“You’re not responsible for Alex’s death.”

John waved off the consolation and stalked to the window. “I wanted to forget about my crazy father locked up in Brockmore and about the secrets Gene is still keeping from me!” He turned and crossed his arms tight to his chest to hide his quivering fingers. “I wanted to forget about Greg Stillson and Armageddon and I wanted to forget,” his voice stuttered to a whisper, “about you.”

Rebecca stood and slowly closed the distance between them. “Don’t you see that makes you human?”

“I see a child who grew up too fast because some fool started a war halfway around the world and her brother followed the call of patriotism!”

“You didn’t make that choice for him or for Lindsay.” Rebecca stopped, her hand hovering above his folded arms. “You can’t be responsible for everyone.”

“That simple, eh?” John slid sideways and went to the fireplace. He rearranged the wood and grabbed the lighter off the mantle. “Just pretend that none of this stuff is floating around in my brain?” Sparks skittered over the logs and shot towards the flue. John sat back on his heels. “Look what that got me!”

“You want to sulk, is that it?”

He bridled at the description but kept his eyes riveted on the emerging flames.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” Rebecca continued quietly. “But sitting here blaming yourself for things you can’t control isn’t going to help Lindsay or anyone else.”

John rose and strode rapidly through the house to the foyer. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the plastic bag. The paper within was slightly crumpled from his foot pushing it into the corner. His fingers drummed nervously on the door jam. Rebecca, don’t make me touch this again. Don’t!

The sharp chink of wood and the scrape of the fireplace screen sounded from the living room.

John crossed to the table and moved it to one side. The leg snagged the plastic and pulled it to within an inch of his foot.

“Lindsay left that for you, didn’t she?”

He gasped and spun around. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Not an easy thing to do to a psychic.”

“No. Not that Bruce hasn’t tried.”

Rebecca bent and picked up the bag. She smoothed the wrinkles against her leg and looked up into John’s eyes. “Why haven’t you read it?”

“Because I know what’s in there.”

“Bruce told me about the visions.”

“He’s a fountain of information.”

Rebecca pursed her lips. “You saw images of blood and death. Not Lindsay specifically. Is that right?”

“It was her.”

“I’m not saying that it wasn’t. What I’m saying is that you didn’t see the note itself. You didn’t see her writing it. You have no idea what she said, what she intended when she left it outside your door.”

“Does it matter?” John’s voice sounded weak and tinny in his ears. Like someone else speaking in hopeless opposition to Rebecca’s logic.

“Of course it matters,” Rebecca replied. “She obviously wanted you to know what was on her mind or she wouldn’t have left it.”

“Like you did?” It was a low blow and John felt a twinge of sympathy as Rebecca’s face fell.

“Would you rather I had said nothing at all?”

“Yes.”

Hurt flared in her eyes and was gone with a blink. Rebecca tossed the bag on the table. “You’re not the only one who is hurting here,” she said and walked back into the main house.

I’m not? John understood the concept of a tactical retreat. He applauded Rebecca’s choice even as the banal side of his nature bared fang and claw in desolate protest. But you made the fucking choice! He followed her into the living room unsure of what he would say or whether he should say anything at all.

Rebecca stood in front of the fireplace. One hand was pressed against the stone chimney as she stared down into the flames.

“You left,” he whispered.

She flashed a sad little smile. “I’m not strong enough to be what you need me to be, John. I never was.”

“What if things were different?”

“They aren’t.”

“But what if they were,” John insisted, “Would you have left?”

She bit her lip.

“Why did you stay after you thought Mike Kennedy had killed Rachel? Was it just to pack up her house and set her affairs in order?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why?” John asked pointedly.

“Because I cared—care—about you.” Tears glimmered in the firelight and Rebecca scrubbed them roughly away. “That doesn’t change who you are.”

John crossed to stand in front of her. “Who I am,” he emphasized softly, “is not a series of synaptic misfires. It’s not burning buildings and missing children. I’m not a murderer or a sociopath and I’m not the only thing standing between the masses and Armageddon.” He smiled thinly. “Though, sometimes it feels like it.”

Rebecca gently stroked his bruised cheek.

