ACCLAIM FOR “THE DEER EFFECT” BY SUSAN WINGATE

The Deer Effect
SUSAN WINGATE
ACCLAIM FOR “THE DEER EFFECT” BY
SUSAN WINGATE
“Beautiful and incredible and heartbreaking.”
~Author Denise Murdoch
“Reminiscent of Mitch Albom’s ‘Five People You
Meet in Heaven.’” ~Author Juliet Lyons
“Forboding. Zooming into conflict.
~Author Joshua Graham
Lovely!”
“Excellent work, likely up there with my all-time
Susan Wingate favorites.” ~Author Michael Angel
“Wonderful in every way.” ~The Happy Looker
“A master storyteller who draws you in from the very
first page.” ~Filmmaker, Suzanne Kelman
“Well, to be honest, I bawled my way through it - for
Hannah, for the deer, for her husband and of course, for
her dog. Well written and emotionally draining, this book
had me riveted from the beginning. Excellent writing,
excellent characterisation - all in all, well done!!!” ~Diana
Hockley
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OTHER BOOKS BY SUSAN WINGATE
NOVELS
Troubled in Paradise: A Love Story (Young adult
romantic fantasy)
The Wild Wood Trilogy
Way of the Wild Wood (Young adult fantasy)
Detective Ink (Mystery/thriller box set)
Drowning
The Bobby’s Diner Series
Bobby’s Diner (Book one)
Hotter than Helen (Book two)
Sacrifice at Sea (Book three)
Of the Law (Mystery/noir)
NONFICTION
Tell Don’t Show: How to Successfully Break the Rules
of Fiction
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Copyright © 2014, 2015 by Susan Wingate
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of
1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or
retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Eye of the Needle Press 2014
Eye of the Needle Press
Seattle, WA 98126
http://www.wordpress.eyeoftheneedlepress.com
Second Edition: Mass paperback version, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9898078-2-1
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental and not
intended by the author.
The Deer Effect: a novel/by Susan Wingate
Cover
design
by
©
Eye
of
the
Needle
Press/DeranedDoctorDesigns.com
Published in the United States of America
Eye of the Needle Press
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You are just about to read THE DEER EFFECT by
Susan Wingate.
All of Susan Wingate books can be found at:
www.susanwingate.com.
You can also find Susan on the following social sites:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorsusanwingate
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And you can read Susan’s blog Writing from the
Couch at:
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For Robert
For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth
beasts, even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so
dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a
man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.
All go unto one place; all are of the dust and all turn to
dust again. Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth
upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward
to the earth?
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Foreword
“When you reach Heaven, you're given three
memories. Just three. One for the past, one for the present
and one for the future.
My memories? Of my mother, my husband and my
dog.”
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Part I
ONE
ONE BRITTLE LEAF FOUND ALONG our
usual path proved the days had gone wintry. Papery thin
as onion skin—blanched from frosty temperatures and
yellowing like the pages of an old Bible, the leaf’s long
slender shafts, crooked and dry, painted my world.
The blue sky dragged me out that Sunday in
December—December 5, 2010, if you must know—when
the temperature rose to only forty-two Fahrenheit. What
was I thinking?
Hold on. Wait a second. Let me back up just a tad.
For your information, I'm dead. Although I speak of
myself, make no mistakes. I died this day.
This story will tell you a tale about my dog and my
husband and the two going on a journey in order to come
to terms with my death. It's their story. Through my eyes,
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ears, nose, fingers, tongue and mind you'll get a sense of
me, of course—an infusion of me, but I'm just the
storyteller here. Make no mistakes.
It looked like a good day to take the dog for a walk.
A good day to walk, to let off steam from a nonstop fight
about money between me and my husband.
Bobby, to anyone who knew us, was my dog. He
slept with me on my side of the bed at Rod’s request.
Although Rod liked animals, at least the concept of them,
he’s not exactly what I would call an animal person.
I held that distinction in our small family pack.
The photo of Bobby and his litter mates showed each
of them, cream-filled bellies, shocking white with pigletpink skin peeking through their fur, up on the bed on a
blue thermal blanket trimmed in satin. There were five in
all—females and males—some playing with each other,
others looking askance, but not Bobby. His button eyes
and black nose peered into the camera lens. And, when all
the other ears spiked up at attention, Bobby's flapped over
as if someone had missed him in the proper ear assembly
line. Perhaps the dog-ear quality controller had taken the
day off when he rolled through.
“That one.” I pointed. “I want him.” It was instant,
the falling in love.
In eight years, he never got much bigger than when
he was a pup. In those same eight years, things had started
to shrink between me and Rod.
I'd gotten a term life insurance policy and used it
against him, as a joke, to threaten him.
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“If anything should happen to me, the police will
automatically suspect you. They always suspect the
husband first. Especially when this kind of money is
involved.”
Or, when I was feeling particularly morose, I'd say,
“You'll just love cuddling up with half a mil when I'm
gone.”
You know. The typical guilt trips we play on people
who we just wish would stop yelling and see our worth.
I'd heard self-worth rated a close second in
importance to the average person's survival instincts.
I suppose it did with me, for sure.
Lately, a waning income brought on by a flagging
economy had handed us an extra wallop. We had a big
house built on a large parcel of land, on an expensive
island off the coast, close to British Columbia. The Santa
Maria Islands were known as the Martha's Vineyards of
the west.
We had moved here to retire, but after paying triple
for everything, our retirement plan seemed weak at best.
Our lifestyle hadn't changed, just the means to support it.
The fights had grown in intensity too—raging,
blaming, threats of divorce. I needed to get away. If only
for a little while.
“I'm taking Bobby for a walk.” The words somehow
soothed me as if pulling on a cashmere sweater, protecting
me, as I walked Bobby toward the street and didn’t look
back. The fog my words created looked like a dying cloud
of cigarette smoke as it fell to the ground.
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Rod didn't even grunt. He had decided, for his break
in our constant battle, to rake out the mucky fallen leaves
in the circular driveway.
“Come on, Bobby.” I said, as we turned, right, down
the road, the way that took us toward the water.
“Hannah!” Rod yelled.
“What?”
“I'm moving out.”
I looked away from him. We were miles apart
standing there, out in the front yard, only a hundred feet
from one another.
His exact, sure words weren't what I'd expected.
I had expected an apology.
My legs felt numb, like they'd lost all their blood. I
couldn't move. It felt as though my feet had become
cemented to the ground. A rush of heat rose quickly up
my back, covering my chest and face, as if someone had
thrown hot alcohol over me.
Bobby yanked forward on his leash. Yanked me out
of my trance.
I didn't answer Rod. What would it change? I
couldn't let him see how hurt I was. I didn't want him to
see my face crumple. I didn't want him to know I was
crying.
I just walked away.
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TWO
WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A BUZZ saw turned out
to be two gunning engines roaring in the distance, around
the corner just over the hill, out of sight.
I wiped at my face. Whoever was coming, I didn't
want them to see my tear-streaked skin.
Motorcyclists use our tiny island, where the law is
lax and the people scattered, as a racetrack. They use the
island like it’s theirs to rape. I felt blind, only hearing
them, and stepped back off onto a ragged trim of damp
decaying road. Slick black rocks fell off where the frayed
edge of the tar road disappeared into matted clumps of
melting dandelions under brown wet leaves, fallen from a
recent wind storm. A misty breeze, full of wood smoke,
caressed my face. It made me think of childhood
campfires and spooky tales.
The sound of one motorcycle engine cut out, fast,
with a set of short bursts and screeching brakes. The noise
lasted only for the briefest of seconds with both
motorcyclists slowing, then roaring their engines again as
if to make up for lost time.
I pulled Bobby's leash in close, wrapping the black
twist of braid around my red chafed knuckles. I noticed
how old they looked. Not like when I was twenty, or even
thirty. It was, as if, my hands had turned old overnight.
I swore to myself right then and there to take better
care of these old-woman hands.
The buzzing grew louder as the cyclists neared the
corner, from where I stood, just below the top of the hill.
It irked me like crazy. This was a 25-mile-per-hour zone,
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and they scoffed at the speed signs, speeding by each one
at no less than 50 mph.
By the sound of it, they were speeding up like they
were racing each other.
Again, I pulled Bobby closer into the gully.
It was at that moment they appeared. One in black,
the other in chartreuse. Both in helmets, both wearing
heavy boots and gloves, completely cloaked, looking like
creatures from outer space. Their bikes weren't wimpy
thin racing bikes, no, these were fatboys—wide-girthed,
wide-tired, meant to stay up against anything thrown in
their way.
I stepped out, one foot into the road.
“Slow down!” I pumped a red fist at them.
One flipped me off as he whizzed by.
“Screw you too!” I gave them the finger as well, arm
high, pressing it for added effect.
They both leaned forward, almost laying their
stomachs onto the cradle of their bikes and sped out of
sight racing even faster than before.
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THREE
WE DIDN'T SEE IT RIGHT away. I mean, it was
like we saw but couldn't make out the form until we were
closer. Bobby spotted it first.
Even as we cornered the bend, the same bend the
bikers had appeared from just minutes before, we still
heard them. It was like bees swarming a hive.
But then I shook my head, trying to ignore
everything that seemed to be bombarding my brain—the
run-in with the bikers and the looming separation from
Rod. It didn’t work. A tree alongside the road looked like
a woman's torso, with appendages sawed off at the thighs
and just above her breasts. For whatever reason, the log
captivated me, with its bark making it appear like a
woman's charred body. I shuddered at the thought.
Tears burned hot out of my eyes. I smeared a wet
hand across my face and my snotty nose. I got angrier and
cried more.
We quickened our pace, Bobby and I, coming off the
slight hill from the turn. Small puffs of steam blurred my
vision as each breath escaped my mouth, my nose. I
looked down at Bobby. He too had vapor escaping from
his glistening, hot snout. It was as though we were in some
macabre stage show with the clicking of his nails catching
on the tar pavement, making him sound like a tap dancer.
Our breathing caught every eighth-count in unison,
Bobby syncopating his beat with mine.
“Bobby. I love you. Thanks for always being there,
for always walking with me.” I’d said the same words to
him countless times. It was a mantra.
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Though blue skies played peek-a-boo behind a bank
of scudding billowy clouds, the air felt moist. Bobby
stopped and shook his coat out hard. A halo of silvery mist
jettisoned off him in all directions. And when he stopped,
he didn't continue forward but, instead, he dug in his feet,
anchoring himself to the ground.
