“Hey, man, you need anything else before I take off?”
John rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. “No, I’m good. Thanks for the ride home, Bruce.”
“No problem. Your pain meds and discharge papers are on the counter in the kitchen.”
John cracked an eyelid. “Did someone get the Rover?”
Bruce nodded and pulled his own keys out of his coat pocket. “Yeah, it’s parked in the garage. Man, you gotta’ check your gas gauge more often or one of these days you’ll be hitchin’!”
“You filled it?”
“All forty bucks worth!”
John closed his eyes again. “Catch you on Monday?”
“No problem,” Bruce’s footsteps retreated and then paused. “You sure you’re okay?”
John shifted position and winced at the dull ache radiating down his left arm. He waved weakly, hoping Bruce would get the hint and leave him alone.
Footsteps echoed in the foyer and the front door clunked.
Finally! John rocked his head on the cushions and sighed.
Four days had passed since the collapse of the Bangor Cultural Center. Under normal circumstances a broken arm, minor burns and lacerations would not necessitate such a long stay in the hospital.
The situation was far from normal.
The County hospital did not need the bed and John found that it was easier to shut out the visions of the hospital room’s former inhabitants than the devils stirred up by the house renovations. He suspected his personal decision had been supported by a recommendation from Dr. Jenson that he be kept ‘under observation’. The term gave John the shakes but he preferred the muted sounds of people, even the sick, to the anonymity of a hotel room.
Now, against everyone’s advice, he was home and back in the thick of it all.
An explosive sneeze jostled John’s arm and scattered sparks across his vision. “Damn!”
Hector’s crew had cleaned up the majority of the dust and debris in his absence. There was still at least two days of work left to complete in his father’s office, however. The sneeze was a reaction to the stress of the last week. John groaned and stretched out on the couch. He could expect more of the same.
“You could stay in our spare room for a few days, at least until the floors are done.”
“There are private quarters on campus or perhaps you could visit the retreat. The new facility has several completed suites.”
“You can have the apartment. I’ve been spending some quality time over at Tina’s. If you take my meaning.”
John smiled as the last comment echoed through his mind. When was the last time I was on the receiving end of quality time?
Too long!
The smile faded and John rubbed his sore arm. Sarah, Gene and Bruce, had all been well meaning in their offers. He turned them down with a polite but firm ‘no thanks’. Friendship felt like a wool blanket in August, unbearably hot and moist with anxieties. The memories stirred by the refinishing left him off-balance and restless. He could not shake the insistent notion that Herb’s breakdown was caused by an event Reverend Purdy was unwilling to talk about.
In the hospital, John had complimented Gene on his loyalty to Herb’s memory. Upon further reflection, he regretted granting any kind of absolution. Gene had passed the responsibility of Herb’s legacy to Dr. Jenson but the psychiatrist had refused to oblige. Long association and noble intent did not change the letter of the law. Herb Smith’s records remained sealed, leaving John to seek his answers elsewhere. He knew with whom to start.
The wind gusted suddenly and rattled the windows. John scrubbed a hand across his face and swung his feet to the floor. His leg ached and the beginnings of a headache had settled above his left eye. He rose unsteadily and crossed to the window. Cool, damp air seeped between the partially open panes. He shivered and watched the storm front rise up from behind the hedge, cutting the already short autumn evening even shorter. The house seemed abnormally large and threatening in the encroaching darkness. John swallowed back a flash of panic.
Should I stay here? After all this time, am I still welcome?
He breathed a shaky sigh.
Ghosts! Spirits! Phantoms! They were in his head and in his heart, relocating would not change that.
John pulled the window closed.
The house reeked of old wood, urethane and dirt. Memories crouched in the corners and in the thick shadows that clogged the halls. He could not turn around without hearing their whispers and no surface was safe to touch. Bruce had called the phenomenon a ‘hailstorm of psychic energy’. The description was apt and the feeling familiar to John. Three and a half years had passed since he learned of his mother’s suicide. The trigger had been her will. The visions ranged from the humorous—a costume party—to the horrible—a bathtub overflowing with rich, dark blood. Then as now, Gene held the key. The similarity chilled John to the core and cemented the resolve to immerse himself completely in the mystery of his own past.
John rubbed tiredly at his pounding temples and padded into the kitchen. Flipping on a light, he skimmed the minimal discharge instructions and then filled a glass with water. His whole body was beginning to hurt.
Maybe the medication will make me sleep?
Unlikely.
The rain began as John swallowed one of the pain capsules. He left the light on and walked out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. Outside, the wind whistled and chased around the corners of the house. The wood creaked restlessly and the roar of the rain grew louder as he climbed to the second floor.