***…Rebecca and Rachel on the swings as children. The family dog chasing a stick they trailed through the grass. Angry shouts and slamming doors, the two girls hiding under a staircase crowded with cleaning products. An older blond woman sitting on the porch with the hem of an apron pressed against one bruised cheek. A stocky, bull of a man climbing into a dilapidated pickup truck and skidding out of the dusty driveway. Headlights flaring and dying down to reveal a silver casket closed and topped with a weathered photograph of the same man—dad. Rachel huddled in the corner holding a teddy bear. The blonde woman—mom—praying at the table. Rebecca coming home wearing a polyester uniform from a fast food restaurant, her arms stretched taut with schoolbooks. Rachel driving out of the dusty yard in her silver Subaru station-wagon. Another casket, golden oak with her picture on the top…***

Rebecca’s hand dropped away, “You know.”

“I know but…”

“But nothing!” she retorted in a high, strained voice. “You know everything all the time about everyone. Do you have any idea what that’s like from our perspective? Don’t you think I would rather have told you about my past on my own terms?”

The vision lingered in a tracery of lines and light. John sighed raggedly and tried to clear his mind of her unexpected pain. “Rebecca, I can’t control what I see or when I see it.”

She nodded jerkily. “As much as you want to deny it, your ability is a part of who you are now. I thought I could live with that. Even after you told me about the Armageddon visions.” Rebecca sighed and walked to the center of the room before turning to face him. “When I found out that Stillson was involved in Rachel’s death I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t just want to kill him, I wanted to hurt him first.”

“I know.” John took a step towards her.

Rebecca put up staying hand. “No, you don’t, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She laughed mirthlessly. “Some secrets, remember?”

“Some secrets,” John repeated and felt a chill gather and settle deep inside. “I understand how you feel about him, Rebecca. That doesn’t change how I feel about you. Then or now.”

“I tricked you so I could get away. I bought a gun and I went to that press conference hoping for my chance to kill Greg Stillson.”

John took another step. The past and the future spun through his memory, painted in shades of red and gray, hope and despair. He licked his lips. “Rebecca, you wouldn’t have done it.” The chill raced out from his core to his fingertip at the slow shake of her head. “You’re not that kind of a person,” John asserted.

“I didn’t think so either until we were alone in his hotel room. Suddenly there was a chance to make him suffer the way Rachel must have suffered.” She wiped clumsily at fresh tears. “Do you know that she was still alive when Elliman started to bury her? The medical examiner found dirt in her airway.”

John gasped. “No, I didn’t.”

“Secrets,” Rebecca muttered thickly. “I read the report. I knew what I was doing to you that day in the hospital, just like I knew what I was doing the minute you burst through Greg’s door and told me James was the murderer. I was wrong both times.”

“It’s in the past.”

“Like the burning buildings and the missing kids? Like Derek Fitz?”

“Rebecca.”

“No!” She cut him off with a frenetic slash of her hand. “I don’t know how you get up every day knowing that you could make a mistake. How you deal with the things you cannot change. Honestly, I don’t think you deal with them at all. Just tuck them away in a drawer and pray for sunlight. I wanted to help you because I could see it was killing you from the inside out. I would have given anything to find the strength to be that person in your life. I tried, but I just couldn’t do it!”

The echo of her outburst chased John across the room. He pushed aside the curtains and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the picture window. “So what are you doing here now?”

“I told you, I owed it to you.”

“Because you weren’t strong enough?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” John turned and drew a hand down over his chin, shaking his head.

“What?”

Her confusion was too much and he laughed into his palm. “What makes you think I’m strong enough to do this alone? You saw what it is doing to me?”

“Is?”

John had not intended to tell her but somehow he had lost control of the conversation and with it the ability to shield either of them. “I’m not sure but I think the headaches are coming back.”

Rebecca caught and held John’s eyes, refusing to relent when he tried to duck away. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? Not even Bruce.”

Sarah had been present the first time, Walt the second. John was certain neither suspected. Bruce was another matter and he struggled to hide his re-emerging symptoms whenever the other man came around. It was getting harder all the time. “No, I haven’t.”

John brushed past her and went to stir the fire. I can’t do this to you again. Not now, not knowing how you feel. He added another log and replaced the screen. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“You haven’t been to see Doctor Jaeger or Doctor Gibson. Maybe it’s not what you think.”

“And maybe it is,” John countered wearily. An image of Walt berating him in the car during the incident with Frankie Cantrell rose and dissipated like dirty smoke. The truth was always there no matter how hard John tried to avoid it. Friend or foe made no difference. “Rebecca, I do understand how you feel.”

“John, this is your life. You can’t afford to ignore what’s happening.”

“I know but I can’t give up my abilities right now.”