I walked past, assuming he'd catch up.
When he didn't, I had to stop.
“Come on.” I pumped my arm at the words. But he
wouldn't move. His snout remained forward, popping up,
sniffing the air. The hum of the motorcycle engines
seemed to be growing louder but I figured it was my mind
still playing tricks on me.
But, Bobby remained frozen. Locked his legs and
wouldn't budge.
“Come on.” Still he refused. I pulled harder at his
leash. “Come on, Bobby. Now.”
Then he bolted, jarring my arm forward with him.
“Bobby. Good Lord. Stop!”
I finally got close enough to make him stop and see
what he had seen, to smell what he had smelled. Bobby
continued to pull hard.
My focus locked onto the object.
It was still breathing.
Mist around its nose formed delicate clouds of rapid
fire vapor.
I didn't feel my legs jump into a lope but there I was,
there we were, running toward a deer that had been hit.
Nearing it, I saw it was no more than six months old,
with fading spots in a series of lines on its side.
Someone had hit a fawn.
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Someone...
Those bastards. The motorcyclists, when the engines
cut.
As I got closer, it struggled to get up. As if it had
fallen on ice it flailed.
The jagged formation of its hip told me they'd busted
its spine.
The energy the fawn expended dealt its final blow.
The animal fell back, resting its head, straining to breathe.
Seeming to understand its fate.
Blood pooled out from under the fawn, forming a
widening circle. I put my hands onto the ground, then my
elbows, trying to form a boom around it, as though
surrounding the blood, capturing its outflow would help.
“Oh. God. Please. No.”
Garnet continued to flow from somewhere near its
head.
The fawn tried to scramble up one last time. It bayed
like a calf, making a sound like “maa,” and settled its head
onto the ground.
Her breathing sounded raspy. The distinct smell of
fired iron filled the air as blood continued to leach out of
her body. The baby deer was going to die. There was no
turning this around.
My heart cramped at the knowledge.
I believe it was then I should have heard the engines
gunning too close but nothing else mattered except for this
dying fawn. My eyes, my heart, my soul, my total energy
was riveted by this animal.
Half on, half off the road, head slumped into the
ditch, her eyes began glazing over, fast.
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Bobby ran into the street next to the fawn. I pointed
and yelled to him to move off the road and to go down
into the ditch where he stood with his face toward hers.
He whiffled his snout around hers and then, once, licked
her. Gently.
She continued to pant but more quietly now.
I laid my hand on her.
“Oh baby,” I said.
That’s when it happened. A flash, blazing around the
corner. The same two bikers. Startling me once again back
to the world around me, the world outside this small dying
deer, to the living world.
But I didn't react fast enough.
My hands flew off the fawn as if surrendering.
The pain came next.
My head flipped back as a handlebar cracked me
square in the forehead. Behind it, the second motorcycle
appeared, landing a death blow to the fawn. The bike
bumped up onto my pelvis and over my chest, crushing
my ribcage and snapping my neck as it rolled on and off
and over my head.
When my neck broke, it spun my head to the right,
toward the deer. My hand fell limp landing over the
fawn's spots, across its rib cage.
Our eyes locked.
bobby go home.
It was no more than a thought, but perhaps I spoke
the words to him. I couldn't tell from the noise of the
fleeing motorcycles.
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After that, all my energy seemed connected to the
deer lying next to me. And, as our stayed eyes connected,
its breathing slowed with mine.
Hazy clouds of fog ghosting from our mouths
slackened, then dissipated, and, finally came to a stop.
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FOUR
THE DEER AND I ROSE TOGETHER slowly
and stood by our bodies as we watched Bobby bark.
go home, bobby. I said to him.
My voice sounded younger, reminding me of my
days in the school playground, in sandboxes, on monkey
bars.
Bobby burst into an onslaught of yapping. Then he
began to whimper. His mind was not capable of
understanding my death, nor was it capable of
understanding the sound of my new voice.
I bent to console him, to pet him like I'd always done.
don't cry bobby.
I said, stroking his head. But my hand wasn’t
touching him. It seemed inches above his fur.
He sat but continued his nervous panting. Bobby
wasn’t accepting my affections with joy. He shuddered
and whimpered again, like when he was a puppy.
don't cry. you need to go home. you need to go see
Rod.
He panted harder and pulled away, made his way to
the fawn, sniffed her body once more, and returned to my
body. He licked my face, the way he used to when he sat
above my shoulder on the back of the couch as I worked
on my laptop. It felt good somehow. Like my body was
still translating his touch to my soul. I felt the warmth of
his tongue shroud me in his sadness.
go home. go to Rod. I repeated.
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Then, he stood. He looked at our bodies again, then
looked directly at my spirit and the fawn's and yipped,
only once.
go home.
And he turned and walked off but so slowly, his head
down, the leash dragging alongside him, his tail nearly
touching the pavement. I sensed he would stop again.
When he looked back at me and then toward the direction
of home, then once more at our bodies, I urged him on
stronger.
go. now. go to Rod.
When I placed my hand onto the back of the fawn
spirit, he understood. I wasn't going with him. I wasn’t
with him any longer. I was with the fawn now. I was gone.
And, in a bolt, Bobby took off, his leash whipping at
the air, waving behind him.
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FIVE
AN OVERALL SENSATION OF PEACE, as if
lying on a bed of feathers or eating warm caramel, caused
me to glow. The air smelled of pear blossoms but it was
still late fall on the earth. In this new place, where I
seemed to awaken, springtime (or maybe it was summer)
showed itself in blistering lime-colored mosses and
fragile pink cherry blossoms, in brilliant sunflower
yellows, in the bluest sky I'd ever seen. It was like indigo
but with bright whorls, an abalone shell horizon.
The plane I stood on, if plane was the right word,
drifted in undulating rhythm above the ground. Not that
the ground couldn't be stood upon, but what was the
point?
I didn't need the earth. I was no longer anchored to
it.
I could just as easily flow through the earth's crust
and come out the other side, or hang around within it, as I
could fly in the sky! And, from where robins soared, the
world looked heavenly over our island.
A soft braying made me look over. The little fawn
was still next to me.
Her body wasn't bent or broken anymore. She'd
become whole again like me.
Now I understood—when you die on earth with
someone, you awaken with them in your renewed blissful
state. Death didn’t mean the same thing on this side. I felt
no sadness, regrets, no pain.
I smiled at the fawn, and she winked at me. Her lips
split and she made the goofiest smile I'd ever seen on a
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deer before. Okay. It was the only smile I'd ever seen on
a deer, but I'm telling you, it was goofy-looking.
I giggled at her and she smiled again which made me
giggle more and made her smile more. I think it might've
gone on for a long time but then she stopped the whole
thing by bumping my hand and sliding her head under it.
She nuzzled my palm, wanting me to pet her.
“You're my new friend.” She burrowed her head
harder into my hand. “I'll call you Fawn and you can call
me ... Hannah.’Cause that's my name. Okay? Fawn?”
She nodded by lowering her muzzle onto her leg and
then she looked up to see if I understood. Which I did, of
course. Angels understand everything, good and bad
alike.
I began to note the changes in me. They felt good,
the changes, natural, like something God intended.
I was only inches taller than Fawn. Through my
transfiguration from death, I reverted back to the body I
had when I was a child of about ten years old. My hands
looked small and pudgy, pink and soft. They hadn't
looked like that in years. My adult hands appeared long,
thin and bony. A pianist’s hands. I was innocent again,
but I retained an inkling of the knowledge of someone
much older and wiser.
Fawn nudged my side, nearly tipping me off my feet
but I caught myself. In fact, when I did, I floated
aimlessly. I guess it was the closest thing to a fall an angel
can have.
“Hey!” I giggled. It made me remember the last time
I sounded that way, at the school yard, in the playground,
on a rubber-seated swing, tipping back as I swung
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forward, tipping forward as I swung back, and screaming
with delight in a tone that couldn’t be replicated by any
adult vocal chords.
Fawn nudged again as she floated next to me. She
wanted to play.
I floated up and over her and got behind her. That's
when I tugged on her tail! She leapt and hopped away and
kicked her heels, giving chase.
I zoomed, like Superman, to try and catch her. We
hovered above the ground, about twenty feet. She came to
a skidding stop and, when she did, she looked behind,
waiting for me to catch up.
She pointed down at the ground with her nose.
It was Bobby. He had just turned the corner and was
running down the last stretch to our home.
A blazing shot of light burst behind my eyes. It spun
around my brain, like a tornado inside my head, and began
to fill the rest of my spirit body, crossing over my
shoulders, my chest, my belly and down each leg, like a
lightning flash, as it spiraled toward my feet and shot out
my toes.
Crying as an angel is different than crying as a
human. As humans, we express our sorrow through tears
and physical anguish. But as an angel, a complete sense
of contentment normally fills your heart and, so, when
sadness grips us, it's with an utter feeling of shrouding
darkness. Like falling into a bottomless pit. A helpless
feeling soaked in memories and the love we left behind.
Then it struck me. The sensation was caused by who I left
behind.
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“Bobby!” I screamed and almost whirled down
straight to my little dog, but something tugged against the
pocket of my red denim overalls and brought me out of
the horrid trance.
It was Fawn. She held the pocket in between her
teeth. Her eyes bore the pain of my sorrow.
“That's my little dog, Fawn!” She nodded at me then
tipped her head toward Bobby and trotted off in his
direction, her teeth continuing to hold me back. We were
only supposed to follow him.
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SIX
WE SOARED ABOVE BOBBY AS he ran.
The scent of his breath swung up to me, mixed with
the thick perfume of woodland undergrowth.
Fawn swayed back and forth in a gallop as if she had
ground under her hooves. She appeared cartoonish, like a
rocking horse.
Bobby's small white body hurdled hard and fast, on
his stubby legs, forward as he ran to find Rod. Just like I'd
ordered him.
He had another solid block to go before reaching the
house.
He was a good boy, minding like that. I dropped
down closer as he ran only about ten feet above him now.
Then I dipped a little lower and smiled, but my glee lasted
only a short while.
Once again, I felt the crushing sensation of grief grip
me. The flash of light returned and swirled around me.
And I felt something reeling me back, like a hooked fish
jerked out of water. Understanding swept over me: I had
to stay within a few feet of Fawn or get lost forever.
I pointed my hands together, making me fly back up
to her.
That’s when we spotted them.
Our murderers.