At some point, did I known the truth? John paused on the landing. Unearth it in quiet conversation or demand it with a feral shout? Run from it as a kicked dog, tail tucked, ears burning?
He gingerly shook his head to clear the errant thoughts and started down the hall. The rain eased and then thundered down as if tossed from a bucket. A loud crack made him jump and look through his open bedroom door to the curtained window. A tree? Part of the garage roof? John considered the possibilities for a moment and then moved on past several rooms until he arrived at the end of the hall. The stairs to the attic were beyond a closed oak door, the only part of the house undisturbed by recent renovations. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and tentatively touched the dark wood.
***Christmas music sounded from the first floor. The stairs creaked and John spun around as footsteps slowly approached. His mother drew abreast and stopped in front of the door. She was young and vibrantly beautiful in spite of a troubled frown. He gasped, caught off guard by her appearance and the ache of remembrance. The carol “Do you hear what I hear?” swelled from the stereo and Vera glanced over her shoulder.
“Herb?”
Silence.
Tears started in her eyes and one hand covered her mouth. She sucked on the meaty part of her palm to stifle a sob. The plaintive notes of “Silent Night” drifted up the stairs. She swallowed loudly and brushed the moisture from her cheeks. “Herb?”
Silence.
“Come and help me, please.”
Silence…***
Shaken, John drew back from the door and leaned against the wall. His early holiday memories were filled with quiet joys—toy trains, towering pine trees and convivial dinners with his aged grandfather. His mother softly crying, his father a palpable yet absent presence, neither image quite fit. Later seasons recalled Vera’s melancholy. The wistful way she looked up at the tree or stared off into space while preparing the sweet ham glaze. The smile that did not quite reach her eyes while he tore into his presents early Christmas morning.
The brief, shameful looks she exchanged with an ever-present Gene Purdy.
John’s right hand clenched into a fist and began rhythmically rapping on the paneling.
Now the secrets hovering in Vera’s eyes and Gene’s paternal admonishments made a twisted kind of sense. The Reverend was stepping into Herb’s shoes in the guise of mentor. Before the accident, John’s resentment and curiosity had always been tempered with a degree of gratitude. Since awakening, his mother’s suicide, Gene’s myriad financial deceptions and his involvement with Greg Stillson had steadily chipped away at the veneer of trust. Herb’s commitment and the Reverend’s lackluster explanation left John with more questions than answers. He was angry and hurt. He knew how to filter such feelings when associated with someone else’s life, not his own.
John had been in the attic a dozen times in the last four years without receiving a single vision. Most recently to find the train set he eventually shared with baby Miguelito. Readings from family heirlooms anywhere in the house were infrequent, which in itself was confusing. Memories often mixed with visions and turned them soft and unfocused, as if viewed through water. In contrast, the visions stirred up by the dust and Ally’s rag doll had been disturbingly vivid. He was at the mercy of sensation as well as imagery. The differences disturbed John almost as much as the return of the headaches that had nearly killed him six months earlier. Fortunately, they were not as frequent or severe as before.
John could not see an obvious connection between his father and the Armageddon visions elicited by Greg Stillson. Theoretically, touching his past in such a powerful fashion could be tantamount to communing with Chris Wey and his future self. He was loath to examine the idea too closely. The John Smith of 2015 was cunning, manipulative and borderline insane. Tossing his cane into the Potomac was the first step to avoiding that unsavory incarnation. John hoped to make wiser choices in the coming months and years.
Assuming I don’t die of an aneurysm first.
“Cheery thought.” he pressed his palm to the paneling and smiled shakily. “Talking to myself again, that can’t be good.”
John believed that fear was something to be challenged, not catered to. He told Dr. Jenson that people gave up too easily and were too willing to dump their troubles on someone else. Sarah had accused him of being intractable countless times over the years. Given the uncertain nature of the future, that trait could be his downfall in the end.
The house renovations were nearly complete. There was no way to be sure if the visions of his past would remain focused or return to their nebulous, comfortable state. John could live with the occasional reminder from a lamp or a picture frame. To see family or friends during happier times was often bittersweet but also delivered a modicum of pleasure to frequently-troubling reality. He could not swallow the questions educed by Gene’s continued evasiveness and he refused to try.
John stepped to the attic door and eased it open. The light switch snapped loudly when he flipped it and soft, dusky light spilled down into the stairwell. He swiped irritably at the cobwebs and climbed upward without touching the walls.
The attic was a broad, open space without partitions. Three light bulbs hung from the rafters and the long shadows of several support posts lay over innumerable boxes, bags and antique trunks.
John stood uncertainly on the landing. His most recent excavation lay open beneath the closest light. He had been searching for the trains and discovered the box containing an assortment of western toys. The find represented a forgotten phase of his childhood.