“Why not?” Rebecca pressed. “You already know what Greg Stillson is capable of.”

“But that’s the problem!” John replied emphatically. “If I go through with the surgery I won’t be able to see what’s coming. I might lose the one chance I have…”

“To save the world,” she completed quietly.

“Something like that.” John jammed the poker back into the rack. “Pathetic isn’t it? Here I am talking about some intangible nightmare of what could happen and Lindsay is lying in a bed up in Bangor, her wrists looking like hamburger.”

“John, you’re going to miss things. I know it’s rotten for you but there are times—people—who are going to slip through your fingers.”

He sighed quietly as the truth of her words sank in.

“Small pieces,” Rebecca added quietly. “If you want to get through this, you have to take it all in small pieces. Looking at the bigger picture all the time could kill you.”

“I wasn’t listening!”

“But you are now.” Rebecca assured.

A warm hand slid up his back and cupped his shoulder. John shivered; comforted, yet fearful of the touch. “Alan was right, I should have seen this coming.”

“Part of the reason Alan lashed out is because he feels guilty for not helping his daughter deal with her grief.”

“And how does that change anything?”

“It doesn’t change where things are now, but it can and it should change things in the future.” Rebecca pointed out. Her hand trailed across his shoulders and dropped to his forearm, squeezing firmly. “You of all people should be able to find the positive side of this situation.”

“She’s alive. That’s something, I guess.”

“You can’t let other people’s expectations define who are you, John.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” he quipped with a watery smile. Rebecca pulled gently and after a moment he relented, pivoting to face her. “What?”

Tears stood in Rebecca’s eyes but she did not blink them away. “I’ve known since the night you discovered Rachel’s body that you were more than the sum of your abilities. I knew you were a decent man or I never would have come here after your release.” The tears broke free and trickled down. John reached to brush them away and Rebecca caught his fingers. She brought the hand down to rest over her heart. “I knew I could love you after what happened with Katie Mercer. And I knew I did love you when you were lying on that table trusting me to take you away from the pain of the tests and to guide you back after the seizures. But it’s not enough for either of us in the face of everything else that’s happened or will happen in the future.”

This is good-bye. John swallowed the ache in his throat and stared into Rebecca’s eyes, willing her to understand. He expected to feel a sense of betrayal, anger that she could not give what seemed so apparent months earlier. Instead there was acceptance and the chance to admit what he rarely acknowledged even in the privacy of thought. “I’m scared, Rebecca.”

She stretched to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “Me too,” she whispered as she pulled him close.

Epilogue

John sat up and stared around the empty living room. It was not the first time and undoubtedly would not be the last time he had fallen asleep on the couch. Still, the sensation was jarring. His eyes skimmed over the Christmas tree and fell to the fireplace. Embers glowed faintly beneath fine white ashes and the air was tinged with smoke and pine. The former often triggered unpleasant dreams and he counted himself lucky to not be lathered in cold sweat and gasping for air. The evening’s events trickled into consciousness as the base thrum of the shower sounded from upstairs.

At least Rebecca hasn’t left yet.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Of course not, why the hell would she? “Oh shut up.” His voice was raspy with sleep and John laughed beneath his breath, feeling foolish for doubting the understanding they had reached.

The phone buzzed as he entered the kitchen. Inhaling the livening scent of freshly brewed coffee, John reached for the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hello, John, this is Alan Davis.”

John leaned against the sink for support. “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Lindsay had a good night. She’s going to be fine with some rest,” Alan replied. “Listen, John, about yesterday.”

“Forget it.”

“No, I won’t do that.” Alan sighed gustily. “I expected a lot from you and it wasn’t fair. I know that now, I guess I always did.”

Voices tolled like bells through John’s memory. Bruce, Walt, Sarah, Dana and finally Rebecca. Each of them had said similar things in the last four years. Finally, he could hear them. “I understand,” he assured Alan Davis. “Really, I do.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Eventually, the older man cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get back to the room and make sure Maggie gets something to eat. John, you need to read that note. It’s important to Lindsay and I think it’s important to you too.” He hung up.

John replaced the receiver and rubbed a hand over his stiff neck. The worst was over. Lindsay was going to recover physically and her parents were finally in her corner psychologically. What was the point of tearing away fresh scabs? He shook his head and headed for the stairs.

The shower faded to an uneven drip as John topped the landing. He smiled as he walked down the hall to the bathroom door. Rebecca took the quickest showers of any woman he had ever met. “Coffee’s ready.”