Fawn stopped suddenly, slewing into a halt. I toppled
over her in a somersault and landed on my rear but never
took my eyes off my target. The motorcyclists had
stopped directly in front of our home.
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SEVEN
NEAR THE BLACKTOP driveway that curved
like a snake into a property, the motorcyclists dismounted
their bikes.
From their position, the house was camouflaged by a
hedgerow of alders, spruce, salal and ocean spray. A bead
of sweat dripped slowly along the gentle slope of the
biker’s nose and onto his upper lip.
A dull scraping came from someone working around
the property—a landscaper most likely, raking perhaps.
The man in black flipped his tinted visor over his
helmet.
“Oh man! You killed her, man. She's dead!” His eyes
plated open. Fear poured from his mouth. His breath, dank
from syrupy rum, blew back in his face.
“Nah. She'll be fine.” But the green-clad
motorcyclist looked back, his visor down concealing his
true thoughts, over his shoulder. He revved his bike's
engine. “She'll be fine.”
He turned back to his friend, this time raising his
voice. “Oh man!” His head recoiled when he slammed his
hands onto the handlebars.
He tipped his visor up. Their faces mirrored the
horror each other felt.
“We should go back, man.” The one in black said.
“Nah.” He paused again. “Ya think?”
“We should go back.” The words sounded forced, as
if he would break down any minute.
They peered into each other's faces. “You hit her
first.”
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“Did not.”
“Yeah.” He nodded his head violently. “She was
falling before...” He tipped his head, a guilty grimace
smearing his mouth “…you know.” He shook his head.
“Crap!” The man in black yelled again.
But when the scraping sound stopped, it drew their
attention to a man's voice in the distance, behind the house
they'd stopped in front of. Someone was walking toward
them. A yipping sound broke their concentration and they
looked behind. A small white dog charged at them.
The man, now in the driveway, yelled again.
“Let’s go!” The green man revved his engine and
squirreling his back tires as he tried to regain control of
the bike.
The black cyclist heard the man yelling now, over
the drum of his friend's engine as the other man sped
away. He flipped down his visor when the man, wiping
ashy bangs out of his face, came running into view. He
frowned when he saw the motorcyclist flip down his
visor.
The dark rider then turned and zipped off down the
road toward a main arterial.
“Hey!” The man broke into a run, but stopped at the
edge of his property. His arms hung loosely as if
exhausted from the exertion of raking leaves.
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EIGHT
THE DAY WAS A BLEND of warm and chill. The
cool air hit his watery eyes and through them the sky
looked misty. Sunshine poured through the bank of trees
that blocked their house. The sun cast prisms off the grass,
off amber rotting leaves mounded in the middle of their
circular drive in one enormous pile.
Rod wiped a bead of sweat from his lip.
He didn't know why he couldn’t allow hired help
handle the raking. It was just something he'd always done
since he was a young boy. And truthfully, he enjoyed it.
The raking anchored him somehow—to the past, to the
present and to the future.
He and Hannah decided to leave the leaves on the
ground until fall was done blowing through. They always
did. He figured she didn't care. What was the point in
raking and raking for the entire length of the season when
one good pass could be accomplished in a few short
hours?
He leaned on his rake, resting. The rake's green paint
looked chipped and worn from years of use. He stared at
it. Thinking about Hannah, he thought about how they'd
worn through their relationship.
He felt a crush of pain grab his stomach. He loved
her. More than anything, even now, even after their
impending financial doom.
But he wanted out for some reason.
She'd changed. She'd become tunnel-visioned.
Nothing mattered to her except the freaking wildlife, the
deer especially. He'd watched her obsess about them.
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He’d even encouraged it. But he had his limits. The
feedings tapped their waning resources more than any
other expense, save for the monthly mortgage.
It was sheer craziness. She'd fully stepped into a
realm where he knew he couldn't reel her back but he still
loved her. And that was the thing that hurt him the most.
He knew he had to leave.
He took in a deep breath.
The raking felt cathartic. The smell, like nothing you
could bottle. Simply the pure perfect beauty of nature
giving back.
He breathed out, enjoying his break. He licked his
cracked lips. They tasted bloody and felt raw. Winter was
definitely coming.
But, the moment broke like a mirror falling onto
concrete.
Engines roared up and stopped in front of his home.
Two bikers. They were arguing, it sounded like. He
couldn't make out their words.
He dropped his rake onto the heap of leaves and
walked toward the street, wondering if there was some
kind of trouble.
Through the leafless limbs of winterberry, Rod saw
a man in black, head to toe, on a motorcycle. The man
lowered his visor, and he looked to Rod like some kind of
Ninja ant warrior.
Rod almost laughed. Instead, he brushed a swag of
sweaty hair from his brow. And, when the man reacted,
as if scared, Rod chased after him.
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For what? He didn't know but something felt off, as
if he knew and hated these men. Fury grew in him for no
reason. He ran to find out why.
He stopped, finally, and watched them speed away
turning toward town.
Rod shook his head and turned back to the house but
another sound, barking and then panting, made him spin
around.
“Bobby?” he whispered in disbelief and then louder
when he realized the dog was alone, “Bobby!”
The little white dog—no bigger than a bread box,
Hannah always said—was running toward Rod in a full
gallop, pink tongue flagging at the corner of his mouth.
His leash waggled off the back of his halter, still attached,
without Hannah.
“Bobby!” Rod bolted off toward the dog.
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NINE
THE GREEN AND BLACK BIKERS peeled off
their jumpsuits, revealing sweat-stained clothing
beneath—thick long-sleeve jersey shirts and droopy
jeans. One wore a red bandana with a swirling black
motif.
They looked around as if stealing money from a cash
register but it wasn't money they had stolen. Their eyes
patrolled for witnesses but they couldn't see me.
Only Fawn could see me.
I crouched next to her. She licked her knee, then
scratched her floppy ear with her back hoof so delicately
you'd have thought she had fingertips on the end of it.
When she finished she sniffed the end of it, licked it
gently and then set her hoof down again.
The men stuffed their uniforms and then their
helmets into the storage compartments behind each seat.
“I'm hungry.”
“How can you be hungry after that? Freak.”
“It's the grease from that restaurant.” He tipped his
head to the building where they hid. They were in an alley
behind a bank of stores—a grocer, a jeweler and a pizza
joint.
The man in black let out air from between his lips in
a disgusted hiss.
“We need to get off this stupid island, not eat, you
idiot.” He snapped closed the lid to his seat compartment
as if adding an exclamation point. “Come on. Hurry. We
need to get in line for the ferry. Hopefully, there'll be other
bikers too. We'll blend.”
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“What if there's not?”
“Then we're screwed.”
He threw his leg over the seat, stood tall on the
kickstarter and pumped the engine into action, making it
roar before letting it settle into a low rumble.
The man in green rushed to do the same.
His friend backed up his bike, then angled it taking a
few glances around for anyone who might've spotted
them. Satisfied, he drove out of the alley and back onto a
main road.
His friend followed but stopped, pulled his red
bandana up and over his head, adjusting it low onto his
forehead. Even over the grumbling engine, he heard the
creak of a spring door open.
Some young bald guy with a fat belly wearing a
dingy tomato-stained chef's apron was throwing out
garbage, outside a door marked VEGOS ITALIAN
PIZZA.
The remaining biker looked at him and their eyes
joined in a question. The bald guy nodded a hello but the
biker just turned and squirreled off and out of the alley,
kicking up gravel toward the pizza man.
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TEN
IT WAS LIKE TWO PEOPLE telling you the
same thing at the same time. That’s how Rod felt, anyway.
At the moment Bobby and Rod met up with each
other, the distant echo of a siren swung from high to low
and back again. Like someone whistling down the road.
“Come on, boy. How did you get away from
Mommy?” He ruffled the dog's white fur as Bobby licked
him over and over. Rod turned his face away, and as he
did, he peered down the road, half expecting to see me
walking toward them.
“Yes. Boy. Yes.”
After a second, Rod turned and led Bobby back
toward the house.
“Let's get you some water.” But Bobby, panting
hard, refused to move.
“Come on, boy. You need some water.”
Bobby mewled and limped. “Are you hurt?” Rod
bent down and examined each of Bobby's legs and paws,
rubbing them, checking for injuries. “I don't see anything,
guy.”
The sound of sirens grew closer. He looked to the
end of the road, where the cyclists had turned and
disappeared. Then he saw the flashing lights.
“Come on.” Rod pulled Bobby off the road.
A wave of cold sweat swept over him.
The ambulance passed in the direction from which
Bobby had come. The dog began yelping, howling and
barking, knocking Rod out of his thoughts.
“Stop it! Stop it! Bobby!”
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But Bobby refused. Rod crumpled to his knees on the
mucky ground next to Bobby, now trying to quiet the
knowledge in his heart that something was dreadfully
wrong.
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ELEVEN
MY VOICE JERKED ROD UP and off the
ground. He looked behind him and then down the street
but couldn’t see me. I didn’t mean to make contact with
him. I didn’t think he would hear. But his grief pierced
my heart.
Fawn was pulling at me, urging me away. Fear filled
her big soulful eyes. She bobbed her head fiercely and
whinnied like a stallion. But, it was too late. The pain that
traversed through me before, filled me again.
We tumbled as I chanted Rod’s name. We swirled
over and under a wave of… …nothing.
But it was too late. I had split the distance, ripped
open the curtain between our planes. Like gutting a fish.
Rod wiped his nose, streaking a thin line of shiny
slime across his sleeve. His face, streaked with dirt where
his tears had run.
Then, with Bobby on his heels, he ran back inside the
house perhaps thinking I had made my way back home
without him noticing. The house smelled like me, my skin
scent, everywhere, imbedded into the paint, the stain of
the wooden floor, the fabric on the couch, everywhere. As
if I'd hid a lavender sachet inside a drawer.
“Hannah?”
Bobby yipped and wagged his tail. “Bobby? Did
your mother come home?”
Bobby wagged his tail in short swipes. It created a
faint dust angel on the floor.
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TWELVE
“HANNAH!” ROD SCREAMED, “YOU
HOME?”
He lifted his eyes up the stairs but hearing nothing
continued his search in the den.
Bobby lapped up water as Rod peered out the back,
then headed to the garage.
“Hannah!”
Then Bobby looked up at the ceiling, at me. Straight
at me! He wagged his tail like crazy, making me and Fawn
giggle uncontrollably. Bobby had a way of making my
pain disappear. It seemed he had the same effect on Fawn,
too, because she rolled over with all fours in the air,
twisting as if she were scratching her back on the ground,
snorting and giggling like Bobby was the funniest thing
she'd ever seen in her life.