I can see everyone’s past but my own.
John quirked a lip at the ironic musing and stepped around the open box. His explorations of the attic were minimal until recently. Dr. Jenson would undoubtedly have an explanation for this. He shrugged away an uneasy chill as the psychiatrists bland features flashed through memory.
Dust particles clouded the air and tickled his nostrils. John sneezed and spots of color danced across his vision. He had subconsciously avoided the far corner of the attic. Now as the rain poured down its muted thunder he was drawn trance-like, crouching and finally kneeling to study the file cabinet tucked beneath the eaves. John did not need to pull on the dirty handles to know that both drawers were locked. Closed and barred just like the rest of his splintered childhood.
“What were you trying to hide and why?” His bitter, strained voice was unrecognizable. He could have denied the sound entirely if not for the musty air that coated his tongue and throat. John coughed thickly and stared into the shadows. He needed a key.
To so many things.
“It has to be here somewhere.” He reached up and slid his hand down the rafters and onto the plate. Nothing! His fingers dragged down the wall and he leaned awkwardly to the left. Careful probing produced a handful of dirt and the remnants of a mouse nest. Disgusted, John wiped his fingers on his jeans and leaned to the right. Cobwebs, what felt like pebbles, string…
String?
He smiled thinly and tugged. A dirty shoelace slid across the floor towing a pair of tarnished keys.
Jackpot! Now what?
John held up the string and watched the keys slowly spin in the spare light from above. Most people had memories, not vague associations of their childhood. The harder he tried for clarity the hazier the recollections became. He had learned to accept that physical as well as mental blocks were a part of post-coma reality. There were tasks he found difficult and concepts he could no longer quite grasp. John sheltered those inadequacies from prying eyes and well-meaning questions. How did one claim they could visualize the future but could not calculate certain basic mathematical equations without using the fingers of both hands?
John intended to ask Dr. Gibson about his memory, assuming he could summon up the nerve after checking out A.M.A. from the hospital six months previously. Bruce had received a reprimand for his part in the ‘escape’, which he accepted without question. Privately, he frequently reiterated a firm commitment to protect John from his own intrepid stupidity should a similar situation arise in the future. John fully expected a battery of tests and a dose of Dr. Gibson’s decidedly odd sense of humor when next they met. No more or less than he deserved from a professional who had always put his well-being above her own understandable curiosity.
He dropped his eyes to the cabinet. With the exception of her will, all of Vera Smith’s personal papers were stored inside. John sat back on his heels, caught by the warring urges to touch or shy away from the past. For anyone else it was a simple matter of unlocking the drawers and reading the materials inside. John briefly closed his eyes. For anyone normal, average…
Sane?
“Shut up!” the hoarse whisper disappeared immediately beneath the pounding rain. John shivered and looked at the keys. The letters T and B were printed neatly on the masking tape wrapped around the heads. He jammed the appropriate key into the top drawer.
***The attic faded into a dark paneled nook of Vera Smith’s bedroom. John studied the books and sundries stacked on top of the same file cabinet. He recognized the titles as popular fiction from the early 1970s. Behind him, the sound of water against porcelain ceased and footsteps slapped dully on the floor of the hall.
He turned and watched his mother enter the room wearing a worn robe and a towel wrapped around her head. She sat on the bed and picked up a brown envelope with a clear cellophane window in the front. Curious, John edged closer. The scents of her freshly washed hair and powder musk filled his nostrils. He gasped, surprised and mildly alarmed by the sensation. Vera began to hum as she slid the contents of the envelope out and held them up to the light. John took another step and peered over her shoulder.
School pictures: Johnny Smith circa 1975 smiled crookedly back. His hair was long and unkempt and a wide smile showed the loss of both front teeth. Brilliant, blue eyes glittered mischievously from beneath the ragged bangs. The tops of two fingers were visible at the lower edge of the photo, evidence of a shy wave to the camera.
John looked at his mother. Quiet now, she traced a finger over his cheek then brought the finger to her lips and kissed it. The hand fell to her stomach and rubbed it in slow circles. John stared at the small bump beneath her fingers.
“This time next year.”***
John sat back and gaped open-mouthed at the drawer.
Pregnant?
It was inconceivable that he could have forgotten a sibling. How? Why would such knowledge be misplaced or suppressed? If the accident had robbed him of this simple fact what else had been lost? Cold sweat trickled down John’s pounding temples. Six years resulting in a lifetime of fragmented memories? He sucked in a tremulous breath. This is impossible, ludicrous…
***Vera’s fingers stroked the bump. Still holding the pictures and smiling broadly, she crossed the room to the cabinet and picked up a pair of scissors resting on top.***
…and undeniably true.
John violently shook his head. The memory—vision—seemed to rise from the humid air like a wraith.