“I’ll be down in ten.”

“Okay.”

Back on the main floor John stopped and stared into the foyer. An anxious flutter twisted in his stomach. After Rebecca had gone to bed he had considered discarding the note. The idea disintegrated beneath a wave of guilt. Throwing it away was an insult to Lindsay and their friendship. Instead, he tried to sleep. Too exhausted to relocate to his bed, too unnerved by the thought of Rebecca sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms. So close, yet, irretrievably beyond his reach.

The bathroom door creaked and footsteps padded down the upstairs hall. John glanced up with a sad smile. His abilities guaranteed that there would always be regrets.

John walked into the foyer. The plastic bag lay where Rebecca had left it the night before. Experience indicated that objects did not always trigger a vision or even the same vision twice. He drew a steadying breath and picked up the bag.

Nothing.

Relieved, John slid the ziplock open. A puff of scented air wafted out. He wrinkled his nose, recognizing the odor from teen-oriented boutiques in the mall. Lindsay most likely stored her stationary near her cosmetics. He waved a hand above the bag and then reached in to touch the lavender paper.

***Lindsay sat on her bed. The pad of stationary rested on a book in her lap. She held a silver pen tightly in one hand, the opposite fingers worrying her lower lip.

John stepped further into the room, watching.

She stood and walked to the window. Her bedroom faced the street. She tapped the pad against her leg and pushed the curtain aside to look outside. John drew abreast and followed Lindsay’s line of sight over the intervening hedges and street and into his front yard. She bit her lip. “You’re a good friend, Johnny. I wish I could have done more for you.***

John gasped as the vision faded into the woodwork.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asked quietly from the doorway.

No. John swallowed hard, deciding to keep the details of the vision to himself. Lindsay’s feelings would come out in other ways. People like Rebecca would be there to listen to her fears and give her the tools to move forward in her life. Whatever damage he may have done or perceived to have done, would finally be addressed. The note was meant for him alone and he would honor her trust.

Rebecca touched his shoulder. “I’ll pour us some coffee. Come in when you’re ready.”

“Wait.” John turned and caught her hand as it slid down his arm.

She took the bag from his opposite hand and led him into the living room. “Sit down.”

John sat, feeling small and vulnerable as she settled beside him.

“What did you see in the foyer?”

“Lindsay writing this note.” He squeezed Rebecca’s hand and released it to pick up the bag. “It’s like a message in a bottle. She knew it would take time for me to get it. Time enough for her to do…what she did.”

“She knows you well.”

John smiled half-heartedly at the remark. Rebecca was right. Lindsay was observant and she had the patience to ruminate on even the smallest eccentricities. “We’ve spent a lot of time together.”

Rebecca moved closer. “She’s your friend, John. She didn’t want you to grieve.”

He pulled the paper out of the bag. In the last four years John had stopped believing in luck. Every detail of the future was in flux, just waiting for the influence of one or many souls. Alan and Maggie had arrived just in time to alert him to the when of Lindsay’s suicide attempt. The intervention of Bruce and himself was meant to happen in the order it occurred.

Why not sooner, or just a few minutes too late?

John licked his lips and stared down at the paper. Rebecca was warm and comforting at his side. A friend, in spite of—or because of—all that had transpired. There was no ready answer to the question his sub-conscious posed. The word ‘faith’ came to mind and John repressed an oath of dismay. The standard definition had long ceased to apply. In its place lay the uncertain but necessary conviction that he possessed the ability to do the right thing.

He glanced at Rebecca. She met his eyes and smiled reassurance. Taking a deep breath, John picked up the note.

Johnny,

I know you won’t read this until after I’m gone. You’ll see it and you’ll touch it and that will scare the crap out of you. You’re my friend and I know how the visions work.

It’s not your fault. It’s not mom and dad’s fault either. Ever since Eric died I feel like I’ve been walking around in the dark. Mom and dad are just as bad and we can’t seem to help each other. I wanted to thank you for listening. Even if it was just stupid stuff like Janet Maloy gossiping about me in the bathroom or Bruce Campbell dumping me because I wouldn’t go up to the Point with him and make out. I could always come and sit on your back porch. Even when you weren’t home I knew I was welcome there.

I’m afraid and I’m angry and it hurts so much because I can’t seem to explain it to anyone—not even you. Please don’t be angry with me, Johnny. Please understand that this isn’t your fault. I’m not sure who to blame but I know it’s not you.

Love, your friend,

Lindsay

*THE*END*