The way Fawn was acting made me laugh even
harder and made Bobby's tail wag with more fever. He
began to yip and jump and spin in circles. Bobby, too, was
laughing with us.
The noise brought Rod back into the room.
“Bobby, cut it out.” Rod looked dazed, but not
frantic. Bobby dropped down to his stomach and laid his
head on his front paws with his tail continuing to wag.
“Hi, sweetie!”
“What was that? Hannah?”
“Oops.” I whispered. Fawn's eyes grew wide and I
placed my finger up to my mouth and shushed them both.
Although I was new to this world, old wisdom boiled in
me. Wisdom from ancient times that told me we were not
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supposed to communicate with anyone in the live world.
I’d broken that wisdom with Bobby. No telling the
repercussion for that.
“Hannah! Dammit. This isn't funny. Come out here!
Now!”
Bobby lay down again with his head down but this
time his tail slumped. I could tell that he could see and
hear and understand things from both sides—him on earth
and we up in the cosmos.
The phone rang, jarring everyone in the room.
Rod ran over and nearly tackling the phone. “Yes.”
He barked out the word. But the next one came out slower.
“Yes.” As if he were a tire going flat.
His face went sallow. Then he fell back against the
counter, landing the middle of his back on the corner of
the sink. His body crumpled to the floor.
“Yes.” The word ground out of him, and he dropped
the phone.
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THIRTEEN
ROD SAT, HALF IN AND half out of the car.
His hands held up his head but also helped keep his
tear-streaked face covered from the police officer who
stood outside next to Rod. They were a ways back from
where our bodies lay on the road, among a trapezoidal
square of yellow crime scene tape the police had strung
up creating a barrier for traffic. The tape fluttered in the
wind and made a soft clapping sound when it did.
The day was still morning on earth and besides the
soft clap of plastic tape whipping in the breeze, a more
somber sound of Rod weeping hung in the air, making
people around him wipe their faces, their noses, and talk
in stifled phrases. How awful, what happened here, there
for the grace of God. The things people say when
someone dies and they don't want the loved ones to hear.
A light scent of ocean-salt mixed with rotting kelp,
whiffed up in small tornadoes from outdoors.
Rod's lamentations echoed up to Fawn and me,
pounding like a bass drum against our hearts. We wailed
and moaned, spinning upward, both of us, away from the
plummeting pain in which we had become engulfed.
The breeze picked up and howled, making those on
the ground grab the hoods of their jackets and curse at the
sudden change in weather.
Officer Scott Johnson was a friend of theirs and
didn't budge. He remained at Rod's side, wiping his own
tears. Then, as if he got it, as if some cosmic sense flooded
over him, he knelt to Rod.
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“That wind? Was her.” He paused then said, “This is
a raw deal.” He lifted his sunglasses, showing Rod his wet
red eyes.
He nodded slowly and broke down again.
“It was my fault.” Rod said. The wind blasted
through again. Pieces of dried grass kicked through the
air.
Johnson protected his face. “Sorry?”
“It's my fault.”
“Rod. You don't know what you're saying.”
“It is, Scott.” He looked at the officer. A thin film of
moisture covered his eyes, nose and mouth. “If I'd been
kinder...” His words trailed off.
“Look. Don't do this to yourself.”
“It's true. If I hadn't said what I said. If I'd just asked
her to stay or went with her...”
“Rod.”
“None of this would've happened!”
The others at the scene looked at the two men.
“You can do this to yourself for the rest of your life,”
Johnson said. “Or...”
“Or, what?”
“Or, you can understand that this was going to
happen no matter what you did.”
“No. You're wrong.”
“Rod.”
“No! Scott. You're wrong. If I had just gone with her
this wouldn't have happened!” Johnson looked away at
the others and scowled, making them turn away, and Rod
continued. “I told her I was leaving.”
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He looked at Scott, trying to gauge the other man’s
reaction. But there was nothing. Nothing. Scott’s face was
unreadable.
“If I'd been kinder.” He repeated it, more quietly this
time, like a mantra. “If I'd just gone with her.”
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FOURTEEN
“LIFT
HER
CAREFULLY,”
SCOTT
ORDERED the EMTs.
“It's her arm.” The male EMT said. “It's, well, it's
like it's locked onto the deer.”
“Good Lord.” Scott growled. He pulled out a sterile
glove from his pocket and slipped it on. Then, Scott
moved around one EMT, the one at my head and into the
two-foot-deep ditch, and stepped between the deer's
broken body and mine.
He grabbed hold of my wrist, and released it almost
immediately. “God.”
Tears welled into his eyes, and he fell back on his
rump. “God. God. God.” He wiped at his face and took
three deep breaths in. Then he sat forward and stood up.
“The cold. I'll never get used to how cold bodies get.”
He wiped his face again and coughed into his hand,
the same hand with which he tried to move me. After
coughing, he opened his palm and looked at it. As if
looking for some unwritten answer.
“We gonna do this?” The EMT shook Scott out of
his trance.
Scott rubbed his palms together. He didn't answer the
EMT. He said nothing. He simply placed his hand firmly
around my wrist again, shutting his eyes and then tugging
my arm, wrenching it down and off the deer's body. He
placed it under the white sheet that covered most of me.
He held it there for a few seconds and I sensed that
he wasn't only adjusting my body, he was trying to feel
for any last surges of life in it. But there were none.
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I lowered myself beside him and gave him a peck on
his cheek and he let go of my arm.
“Okay,” he said, as if only to himself. Then, he
repeated it a little louder. “Okay. You can take her now.”
The EMTs lifted the gurney. Scott grabbed the rim
of it though, preventing them from moving my body.
Before letting them move me up and into the ambulance
he said, “Be careful with her. She was my friend.”
Scott climbed out of the ditch and looked down at the
small deer. “Poor little thing.” He stepped back into the
gully, pulled its body off the road and laid it gently in the
ditch.
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FIFTEEN
PASTOR JOHN SET THE PHONE down, on the
cluttered credenza behind his desk, and stared at the wall.
He wiped his eyes but kept his focus away from
anyone who might enter without warning. Island Light,
the bulletin of Santa Maria Presbyterian Church, hung
open a bit tilted on his wall.
How to Flourish Together in Christ was the title of
this week's flyer. The scripture of I Corinthians 16: 13-14
stated in italics: Be alert; stand firm in the faith; have
courage; be strong. Do everything in love.
John would need to gather all of his strength today.
Hannah had been a parishioner of his church for many
years, but more important than that, she had been a friend
to him and Corrine. They'd tried to get Rod to join but he
had told them point blank once, it's just not my thing. And
then grabbed John's hand, shook it and apologized.
John looked at his watch. The regular Sunday service
was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. His arm looked
weak under his royal purple robe, under the weight of
what Rod had told him.
He wiped his eyes again.
Rod had sounded vacant to John but had held it
together. John knew that Rod would have to pull together
all the courage and strength he could in order to make it
without Hannah, now that she'd been killed.
Rod hadn't gone into much detail, just that she'd been
hit while walking the dog.
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Pastor John bowed his head and leaned on the
credenza behind his desk as if holding himself up by the
elbows.
Corrine walked in. As she always did before every
service, to walk with her husband to the altar.
John would need her support today. She would need
his.
When he turned around and looked at his wife's
pretty face, spotting a few lines creasing her eyes and
mouth with well-worn age, he still thought she was the
prettiest girl he'd ever seen before or since. He wiped his
arm across his eyes again.
Corrine took in a quick quiet breath and held it.
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SIXTEEN
PASTOR JOHN FELT HIS THROAT catch, and
glanced over at Corrine, who was wiping tears from under
her eyes with a napkin from one of the snack tables. She'd
picked it up, wisely before leading her husband into the
hall, past the pews of happy unknowing faces, up two
steps onto the carpeted altar and over to the row of chairs
he usually sat while waiting for the elders to begin service.
Hannah had been Catholic but had long since left that
church, reading only from the Bible from time to time and
then finally settling with John's church six years ago. She
had come in with Rod for the funeral of a friend and never
left.
Before John, people stared blankly.
He swallowed.
He coughed into a fist.
He shuffled his notes in front of him, tapping them
into a neat square.
He looked up.
Congregants waited for him to begin but he could
only stare back.
John was used to losing church members. He was not
jaded, but loss came with the territory. Loss and grieving
was a large part of why people went to church. Or
returned to church.
John looked over at Corinne again, and when he did,
the crowd became uneasy. People shuffled in the pews
and caused a quiet shushing. Someone cleared her throat.
John looked up to her and wondered why the Lord
chose the people He did to return to Him. It didn't figure
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to him that some were still alive and others were dead.
John knew it wasn't his place to understand but he still had
questions. Lots of them.
Then it was John who cleared his throat. “I'm sorry.
I just got some, um, terrible news.”
People took in breaths and looked at each other.
People grabbed hands. “Oh, no,” someone said.
“Yes. I'm sorry but she was my—” He turned to
Corinne and held out his hand to her. “Our friend.” He
bent his head and silently wept. He felt his wife's hand
over his back. They embraced each other. They now stood
before everyone, clutching each other and crying quietly
into each other's necks.
A few women in the congregation began to cry,
causing some of the children to burst into tears. The
Sunday School teacher, Miss Jill, gathered them together
quickly and led them out.
“We're sorry.” Corinne took over as John stepped
back and tried to regain his composure. “We don't mean
to alarm you, it's just that”—her voice warbled through
the tears that streaked her face—”the news has come as
quite a shock to us. We just learned about it, not fifteen
minutes before the service started.”
She looked back at John, who nodded; he was okay
now. Corinne kissed him lightly on the cheek then walked
back to the row of chairs.
He stood correcting his posture and taking a deep
breath in. “One of our dear members has passed.” He
waited for the news and the muttering subside. “Yes.
Hannah Demsey.”
“Oh, dear God. No,” said Pamela Stark.
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John's face crumbled and he shook his head
violently. “Yes.” He backed away from the podium again.
Corinne ran up to him and helped him to the chairs.
One of the elders, jumped up. “We'll be offering
communion today, but please let us open our Bibles to
Psalm 23 and say it together.”