***Vera put the large portrait aside and cut the wallet photos apart. She placed them in a neat stack on the desk next to the cabinet and put the scissors away. A small sigh slipped free as she sat down and thumbed through the files until she reached a folder in the back. A flash of John’s class picture showed through the cellophane and then the envelope was neatly secreted in the folder and she pushed the drawer closed with her foot. Cradling her stomach, Vera shifted in the chair and reached for a pen.***
Five years old…I was five… John’s tongue licked over lips grown cold and dry with shock. How? Why didn’t someone tell me? Remind me at least?
He swallowed a moan of dismay as Gene’s soft voice meandered through his spinning brain. Does it really matter?
God, yes it did! Where was this sibling now?
John nudged the top drawer closed and reached for the second key. Chills shimmied up his spine and spread across his shoulders. He bit back an anxious curse and forced his shaking fingers to insert and turn the key in the bottom drawer.
***Vera walked into the bedroom and hesitantly approached a silent figure standing in front of the window. ”Herb, everyone is waiting for us.” She glanced at the open bottom drawer of the file cabinet and sighed faintly. “Darling, we have to go ahead with this.”
“Why?” Herb whispered into his palm.
John trembled at the hollow tone and took a step closer.
“For Johnny. It’s his birthday. We can’t...”
“Vera…”
“We can’t!” she snapped. “He’s turning seven today and he adores you!”
“Stop!” Herb turned and the sheen of tears was bright on his sallow cheeks. “I can’t go down there and pretend that nothing…nothing happened…”
“No one is asking you to pretend.” Vera’s small hands brushed the moisture from his skin and she kissed him gently. “Please come down. Everyone understands what happened, they don’t blame you.”
Herb pulled her close. “I blame me,” he rasped. “It doesn’t matter what they say.” ***
Dead?
Deep inside a piece of John’s soul broke free and dissolved in the heat of disbelief. He sat down hard and stared at the popped drawer. In a breath he had gained and lost something irreplaceable. Where lay the justification in omission? How could I have forgotten someone I have always wanted to know?
John had been a lonely child. Sarah was his closest friend and confidant. His memories of the crisp winter day they met were unaccountably fractured. The images that did remain played back in stunning detail.
Sarah was skating along the edge of Runaround pond behind Steven Mitchell’s house. John recognized her as the new kid from school but nothing more. The hockey game was in full swing and like most small boys John was in awe of the older players rampaging back and forth. He watched and he gamboled about in weak imitation of their finesse. After a while, Sarah came over without a word and took his hands. They skated backwards and forwards caught in a stuttering grace of give and take. In a moment of bravado, he nudged her impatiently away and skated to the edge of the playing area. She smiled when he called out, “Sarah, watch this!” and began to skate backwards.
The memory ended abruptly and John pressed clammy fingers to his forehead. There was a block there; only a jumble of sensations marked the rest of that day. He knew intrinsically that her place in his life had been cemented forever at that moment. In youth the sibling he never had.
Until now.
Was the damage that severe or had John simply been ‘suggested’ out of the memory by a childhood authority figure? Rebecca’s hypnotic suggestion during his last CAT scan proved that his brain was disconcertingly malleable.
John moaned softly and rested his head against his knee. A sister or a brother… He squeezed his eyes closed against the clamor of mounting pain and the burn of angry tears.
***“I blame me.”… “It doesn’t matter what they say.”***
Dear God, what did it mean? John dragged an arm across his flushed cheeks and looked up. The answers were as close as a touch, as far as desperation had hidden them. He leaned forward and pulled open the drawer. File labels printed in his mother’s neat hand flicked rapidly beneath his searching fingers. Bonds, insurance, stocks, tax records… His hand fell on the last folder and the silence splintered apart with a deafening scream.
John jerked awake and sucked in a deep breath. He choked on the dust and rolled to the side, swallowing bile as he struggled for air. The headache was gone, replaced by a dull ache at the back of his skull. When he could breath again, he sat up and tentatively probed the small, sensitive lump.
The air was cold and it was raining softly now. What time is it? Fear skittered across John’s nerves. Did I scream out loud or was it a sliver of memory? My parent’s horror come home to roost? He had blacked out for the first time in six months. The only consolation being that he had not taken a walk or spoken to anyone.
Forcing the disquieting thoughts aside, John refocused on the drawer. The files were compressed and the last one seemed to taunt him from the depths of the cabinet. The label was scribbled in with black pen, giving no hint of the contents.
What happens if I touch it again?
I could call Bruce. I could leave the whole thing alone and try and sleep. I could call Dr. Jenson’s office or perhaps the State hospital? Where was the crazy house now that Brockmore had been closed?
A maniacal giggle crawled up John’s dry throat as the last thought took hold. He bit his tongue until blood flooded the cotton from his mouth. No! He would wrestle this particular demon and hope there was more to John Smith come morning light than a gibbering wreck. Blowing out a shaky breath, he yanked the file free.
***The temperature of the room fell to frost and in the distance the low, hollow tones of church bells sounded. Voices murmured in an unintelligible buzz that stiffened John’s hair and prickled his skin. Sweat ran down his temples and fell from his jaw in fat, icy droplets. Tears hazed his vision and hoarse sobs tore from his throat...***
Breathless and shaking, John rose and stumbled into the pool of light from the closest bulb. He flipped open the file and stared at the first document.
Registrar of Vital Statistics
Certified Copy
State of Maine
Department of Health
Division of Vital Statistics
Certificate of Death
His eyes dropped down to the name. “No.” The file fell to the floor with a dull slap and John drew a limp hand over his face. “No, no…”
If someone had asked him, John could not have said how long he stood in the attic staring at nothing. At some point the tremors subsided and his body gradually numbed. He picked up the file without thought. Its energy was spent and like any object in motion, it would not react until a new force was brought to bear. There was no question whom that force should consist of.
Presently, the file lay on the coffee table in the living room. It was open and the documents spread out in a neat chronological order. There were precious few to mark the life of his forgotten sister.
John sipped from a glass filled with more ice cubes than Pepsi. He was chilled to the core but the ice provided inexplicable warmth. Was it possible to be colder than frozen?
Was it possible to see the future?
He squelched a cynical laugh and glanced at the phone tossed on the end of the couch. His mouth pulled into a taut grimace as the memory of his conversation with Reverend Purdy replayed.
“Hello.”
“We need to talk, Gene.”
“Good evening, Johnny. How can I help you?”
“Not over the phone.”
“It’s late and I’ve retired for the night I’m afraid. Surely this can wait?”
“No, it can’t.”
“Is everything alright?”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
John felt no desire to explain. This was a demand, not a request. Consideration was for friendship and for the truth. Gene’s ambiguous responses to his earlier queries guaranteed neither. John gathered the papers together and tucked them neatly into the folder. He intended to keep the element of surprise for all the good it would do.
John walked into the dark kitchen and dumped the ice and remaining soda down the sink. He wiped the condensation from his fingers and stared out between the curtains. The rain had stopped completely. Thick fog had settled at the base of the hedge and crept across the lawn. Tiny water droplets alit by the floodlights edging the driveway scattered fractured rainbows into the darkness. High above, a smattering of stars glinted through the thinning cloud cover. John drew a deep breath and reached for calm.
The low rumble of an approaching car lured him back to the living room. John walked to the window, nudged the curtain aside and watched Gene climb stiffly from the limousine. The Reverend nodded to Isaac the chauffeur and rounded the back of the car. He paused and looked up, his eyes briefly locked with John’s and slid away.
“Son of a bitch,” John muttered darkly.
He turned at the chime of the doorbell and strode rapidly through the dining room and into the foyer. The latch was cold and bracing against his palm.
Gene wore a hesitant smile above his slightly rumpled button down shirt. “Good evening, Johnny.”
“Not really.”
“I see,” the Reverend stepped inside and removed his coat.
John took it and nodded curtly towards the living room. “I’ll be right there.” He watched Gene walk away in a stilted old-man’s shuffle.
He knows or at least suspects… John stalked into the kitchen and filled his glass with tap water. A small, angry part of him denied the instinctive urge to fill a second glass for Gene. The overt disrespect made John uneasy, as did the flash of pure loathing that drove him from the kitchen. The sentiments were too close to the rage that had nearly killed George Murphy, the salesman in Riverside Park.
John shivered involuntarily and ignored Gene’s puzzled frown as he sat down on the couch.
The Reverend’s small eyes skittered over John’s face and fell to the file on the coffee table. “Is this why I am here?”
John took a bracing sip of water and set the glass aside. “Do you recognize it?”
Gene shrugged and sat back. “No. Should I?”
John could feel the heat rising up from his collar. He swallowed hard and thrust the folder across the table. It bumped against Gene’s knee and slid to one side.
Startled, the older man caught it and looked up. “What is this about?”
“Open it.”
“Johnny?”
“Open it!” he snapped.
Gene flipped open the folder and dropped it back on the table as if stung. The death certificate for Alison Louise Smith lifted and settled askew on top of the small pile of documents. The Reverend’s white lips moved and a broken whisper threaded the air. John listened intently, amazed and enraged as the recitation of his sister’s vital statistics dissolved into the Lord’s Prayer.