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SEVENTEEN
THE WEATHER HAD TURNED FAST from
sunny and cold to sloppy and wet. Most everyone there
huddled under any umbrella available. One kind soul held
a wide black umbrella over my mom, Belle. Her eyes
wore the look of age, sullen and dark and swollen from
crying. She just stared through the entire process of saying
goodbye, to me, her only daughter.
From the limo, Bobby yipped without letup. His head
lifted each time he barked.
Rod turned from him toward the casket, which was
slung above the hole in the ground that was to be my
grave. It was weird knowing I was in there.
The wind picked up. Poplars bent at their waists. Firs
paddled, as if waving me off. It was a snotty day for a
funeral, but I smiled to see how many people turned out.
Even in this weather.
“Fawn. I was popular.” Fawn licked my face. She
had decided to pull up next to me and sit on her haunches.
I'd crossed my legs like a girl pretzel and leaned over onto
my elbows, propping my head up on the palms of my
hands. It was like being at an outdoor amphitheater.
I wished for something happier and popcorn popped
into my mind. When it did Voila! A big buttery cardboard
bucket of it, the kind you get at the movies, plopped down
right in front of us. Fawn dove her face right in and made
a few kernels sprinkle out around the bucket. I picked
those up and shoved them into my mouth.
Blissful oily oozing butter coated my lips and tongue
and it was like the best popcorn I'd ever tasted in the
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whole entire world, ever. Fawn's eyes got so big after
eating some that I thought they might explode right there
and then, out of her head.
She looked over to me slowly and mewled this little
sputtering sound. It made me think of outward purr. I
giggled so hard.
She dove her face in again.
“Hey. Piggy. Leave some for me too. It's called
sharing.”
Fawn definitely needed some training.
But then Pastor John stood. He spoke solemnly.
I looked over at Fawn and popcorn was tumbling out
of her mouth.
“Hannah Demsey was my friend.” His voice
resonated and he tipped his head to the clouds. With his
arms held wide and his wife, Corinne, holding the
umbrella higher than the other umbrellas to allow for his
uplifted hands.
“We are gathered for Hannah today. To offer our last
respects.”
Bobby stopped yipping.
Gliddy Canden wept openly for me, which actually
added a little humor to the whole scene, seeing as how,
Gliddy and I had could barely stand each other and had
once nearly come to fisticuffs over whose fudge was
better. It was the stupidest fight I'd ever been involved in
but then Pastor John called a tie on the fudge and, we were
ordered to hug and forget our differences. Talk about
nauseating.
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Gliddy could be such a pill and, honestly, I really
never thought of her as much as a friend as she apparently
did me, now, now that I was dead.
Corinne cried and tilted the umbrella when she went
to wipe her nose, causing the rain to drench Pastor John.
Pastor John stopped speaking and went over to Rod,
who got up.
“Thank you all for coming out today.” Rod smiled
but only with his lips. His eyes bore a pain that I hadn't
seen on him until the day I died. When he said he was
leaving me. “It's a stinker of a day so, thank you, for all
coming out for ... Hannah.”
Bobby started barking again. Some of the folks
turned toward him.
Gliddy cried loudly again, I saw Rod shoot her a
bullet of an ugly look.
“Did you see that Fawn?” I jumped up. I laughed and
danced, pleased that Rod would commit such a bold act.
And! In public! “Woo hoo!” I bellowed.
Rod looked right at me, then, and spoke. “Hannah.
Wherever you are…”
“I'm here, Rod! Right here!”
“Wherever you are, Hannah Demsey, I'll miss you
forever.” The rain splashed into his eyes but it couldn't
hide his tears. His tears shone as if aquamarine blue
droplets.
“Rod! Rod! I'm here!” I jumped up and down as if
smashing an anthill.
Rod looked up, as if confused, into a sudden blast of
rain. He wiped his eyes as he looked in our direction.
Pastor John came up and patted him on the back. He
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handed him a sachet of dirt, taking Rod's attention away
from us, but, Rod refused the sachet and bent to the
ground. He picked up a clump of mud and soppy grass
and threw it onto my casket. After throwing it, he just
seemed to lose his strength. He dropped onto his knees
and covered his face in his hands and wept. It broke my
heart.
To anchor myself to the spot, I placed my hand on
Fawn’s neck and, without taking my eyes off Rod, I said,
“Did you see that, Fawn? He loved me.”
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EIGHTEEN
MOM LIFTED HERSELF LIKE SHE needed a
walker and moved over to Rod. She placed both whitegloved hands on his shoulders.
“Come on, honey.” Her body looked like a question
mark as her old bones bent her shoulders. Her hair shone
gray and in curls under the black veiled cap she wore.
Rod crossed one arm in front of him and placed it on
Mom’s hand, patting it as if to tell her he was going to be
all right. She grabbed his hand in both of hers and helped
him stand. They embraced and stood quietly with
everyone watching them.
“Come on.” Mom whispered.
Rod nodded and they turned to leave, but Pastor John
stopped them both.
“I'm so sorry, Rod, Belle, for your loss.” He grabbed
Rod's hands in his. “She was our dear friend and a faithful
woman to God.”
Belle nodded but Rod pulled his hand out of Pastor's.
“Yes. Well. Thank you, John.” Rod placed his hand on
the small of Mom’s back and pressed her forward but
Pastor John stopped them both.
“Look. Rod, I know I've asked before. It sure would
be great if you joined us sometime. I mean if you ever...”
Rod jumped in. “John. I know Hannah believed in all
of your, your, words and all. However, she and I did not
agree on this subject. So, please, drop me from your
radar.”
He placed a hand on Mom’s back and moved her past
him and toward the limo.
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NINETEEN
ROD LOOKED HOLLOW, SCRAWNY. HE
looked as if he wanted everyone to just leave so he could
escape back to the house, back to bed. To hold Bobby
against his stomach and just sleep.
Belle's house had filled up with nearly everyone at
the cemetery. Gliddy rushed up to Rod, catching him in a
death grip and whispering how “dreadfully sorry” she
was. I nearly puked. Rod peeled her off him and rushed to
Belle, who ran interference.
“Look, Gliddy. He's a bit unraveled, as you might
suspect. Let's give him some breathing distance, okay?”
“It's just I feel terrible, Belle.” Gliddy swiped a
wadded tissue under her nose. “You know, with that fudge
fiasco and all.” Her face pinched in what looked like
another onslaught of tears but Belle grabbed her solidly
by the arms and gave her one stiff shake. “Look, Gliddy.
That's old news. Get over it. No one cares about that
anymore.”
“HELLO-OOO! Mother! I do!” I floated over
Gliddy's shoulders, making faces at her, pulling at her hair
and blowing raspberries at her face.
Gliddy swiped at the air, as if she were trying to get
a gnat out from in front of someone’s eyes.
Fawn poked my shoulder blade to stop me. “Isn't she
just the biggest pill you ever laid eyes on, Fawn.”
Fawn rolled her eyes, like, Whatever, YOU need to
get over it! But I really didn't want to. Until, that is, a flood
of light washed over her, spilling above her head and
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spreading around her to the floor, shielding her from my
terrible attack.
an angel's behavior, young lady, an angel's behavior
Lord?
I felt a wave of embarrassment blanket me. There
was so much to learn. And, as the notion filled me, Pastor
John entered the room. Gliddy turned to him. They
nodded at one another and she left, looking morose. Pastor
John paused before approaching Rod, who had turned his
body away from people and was leaning against the
kitchen's sink. He let his head hang with his chin almost
touching his chest. His eyes were closed and I could see a
thin line of moisture collecting in his lashes.
“John.” Mom grabbed both his hands in hers.
“Belle.” He tipped his head to Rod.
Mom shook her head as if to say, He’s had better
days.
Then Pastor released his hands and pointed them to
his chest as if to say, May I try?
Mom rubbed one of his upper arms, as an okay, and
joined the others in the living room.
Pastor John's stance was apprehensive, guarded at
first, then he looked up to the ceiling. Fawn and I swished
into his view, but he closed his eyes and said a quiet
prayer one that only Fawn and I could hear. And, well,
God, of course. He asked God to give him strength for
Rod.
John walked up behind him, gently patting him on
the back. “Rod.”
Rod glanced sideways but after seeing him, looked
back down into the sink. “John.” He took a deep breath.
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“How ya doing?”
Rod chuckled, a chuckle intended to chide, but
followed it up graciously. “I've been better.”
“I bet you have.”
“Look. John. I know you mean well. I really do.”
Rod faced him. “It's just, well, I've never been a, believer.
That's all.”
“Hannah handled that part of your relationship,
huh?”
Rod chuckled again. “Yeah.” He took a full breath
in. “Yep. I guess so.” He turned away again.
“Rod...”
“John. Please. Some other time.” Pastor John
stopped the inevitable sales pitch but the uncomfortable
moment ended when Bobby wiggled into the kitchen to
find Rod. Belle walked in behind him, smiling.
“He missed you,” my mother explained.
“Bobby!” Rod bent and lifted the dog into his arms.
Bobby slathered a ton of wet kisses against his face,
making Rod smile for the first time all day.
“He didn't want to stay in that stupid old limousine
anymore.”
“Bobby!” I screamed and rolled in the air in a
somersault and then a cartwheel and screamed in laughter,
“Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!”
Fawn romped and kicked her heels.
Bobby began a litany of angry-sounding barks. It
looked as if they were directed at John. Fawn and I
stopped. I covered my mouth knowing it was our fault that
Bobby had gone off.
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“Look,” John said loudly over the barking, “I'll
leave.” He shoved both palms out as if pushing off from
a wall then nearly ran out of the kitchen. “Let's talk soon!”
Which seemed to make Bobby go nuts again.
“Bobby. You saved Daddy.” Rod whispered to him.
“Oh, he's only doing his job, Rod.” Mom moved next
to him and began running water to wash the few dishes
she'd allowed to accumulate in her sink. “You should give
him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Bobby!” I yelled, making him squirm and whimper.
“What's wrong, little guy?” Rod frowned, knowing
he couldn't console the dog. He set Bobby down but the
dog continued to bark up at me and Fawn.
“You see me, don't you?”
He went absolutely nuts when I asked. I giggled and
his tail took a couple long lazy swags across the floor.
“He's been acting this way, since... you know,” Rod
said.
“He just misses her. They know too, ya know. They
feel loss too, ya know.” My mother stopped rinsing a plate
and seemed to dissolve in the reality of what she'd just
said.
“Can you see Fawn too, Bobby?” I asked. He took
another long swag with his tail and yipped once. “Okay.