“…Forgive us our sins…”
John grabbed Gene’s wrist and shoved hard, forcing him back against the chair cushions. “Forgive?” The prayer stopped abruptly and the tendons beneath his fingers flexed as Gene attempted to pull free. John held on. His nails dug into the tender flesh and he felt the stickiness of fresh blood. “Forgive?” he repeated icily. “Is that what you were hoping for?”
“Let me go, Johnny.”
The quiet request found reason beneath the haze of disbelief. John released his hold and stared dumbly at the crimson smears on his fingertips.
Gene shifted on the chair and the rasp of his trousers against the upholstery sounded inordinately loud in the quiet room.
Breathe—think—Damn you! John wiped the blood on his knee and looked up. The Reverend was staring at the discarded file. His hand rose and hovered a moment before settling on the pages. Mumbling to himself, Gene turned over the death certificate and thumbed through the remaining forms until he reached Alison’s birth certificate.
“Talk to me, Gene,” John demanded. “Tell me about her or you’ll wish to God I never woke up.” In truth, he had not thought beyond the initial threat. His emotions were like thin strands of cable, cold and harsh against his throat until he could scarcely breathe. “Did my father kill her?”
Gene violently shook his head. “Of course not! How could you think such a thing?”
“How?” John repeated, incredulous. “He went off the deep end because of her. Didn’t he?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Stop talking in circles and tell me why my father blamed himself for what happened to Alison!”
“He did not kill her, Johnny. If you believe nothing else that I say tonight, then believe that.”
“I’m supposed to trust you now? After you lied to me all these years?” John jumped to his feet and paced to the window. He leaned his forehead against the cool comfort of the glass and closed his eyes. Absorbed in the sluggish stutter of his own heartbeat, he flinched when Gene finally spoke.
“Alison was taking her afternoon nap and your mother had gone out to do a bit of shopping. Herb was working in his office and at around four in the afternoon he went in to check on her.” Gene trailed off, swallowing audibly. John opened his eyes and watched the rivulets of condensation gather and trail down the glass to the sill.
“The baby wasn’t breathing when he entered the nursery,” Gene added hollowly. “She died in her sleep.”
“SIDS,” John murmured.
The Revered nodded. “The phenomenon was not widely understood or accepted in the mid 70s. The coroner ruled that she died of suffocation. An accident that could not have been prevented,” he sighed heavily. “Herb blamed himself for not watching her more closely.”
Each breath shuddered through John’s weary frame as the shock and sorrow slowly sank in. He pushed away from the sill and turned around. Gene sat slumped forward, his shoulders hunched and shaking. “There was nothing he could have done,” John murmured.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome still occurred no matter the vigilance of parents or caregivers. Perfectly healthy children claimed by a variety of factors, some preventable, some not. John absently rubbed his aching chest. The urge to scream or cry at the injustice pulsed deep within but he knew it would fade away unvoiced. The deeper pain lay in the fact that Alison Louise was a stranger, denied her heritage by omission.
John crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the couch. “My father never recovered. That’s why you sent him to see Dr Jenson?”
Gene straightened and wiped clumsily at his face. “Herb started hearing things…hearing the baby. He told your mother and naturally Vera was very upset by this.”
John nodded.
“Your parents left the nursery intact for quite some time but they kept it locked up so you wouldn’t go in.”
“What did they tell me?“ John interjected angrily. “What did you tell me?” The latter added with certainty as pity blossomed in Gene’s bright eyes.
“Alison died two weeks before your seventh birthday. Your parents didn’t know what to do, how to react. They begged me to speak to you. To help them.”
“So you lied.” John’s eyes skittered away from Gene’s drawn features and darted around the room. The television, a painting on the wall, the milky reflection of the lamplight on the polished floor; random hops tugged his mind towards the inane and away from the dark, frightening spiral of disbelief. “You lied and I believed you.”
“You were a child,” Gene pleaded softly. “And your father was so sure he had killed her. His delusions were beginning to frighten you. Sometime that winter you began having nightmares.”
Sarah… Runaround pond…”Watch this”… Cold and darkness as his skull thudded dully on the ice…
John shook his head and the memory spun away.
Oblivious to his momentary lapse, Gene continued. “I sent Herb to see Dr. Jenson in the hope that he would find a way to cope with the physical as well as emotional manifestations of his grief. We told you that Alison had become ill and was taken to the hospital where she later died. We didn’t really lie, just changed the order of the truth.”
“And I forgot about her?” John’s voice sounded small and weak in his ears. The conversation was slipping away from him. He saw the two of them sitting motionless now in the dimly lit room. Shrouded by the ghosts of damming memories and good intentions. “How does that work?” he whispered.
“I honestly don’t know,” Gene admitted.
“It doesn’t make sense!” John flared. “You don’t forget a sibling. You can’t! They are a part of you!”
“Alison was a baby, you were just a frightened little boy and her death was very sudden. The trauma of your father’s illness and…”
“The doll,” John finished as revelation spread its icy tendrils through his tight chest. “In my vision, my father told me that the doll was ‘our secret’. He wanted me to forget about her and I did; for thirty years.”
“Until you decided to renovate the house.”
“You should have told me.”
“What would have been the point?”
John shook his head, a short, derisive chuckle choking free. “Are you serious?”
“Alison’s death changed the course of your life in a very negative fashion,” Gene protested. “I could not see a reason to relive that pain. Not now, not ever.”
“Except that she should not have been forgotten,” John countered. The false strength of rage drained away and his voice fell to a whisper. “I forgot about her and you let me do it. Why?”
Gene lurched to his feet and stood swaying. His features were slack and ghost pale beneath their silver stubble. Words seemed to gather on his parted lips and drift away on breathy sighs. He turned and slowly crossed to a small table in the corner of the room. A burnished copper picture frame rested on top. His hands trembled, hesitated, then picked it up and cradled it in both palms. “Because I made a promise,” he murmured.
“To a dead man?” John wondered.
“To you.”
“What?”
Gene turned, his stubby fingers obscuring the picture as he caressed the glass. “I promised to defend you against the pain of your father’s guilt and your mother’s grief. Don’t you see, Johnny?”
No, there had to be more! John rubbed his forehead and stared fixedly at the floor. It was impossible to believe that Gene’s motivations were totally selfless. Since their first conversation in the hospital following his coma, John had sensed an agenda. The Reverend was incapable of considering his fellow man without first considering himself.
”…Don’t you see, Johnny?”
“What happened to your father was nothing born of God…”
John licked his lips. “I think I’m starting to.”
Gene murmured a prayer and replaced the picture.
Against his will, John’s eyes fell to the image. Vera Smith smiled back, her thin arm draped lightly around his prepubescent shoulders. He swallowed the tight ache in his throat. Yes, finally, there is understanding and all the sorrow and pity to go with it. “My father received a vision from Alison’s doll and it scared the hell out of you,” he said levelly.
Emotion flickered brightly in Gene’s eyes.
“One vision,” John grated relentlessly. “You took him to Alison’s house because of my sister. Hoping he would come around because they shared the same name?” John could barely contain a hysterical laugh. “That’s crazy!”
“I know.”
The admission took John aback. He looked away, unwilling to share his confusion.
“We had no choice but to commit your father after the incident at Alison Potter’s home.”
“You took him there.”
“At his request.”
“You were the voice of reason, Gene!”
“I didn’t understand…”
“No!” John’s left hand clenched, shooting arcs of pain up to his shoulder. “You were scared witless,” he hissed. “You didn’t know what was happening so you and my mother decided to lock him up!” Pieces of his fractured theory slammed into place. “Or was it just you all along?”
John stood and stepped around the end of the couch, bringing them inches apart. His free hand flexed and trembled as he fought the urge to seize Gene’s slumped shoulder. It would be so easy, quick and painless—or not? The fingers relaxed against his leg and John backed away. He had not received a vision when he grabbed Gene’s wrist. Emotions were running high and hot, which seemed the only plausible reason for the inconsistency. John licked dry lips. “No, you tell me what happened. I want to hear it.”
“Why?”
Because it will hurt like hell and no one deserves it more! The thought blazed fire across his vision and dulled the room to bloody crimson. John gritted his teeth and sought Gene’s eyes through the haze of a blossoming headache. He could not voice the sentiment and expect any semblance of cooperation from this night forward. Still, he held Gene’s gaze until the older man was forced to look away.
“Vera was afraid for you and for herself. The more Herb withdrew the harder she tried to hold your family together. In the end…Dear God, in the end…”
John could feel the inevitable shock rushing towards them in a brutal, consuming wave. He could not turn away even as the air turned cold and damp with panic. “What?”
“Your mother… Johnny, please.”
He shook his pounding head and sucked in a steadying breath. Damn you!
“Vera swallowed a bottle of aspirin shortly after your father entered Brockmore.”
No! The world spun around—once, twice—and John stumbled back. That can’t be right! The couch cushions sagged beneath his weight. He gasped softly and blinked at the sparks scattering before his bleary eyes.
“Johnny?”
He dropped his head into his hands and rode the tremors and resultant chills with grim determination. Don’t touch me! Jesus, don’t touch me! From far away came the echo of Gene’s steps as he exited the room and shortly returned. Through laced fingers, John watched the Reverend’s disembodied hand deposit the bottle of painkillers on the coffee table and slide his water glass within reach. Gene’s shadow slid away and the lamplight fell warm against his chilled fingers. John sat back and reached for the bottle. He took two pills and nearly bit them in half before forcing them down with a tepid swallow of water.