Fawn, this is Bobby. Bobby, this is Fawn.” Fawn laid on
her stomach and set her head down as a gesture, I guess,
in acknowledgement of the dog. And, Bobby did the
same. He laid on his stomach and set his head in between
his paws.
“He says, 'Nice to know ya, Fawn!'“
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Bobby popped up and sat on his haunches. Now,
mind you, Mom and Rod weren't exactly tuned into what
was going on. Mom was crying and Rod was trying to
console her. That is until Rod glanced down and saw the
dog looking at—well, I supposed it looked like nothing to
Rod, but Bobby and my eyes were connected and when
he met Fawn, they connected too.
“What's he doing?”
“Huh.” Mom turned to see what Rod meant.
“He's acting weird.”
“He's just sad too.” She turned back to her dishes.
Bobby barked and sat back down.
“Bobby!” I taunted him.
He wiggled his entire body but this time with his
head down and his tail tucked.
“Don't be scared, sweetie-pie! It's your mommy and
the little deer on the roadside.” He barked like he
understood me, and it was then that I realized he did.
“Fawn. He sees us!” Bobby began wagging with crazy
speed. Fawn loped and kicked her heels and I did a
cartwheel. Each time we moved Bobby followed our
action.
You two will remain connected, forever
The voice echoed into me and Fawn, and Bobby
dropped to the ground putting his head down between
paws again.
“It's okay, Bobby. You get used to it.”
Bobby sat up again and opened his mouth in a dog
smile.
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“I've never seen him behave like this,” Rod said, but
mom ignored him. We stopped acting out to get Bobby's
attention and he finally settled down. Then Mom spoke.
“Well, remember, Hannah took care of him. I'm sure
you'll be seeing all the things she used to from now on.”
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And every creature which is in heaven, and on the
earth, and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and
all that are in them, heard I saying, Blessing, and honor,
and glory, and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the
throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever.
Part II
TWENTY
RO-OD! RO-OD! I WAS HANGING from the
widest Monkey Tree I'd ever seen in my life. It had been
rooted above our house since time immemorial.
Who knew? Not I!
Ro-od, Rod! It's me, Hannah. I sang out the words
like a plunky tune from one of those old-fashioned ice
cream trucks.
Bobby's tail had already begun wagging when Rod
sprung up in bed. A light glow of sweat coated his face,
neck, shoulders, arms and chest.
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He gasped for air when he awoke, and Fawn and I
jumped back. Bobby lifted his head off my pillow, his
new spot on the bed, and watched us watching Rod, who
swallowed hard. The distinct smell of Rod's morning
breath wafted up under my nose. It smelled sour and
musty.
He looked around the darkness of the bedroom as
though he'd woken up in a strange place. The fractured
variant shades of black made everything look the same-some things appeared murkier, some more vivid but
everything, at that time of the night, looked obscured. The
silvery sheets bundled around one of his legs, revealing
the other one, slipped up and over his hip.
And, although I saw his complete nakedness, nothing
but fondness stirred inside me. Like walking past a
burning woodstove, a sense of comfort blanketed me.
“Hannah?” He sounded confused, scared, and he
pulled the blanket up and over himself, tucking it around
him tight.
“Rod.” To him, the word sounded like the wall heater
kicking on.
He breathed in fast. But, just as I compared my voice
to the heater, it did kick on.
“Holy crap!” He flung his body backward, lying
down again, like he'd lost a fight. “I'm going mad.” Bobby
sidled up to him cautiously and curled in between his
chest and his right arm. He laid his head on Rod's shoulder
and breathed hot air into his face.
“Bobby…” I missed him so much.
He popped up into a sitting position and growled.
This form of communication needed a bit of smoothing
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over. “Over here, pup!” Fawn came up next to me. We
both hung above the foot of the bed, in sitting positions—
Fawn like a large dog and me like a soft salted pretzel!
Bobby turned to my voice. This time he yipped,
which made Rod sit up again. He watched as the little dog
stared up to us.
“You see me now, right, pooch?”
Yip. His tail batted against Rod's hip.
“I miss you.”
Yip. Yip. He crouched down with his head on his feet
and whimpered.
“What is it, Bobby?” Rod said.
“Answer your father, Bobby.”
When I said it, the little dog turned to Rod but then
quickly turned back to me again for more prodding. “Go
ahead. Answer him.”
Bobby grumbled and then sat face forward to Rod
and barked once. He turned back to me and Fawn again
and yipped, explaining to us that he'd answered Rod.
“Yes. I know. Good boy.” I floated down in my
pretzel position onto the bed next to my little dog and
Rod, sitting there at the end of the bed. Bobby snuggled
against me and rolled onto his back for me to rub his belly
and scratch his legs. Of course, I did and when I did, he
stretched both legs out, pointing them like a ballerina.
“Feels good, huh, punkin'.” Bobby grumbled.
Rod looked at Bobby as if he'd lost his mind, but he
began to laugh anyway.
“We're losing it, aren't we, son?” Then, Rod reached
for him to pet his stomach and, when he did, his hand
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brushed through mine. Rod pulled back, reacting as if he'd
been zapped by an electrical current.
“Oh my God!” He gasped, making Bobby roll onto
his tummy.
“Sorry ’bout that, Rod.” I giggled, figuring he'd get
over it. But then he stopped, as if he'd heard me this time
for real.
“Hannah?” He said my name as though he were
hiding from someone. Then, he got bolder. “Hannah. Is
that you?”
I flipped backwards and spun up to where I'd left
Fawn. She was scratching her ear.
“Yes.” I said in my angel voice, something that
sounds to humans like walking too close to a beehive.
His eyes widened. “Oh my God!” He dragged the
covers up to his eyes. “Oh my God!”
“Oh my God.” I corrected him.
“Jesus! What's happening to me?”
I realized that he wasn't exactly ready for
communication with me, not just yet. Not the way I
sounded to him. So I spun my attention to Fawn.
“Whoops.”
She flipped her head back and forth and her ears
fluttered, then she scratched at them once again. She
brayed at me and batted a hoof in my direction, then shook
her head as if to get fleas out of her ears.
“Itchy ears?” I whispered.
Fawn stopped and tipped her head. Wisdom told us
that we weren't to get involved with anyone belonging to
the earth.
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“I'll get it for you.” I stuck a finger into each ear and
wiggled them around. Her eyes scrunched in pleasure.
“Get it?” I said when I was done, but with my fingers in
her ears she couldn't hear me and cocked one eyebrow up
as if asking, What?
I pulled my fingers out. “Get it?” I repeated. She
nodded and licked my hand. “You're welcome.” I knew I
wasn't supposed to interact. I knew Fawn was only trying
to distract me from interacting but I also knew that I
wasn't to be fully trusted in this new, improved state of
consciousness.
Then, I turned back to Rod who looked as if he'd seen
a... a... a…
Well, you know.
Which he had. And so I said, “Get over it, Rod. What
did you expect?” But what I'd completely forgotten was
that I'd reverted back to my child-self. I guess that would
sort of freak me out too if the whole scenario were
reversed.
Bobby yipped and I floated back down and petted
him again. Rod watched. He probably thought he was
going insane and for the briefest of moments, I felt a brush
of enjoyment flood over me.
Now, Hannah, set aside pride and hold on to
forgiveness, daughter
“I'm sorry,” I said, looking, well, all over the place.
Then, turning back to Rod, I said, “Rod, just forget
about it. Get some sleep. Rest.” I looked around again,
then added, “You too, Bobby.”
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And, they both drifted back into unconsciousness.
Rod first, then Bobby. I floated over him and patted his
head.
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TWENTY-ONE
“THIS IS GOING TO SOUND crazy. I mean, it is
crazy.”
“Yes, honey. What is it? You sound distraught.”
Mom's voice owned the rasp of age and cigarettes, like it
always had even when I was a kid growing up.
She cleared her throat, then coughed. Rod grimaced
on his side of the phone. “Sorry. Go on, honey.”
“It's probably nothing but, God, Belle. I hear her.”
“Who, honey?”
Now, it was Rod's turn to clear his voice. “Jesus.” He
rolled his eyes, knowing how insane it was going to
sound.
“You hear Hannah?” Her voice broke. Then she
openly wept.
“Belle. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you.”
Belle's moaning ended and she sniffled, causing
phlegm to build up again in her throat. My mother hacked
again, finally clearing the gunk from her lungs. “No. No.
It's okay.”
“It's crazy.”
“It's not crazy, honey. It's normal.”
“Have you seen her, heard her?” His voice sounded
pathetic, needy.
“No.”
“It's not normal, then.”
“I've heard many people say similar things after a
loss.”
“You have?”
“Yes. I have.”
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There was a pause. “In fact, after Jay died, I thought
I heard him all the time. I dreamed about him all the time.”
“You did?”
“Yes. It comforted me so much. I sure miss those
dreams.”
“You don't have them anymore?”
“Not like before. Not right after ... you know.”
“Yeah.” Rod's face crunched. His shoulders jerked
as he fought back tears.
“Honey.”
“Hmm?” He couldn't speak. If he spoke right now his
voice would crack and Belle would know he was crying.
“What happened?”
“Um.” He coughed, to regain a calmer sound. “Um.
Well, it was last night. I awoke. Suddenly. I thought I
heard her.”
“Upon waking?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes. That's when it used to happen with me.” She
chuckled quietly. “Upon waking.”
“It felt so real but then I would get so tired and, well,
I guess I fell back to sleep.”
“I'm sorry, honey.”
“She touched me.”
“What?”
“It's nuts, huh?”
“What do you mean, she touched you?”
“Well, it didn't feel like if I touched your hand but it
felt like something. Like a shock, like static electricity.”
“I've never heard that before.”
“Do you have photos of her when she was a kid?”
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“Well, honey, you know I do. Do you want them?”
“Maybe. I don't know. Yes. Maybe a couple.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I can copy them so that you can have the originals.”
“That's fine.”
“How are you, Belle? How you holding up?”
Silence felt like an ocean had flowed between them.
Mom sniffled and then, mumbled something inaudible to
Rod.
He was in the middle of asking her to repeat herself
when he realized her side of the phone went dead.
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TWENTY-TWO
WHEN ROD OPENED HIS DOOR, a mix of
hairspray, an extinguished cigarette and perfume rushed
to the entrance. He also smelled a nutty scent of toasted
mocha from the coffee she had just purchased.
The sky had turned into a painting of puffy clouds
with winks of blue behind them—eyes peeking through a
keyhole at the earth.