The chair groaned as Gene’s bulk settled back into the cushions. John looked up, not surprised to see his lips moving in silent recitation. He could almost hear the prayers. Feel their weight on his broken shoulders.
Almost.
“You should have told me,” he said quietly.
The Reverend smiled faintly. “I didn’t know how, Johnny. I honestly didn’t.”
“You should have found a way.”
“Given the situation since your reawakening,” the smile twisted into a rueful grimace. “You’re right.”
John did not want quiet acquiescence. It was easier to rail and spit than to sit back and view the truth lain out in literal lines. Gene had not made the decision without due consideration of the consequences, which made it that much harder to accept. He took another sip of water and put the glass on the table. “You asked me once about the nature of my visions.”
“I recall the conversation.”
“You told me the reason I never saw a person mowing their lawn or taking a nap was because I had a destiny to fulfill.”
“Yes.”
“And you still believe that?” John knew the answer and bit back a wry chuckle as the Reverend’s vehement affirmation spilled out. Gene could not explain Herb’s single vision beyond conjecture, which was a process John was perfectly capable of indulging in the privacy of thought. The insolent needling of the man’s faith was petty indulgence but the only reward John could enjoy. “Do you think my father had a destiny and was too weak to fulfill it?”
“I think your father knew his limitations better than most men,” Gene gently rebutted. “Perhaps better than you know your own.”
John settled against the cushions and cast his eyes to the ceiling. The riotous details of his father’s vision spun through memory, pulsing with each sluggish beat of his heart. He suspected there was a missing piece still to be found and only Herb Smith knew where. “Is my father still alive?”
“No.”
“Ted Rogers said that most of the patients just walked off the grounds back in 1979.”
“But not your father.”
God my head… John dropped his eyes to the Reverend’s entwined fingers. “You moved him?”
“Yes, to a private facility in New Hampshire. He died of a heart attack in 1992.”
“And neither you nor my mother felt it was necessary to tell me where he was?”
“Herb ceased to be your father the day he entered Brockmore. He never returned to a functioning rationality. Vera begged me to keep his existence a secret.”
“Don’t.”
Gene blinked and sat back. “What?”
John’s voice was glacial calm. “Don’t blame any of this on her.” He would not accept the qualifiers after all this time. There had to be one memory that was safe to touch. “Just don’t.”
“How would you rather remember him, John?”
“I don’t,” he admitted wearily. “And until recently that wasn’t a problem.”
“Surely your abilities have given you cause for question before now?”
John would not reveal the unique nature of his familial visions or the tetchy understanding that seemed to have developed with memory, to someone he could not trust. He shook his head, setting the lie as neatly as a mason would brick a wall.
“Vera and I made the decision in your best interests.”
“I was 24 years old, Gene. Perfectly capable of deciding for myself.” He tapped the tabletop for emphasis. “I should have been given the option.”
John wanted a declaration of guilt. He deserved it and knew without a doubt that Gene would never relent. “I want to see their graves.” The request seemed insignificant in light of the truth.
“Johnny, I’m not sure that is such a good idea. Especially now.”
He winced. Johnny It was a child’s name and he could no longer afford to give the Reverend that kind of consolation. “My decision, Gene, and a necessary one. Especially now.”
The older man stuttered a sigh. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Gene nodded and climbed to his feet.
John bridled at the implied dismissal but held his tongue. There would be more conversations and the memories would continue to rattle in the corners of the mammoth house. Only anger could be served at this late hour, however. John hoped for inner silence as he stood and followed Gene to the door.
The evening’s revelations would have eased the burden of guilt in most men. Gene did not appear at ease. Gone was the burly soul driven by self-righteous beliefs and sustained by the purity of a faith built primarily in his own mind. John felt a brief stab of pity.
Gene took his coat from the closet and shrugged it on. His eyes darted around the small foyer as he fumbled the buttons.
Is this how it ends? Can I let you walk away and expect to meet again as equals?
“I’m sorry, John.”
John shivered, grateful that the Reverend’s back was turned. The confrontation was catching up with him, the unexpected apology adding to the tumult. He could feel the color draining from his cheeks and the chill of fresh sweat trickling down the center of his back. Just get out… leave… don’t come back! The words gathered and drained away as he sucked in a shallow breath. “Don’t ever lie to me again.”
Gene nodded and slipped out the door without replying.
John limped back into the living room. He collapsed onto the couch and lay back against the cushions. The world spun and settled back on its axis, leaving him faintly nauseous and weak with resignation.
Never again.
A threat? A warning? A promise? Time would tell if the remark were more than empty words. John closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
*The*End*