Mom held in one of her hands a brown bag and in the
other a photo album, which she pressed against her chest.
“I wasn't expecting you. Sorry.” Rod looked down at
his worn sweats. One side tipped off his hip where the
hem of his wrinkled white T-shirt hung out. His mouth
still tasted of sleep. “I would've put on something more,
well. I would've put something else on.”
“You look fine. I'm not here to judge your wardrobe,
Rod.” She pushed the photo album at him. “Brought some
cookies too.”
He gestured for her to come in. The brass knob under
his palm had gone from chilled to warm in just those few
seconds.
“Thanks, Mom.” He couldn't remember the last time
he called Belle that.
“Sure, sugar.” She walked into the kitchen and Rod
followed. “Got coffee?”
“Sure do. Cream?”
“Just some sugar if you've got it. This thing’s
empty.” Belle shook the paper cup and then tossed it into
the garbage under the sink.
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Mom set the bag of cookies down onto the table and
unwrapped her raincoat as Rod prepared her coffee.
“Don't think I'll need this much sugar, honey.” Mom
teased. I snickered out loud at her comment, which made
Rod swat at his ear and Bobby run into the kitchen and
bark.
“Sorry, Mom. Hush, Bobby. It's Belle. You know
Belle.”
But Bobby wouldn't stop barking. Instead, he spun a
little in a circle, once, and then stood looking straight at
me. Again! He yipped like he was watching animals on
the TV, crazy barking.
“Bobby. Hush! Now!”
I put my finger to my lips and he stopped. “Shh.
Sweet pea. Daddy's mad. Look at his growly face.”
Bobby turned to Rod and jumped up on his legs and
Rod bent over and petted him. “It's okay, son. It's okay.”
“He's so cute.”
“Yes. He is. But he's been acting... out. “
“That's so sad, Rod.”
“Well. I get it. They were always together. He took
rides with her in the car. They went on their daily walks,
no matter what.” He sat across from her. “She bathed him.
She talked to him endlessly. I can only imagine what he
thinks.”
I giggled and Bobby turned to me and sat on his
haunches, watching me.
“He thinks he sees his mommy! Don't you, Bobby!”
I flipped backwards and then swung on nothing down to
Bobby, like I was holding onto a monkey bar.
“See?” Rod continued.
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Mom looked up looking at whatever Bobby was
looking at, which was me. “Hi, mom!” She tipped her
head and stuck a finger into her ear, shook it a little, took
it out and looked at her fingernail. She flicked whatever
she'd gotten out onto the floor. But Bobby was still
engrossed in me.
We were connected.
“Well. He'll get used to her being gone.”
I sat next to Bobby. He lay on the floor and I stroked
his back.
Rod opened up the photo album and sipped his
coffee. “Thanks for bringing this.”
“Sure, honey.”
He flipped a page and looked at each of the blackand-whites that had been taped to the black felt paper. The
ripple-y edges looked like someone had cut them with
pinking shears.
“That's when we went to Disneyland.”
“That's Jay?”
“Yes. That's Jay. And me. Hannah was eight then.”
“That's her.” Rod's eyes widened.
“Yes. Can't you tell?”
“No. I mean. That's her. I saw this little girl last
night.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom frowned.
“I saw her last night.” Rod looked at Mom. “I did.
Belle. This is the girl.”
Mom looked at the photo. She shook her head, not
believing but then caught his eyes. He wasn't kidding. He
was serious.
“That's ridiculous.”
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“I'm telling you. I saw her. Last night. I told you. On
the phone?”
“I know what you're talking about. You don't have to
condescend.”
Rod swiped a hand over his head. “I didn't mean it
like that.” He looked back down at the photo. “I'm
serious.”
Mom stood. “I can't do this.” She began to cry. “You
cannot tell me this!” She grabbed her jacket. “It's mean,
Rod. Just mean.” She walked out of the room.
Rod jumped up and trotted after her. “Belle. I'm
sorry.”
Mom approached the door and turned. She'd gone
from upset and crying to angry in seconds.
“You need to see someone. A professional. You need
a psychiatrist!” She flung open the door and left.
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TWENTY-THREE
“THERE.” THE TALLER ONE YELLED over
the Harleys’ clattering engines, pointing with his right
arm as they passed it. He indicated a narrow dirt road off
the main artery they drove as they ran north, out of town,
into a glitzy area at the tip of the island where yachters
spent summers and celebrities occasioned.
The road looked more like a path not intended for
motor vehicles, more like for walking.
They came to a slow stop on the side and circled
back.
“Let's see what this leads to.”
Both men looked young. Too young for such an
attempt to cover the truth, to cover their guilt. But, there
they were, pulling off the main thoroughfare and down a
gravelly, loamy, narrow wooded road full of twists that
bent south then north and once more to the south. They
were hoping to find a proper burial ground.
The bikers moved with caution as they bumped over
jagged rotting branches and stones. Crushing ochre
pinecones and lichen of the palest green along the way
causing the woodsy perfume to burst in a spicy balm that
filled the air leaving a trail for anyone who might be
pursuing them.
The biker in front lifted off his seat, standing fully on
his pedals, and the man behind him copied. They rode
slowly, for fear of losing traction and being knocked
down onto the rough terrain.
After nearly a mile, they spotted an old rusted-out
car. The rust looked as though someone had dusted it with
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dry, crushed ginger. In the body style appeared to be made
in the 1950s.
What seemed odd to the boys was its cover, an old
mottled Army-grade canvas whose original green was
now bruised with black mold and warted with mushrooms
and an odd array of fungi.
Rough weather had yanked the neglected canvas off
in such a manner that it hung off the car’s shoulders like
a harlot's blouse. A mullion splitting the glass made the
window appear like two dark eyes, the hood ornament a
nose, and the grill a stupid smile.
As they approached the broken down heap, they
slowed then finally stopped next to the car. The silence
roared in their ears.
They hadn't spoken. They hadn't needed to. Their
breathing said everything. A fine mist ghosted in front of
their faces waited like bubbles that would soon contain
words.
“Like minds.” The taller man spoke in a whisper.
“What're we doin'?”
“Same thing whoever left that old hunk of garbage
was doing.”
“What's that?”
“We're dumping your bike.”
“The hell we are!” The shorter man unsnapped his
chin strap and twisted his helmet off his head. His hair
was coiled upward and stuck there.
“Yours hit her,” the taller man reasoned. “She's dead.
You do the math, ace.”
“This is just wrong.” The redhead replaced his
helmet, leaving the chin straps detached.
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“We'll double up.”
“I don't want to leave my bike here.” He scratched at
his bister locks. “Hell! I don't want to leave my bike,
period!” His chin trembled.
“Look. Shut your face. Yours has evidence all over
it. Probably skin and blood.” The thought of it made the
taller man sick. “Definitely tracks. We're leaving your
bike or I'll go straight to the cops and turn your butt in!”
“Oh man. This is just flippin’ lousy.”
“Yeah. Tell it to her. Hell, tell it to the judge.”
The shorter guy got off his bike and rolled it deeper
into the bedding of rubble—stones, twigs, mud and a
scrap of oxidized chicken wire laced with barbed wire.
The taller guy walked alongside him. “Put it over
here.” He pointed toward the back end of the abandoned
car. “Under the tarp.”
“Great.” The other guy shook his head in disgust. His
straggled hair that appeared crimson in the dark forest.
“Just great.”
His friend lifted the car's cover by pinching it
between his first finger and thumb. “Let me, priss.” The
redhead slid his bike up next to the car and then angrily
pulled the tarp out of the other guy's hand, up and over his
bike, causing a spray of moisture to kick back into their
faces.
“Good God, you idiot!”
“Whatever. Look. You'd be sore too if it was your
bike we were leaving under there.”
They glared at each other before turning back to the
remaining bike. The redhead followed. The taller man
mounted the saddle and ordered, “Get on.”
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TWENTY-FOUR
“IT WILL BE A FEW minutes still.”
“Okay.” Rod looked at the receptionist.
The woman in a pink smock, CHRISTINE, her
nametag bragged—smiled at Rod and pushed a clipboard
through the slot in the glass window. On it was a medical
form for him to fill in and a pen wedged underneath the
metal clip.
Rod turned back to a row of chairs next to an end
table. The table had a stack of magazines on it, self-help
magazines, like Health and Yoga and Prevention. Not one
People magazine adorned the stack.
He sat down with a sigh. The office had filled in his
name, address and phone number already. As he picked
away at each of the questions, he noticed his heart
beginning to pound erratically and he began to feel
queasy.
He felt as though he'd just run a block. His breathing
was short and choppy but he'd only just sat down.
His eyes blurred. And, for a moment, he couldn't
swallow.
His tie felt too tight. Then he remembered that he
hadn't worn a tie today.
He grabbed at his throat and pulled at the collar of
his knobby sweater.
He fanned himself with the clipboard.
He noticed Christine look up. She mouthed
something to him but he couldn't hear her.
She stood and picked up the phone behind the
counter.
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“Dr. Strick. You need to come quick.”
Rod's head spun. Then his vision dimmed.
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TWENTY-FIVE
THREE PEOPLE STOOD ABOVE HIM. One
was Christine, next to his right arm. The others—a man
directly above him and a simple-looking young woman in
a nurse's uniform—both wore nametags but because he
couldn’t focus he couldn't read their names.
The man wore a doctor's smock. He had a large nose
and from Rod's vantage point, he could see every single
nose hair inside the man's large protuberance.
“You blacked out.” The man spoke in a deep nasal
tone.
Rod wanted up and tried to get to his elbows but the
man pushed him on his shoulder, back down.
“You need to stay down for a minute.”
Rod noticed a stethoscope hanging from his neck by
the earpieces. The man, Rod figured to be a doctor by
now, pulled out a small flashlight and shined it in his eyes.
Rod turned his head away from the glare.
“Sorry, Rod. But, look at me again. I need to check
your pupils.”
Rod turned back to the doctor who shined the light
once again into Rod's eyes, flicking it away from each, to
gauge his reaction to the sudden light, then sudden dark.
“You fell out of your chair. I can safely say you didn't
have a stroke. You can try to sit up. Slowly.” He drew out
the word. “Lean back against the chair here.”
As Rod sat up, the doctor seemed to spin right-side
up now. His nametag read DR. STRICK. The nurse's read
BETH, RN.
“Sorry for the excitement.”
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Just like Rod to set people at ease, even upon his
fainting. I was having quite the effect on my husband.
“Do you think you can stand?” Dr. Strick placed a
hand under Rod's elbow.
“I think so.” But, as he soon as he tried, Rod felt
woozy again. “Whoa.” He slipped back into his chair.
“We have some smelling salts, Beth. Go get some.
Stat.”
Rod smiled when the doctor said 'stat' because, way
back when, when our relationship was still rich, he'd say,
in this ever-manly voice, “To the bedroom with you, lass!
Stat!”
I giggled and Rod swatted at his ear.
“I think I'm going insane.”
“Well, I'll be the judge of that.” Strick squatted in
front of Rod, smiling.
“Yes. I suppose you will.”
Beth rushed in with a small white cardboard tube of
smelling salts, cracked it, and pushed it in front of Rod's
nose. Rod's head bolted back at the pungent sickening
smell.
Strick blocked her arm, tweezing the tube out of her
pinched fingers. “Beth. He's alert. If he faints we'll use it.
Only if he faints.” Strick looked at Rod and rolled his
eyes. The other women didn't see but Rod chuckled.
“It's fine. No harm. No foul.”
“Can you get up?”
“Yes. I mean. I'll do it slowly. Very slowly.”
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TWENTY-SIX
“YOU SAID YOU'VE SEEN HER since she died.”
Dr. Strick repeated, not as a question, but as a statement
of clarification.
“Yes.”
Strick scribbled something down into his notes.
“I hate that.” Rod lifted his nose and looked at the
notepad Strick was scribbling onto.
“Yes. I know. Everyone feels the same way.” He
smiled at Rod. “Has to be done. Would you rather I tape
the sessions?”
“Lord. No.”
“Not many people do.” He put down the notes and
folded his hands onto his desk, a plain-looking maple
laminate. Nothing fancy. Nothing overdone in this office.
“Now. Let me explain. I must take notes so that I can
review them and make some determinations about you.
Some of the questions I will ask are the standards: What
was your mother like? Your father? Who do you most
identify with? What about siblings? These sorts of
questions are so that I can get a handle on who you are,
how you were raised and in what type of social
environment it was.”
He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands
behind his head. “Some of the questions will feel more
organic, like we're talking, but believe me, they're all used
to determine any issues you might have, that need to be
resolved.” His arms came back down and settled into his
lap. “Like, you seeing”— he extended the word—”your
late wife.”
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He smiled at Rod, who simply nodded.
“Great.” He rolled his chair under the desk and
placed his hands back onto the clipboard but before
picking it up again, he asked Rod, “. So, do you
understand why I need to take notes?”
“Of course. I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'll be fine. With. The
notes.” He offered his hand as if asking someone to sit
down in front of him.
“Great.” The doctor chimed again. “We have fortyfive more minutes. What say we dig in?”
“Sure. Let's do this.”
“Well. First. Let's talk about your problem at hand.”
“Yes. That would be nice.”
“You say you saw your wife?”
“Yes.”
“When.”
“Um. Two nights—wait, three nights ago.”
“Where?”
“I was in bed.”
“Were you sleeping or had you been awake for a
while?”
“I was sleeping.”
“I see.” Dr. Strick jotted some notes.
Rod rubbed a hand across his hair.
When he finished writing, he looked up at Rod and
smiled. “You okay?”
Rod nodded.
“Need some water?”
“Sure. That would be wonderful.”
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Strick dragged open a heavy drawer in his desk.
“Here ya go.” He tossed the bottle, making Rod reach
forward and catch it in both hands.
“Thanks, doctor.”
“You can call me Tom.”
“Tom.” Rod unscrewed the plastic cap and slugged
back five long gulps. He breathed out audibly.
“Better?”
“Yeah.” His voice sounded breathy.
“Okay. So, you saw her three nights ago.” He looked
down at the notes. “And, tell me. Were you asleep?”
Rod frowned at the question he'd already thought
he'd answered.
“I had just woken up.”
“Do you think you might've been dreaming?”
The question bit hard. He wasn't sure. He didn't want
to be crazy. Rod looked down to his hands and wiped
them on his pant legs, then folded them on his lap. He
couldn't have prevented what happened next. It seemed
like someone opening up the gates to a horse race.
His hands lifted, almost in slow motion, and covered
his face but he couldn't stop crying.
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TWENTY-SEVEN
DR. STRICK SLID A BOX of Kleenex across the
desk to Rod.
“It's completely normal to cry.” Rod took four
tissues. “Especially, after this sort of loss.”
“It's my fault she's dead.” His voice jumped
sporadically around the words.
“It's not your fault.”
Rod nodded insistently.
“Did you run her down?”
Rod looked stunned by his question. “God. No!”
“Then, it wasn't your fault. It's perfectly normal to
feel as if you could've prevented her death. That's
something everyone believes. The thing is, when the time
comes. It just comes.”
“But, I'd”—Rod paused—”I had told her I was
leaving her.”
“When?”
Rod looked down at his hands again. “Right before.”
“Ahh,” Dr. Strick said.
Rod explained and broke down crying again.
“So because you were leaving her she died?”
“Of course not.” He glowered at Dr. Strick. “But, if
things had been different? If I had gone with her?”
“Yes. If, if, if. If the sun exploded tomorrow, I
suppose you could've prevented that too. Right?”
“Look. I'm not here to be belittled by you.”
“And, I am not belittling you. You're saying if things
were different. Right?”
Rod nodded.
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“But things weren't different. They aren't different.”
He patted Rod's arm. “And another thing.” He stood and
walked back to his desk. “We cannot, no matter how
much we want to, turn back the hands of time.”
Dr. Strick sat again.
“We have a few minutes left. Have any questions for
me?”
“Can you move into my house?” Rod looked
hopeless.
Dr. Strick chuckled. “Boy, I never get asked that
one!” He rolled his eyes. “I have invitations to live with a
vast number of my patients.” He sat forward in his chair.
“Look, Rod. These instances of seeing things, hearing
things. Normal. So normal I can't even tell you. People's
minds play tricks on them. The mind is an amazing piece
of equipment. It can crumble into a billion pieces and then
mend itself in seconds. The thing is, you're dealing with
loss and grief right now. It will be quite some time before
you feel like your old self again. Okay?”
“Okay.” Rod sniffled and coughed.
“You continue to come here and we'll see you get
through it together. All right?”
“Yep. Doctor.”
“Tom.” He looked at his watch.
“Tom. Thanks.” Rod looked at the clock on the wall.
His hour was up.
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TWENTY-EIGHT
BOBBY BARKED THROUGH THE CLOSED
window of the car.
Rod handed the photo album back to Belle. “I copied
a few of them.”
She turned into her house and was about to shut the
door, but he stopped her.
“Belle.” She stopped but held her eyes down.
“Belle.” His voice softened. “I'm so sorry about the
other day.”
She nodded and tried to close the door again but he
stopped her again. “Belle. Please forgive my insensitivity.
I went to see someone. Like you suggested.”
His hand braced the door against her. She spoke to
him as if she were hiding on the other side of the door.
“Rod. Hannah was my only child. She was all I had
left. She's the only thing that's ever mattered to me. So,
when you go on about her, well, it tears my heart out.”
She wiped her nose with a single finger. “I'm trying to just
get up in the mornings. So, I can't be your strength. I'm
sorry. This is killing me too. Now. Please. Go.”
She pushed all of her weight against the door, against
Rod's hand, which he let drop to his side. The door shut
and then he heard the lock twist to a click.
Rod turned around. I was floating right in front of his
face. “You really did it now, mister.”
He fell back against Mom’s door with a thud. Bobby
went ballistic.
“You're in big trouble!”
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He jerked like he'd been stung by a bee and pivoted,
trying to locate the noise that buzzed around his ear. “Big
trouble now!”
Fawn hopped around in a circle spinning nearer the
car. We floated over to see Bobby. “Hey, sweetheart.” We
slipped inside with Bobby and he stopped barking when I
began to pet him. “You'll always be my darling, won't
you, Bobby.”
Rod had made his way to the window and watched
as Bobby lifted himself into a sitting-up position. His
front paws leaned against my chest and he gazed into my
eyes.
“Bobby?” Rod said through the glass. But Bobby
didn't look away from me. I giggled at the smell of his
breath. It smelled like he'd just eaten a dog biscuit.
“Did you get a cookie?” His tail beat hard against the
seat of Rod's chair.
“Bobby!” Rod screamed. Taking Bobby's attention
away from me, as if pulling him by the ear. “Bobby!” Rod
repeated gaining his attention fully. Bobby continued to
pant and wag his tail. He was so happy to see me again. I
knew the feeling.
“Good God. What's up with you these days?” He
pressed the remote and unlocked the door but I pressed
the button from the inside just before he lifted the latch.
“What the...”
He tried the remote again. When it popped the lock
open, I pressed it down. I was being such a bad angel. “Oh
my goodness! What's going on?”
He was screaming and Bobby was starting to get
upset so I decided to stop my antics but apparently a little
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too late because Rod's yelling made Mom notice and she
opened the door. Her eyes were watery and swollen.
“What's going on, Rod? Why are you yelling at the
dog?”
“I'm not yelling at the dog. My remote doesn't seem
to be working.”
By that time, Mom had come outside. She was
wearing a housedress that hung off of her like a blue bed
sheet. “Here. Let me try.” She took the remote out of
Rod's hands and pressed the unlock mechanism. The
locks unlatched like before but this time, I didn't press the
lock from the inside. Mom lifted the latch and the door
swung open freely.
“Seems to be working just fine.” She kissed Rod on
the cheek. He looked flummoxed. “Sorry about what I
said before, honey.” She patted him on the back. “Go get
some rest.”
“Right.” Rod still looked stunned. “Right.” He sunk
into the driver's seat and Bobby just barely got out from
under him.
“Drive carefully, honey.” Mom was being sweet
now. Just like always.
“Yeah. Right.” Rod appeared frazzled. But, he shut
his door, started the engine, and backed up with Bobby in
the passenger seat. And with me and Fawn in the back
seat.
We were all going for a ride.
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TWENTY-NINE
“WHAT A SURPRISE!” HE SPOKE in a big
booming voice, the same voice that had always filled me
with such hope. And, even if he'd seen you a thousand
times, the way he smiled at you always looked as if it
might be the last time.
“For both of us.” Rod said in a glib tone.
“Corinne and I have been praying for you,
constantly.” Pastor John examined Rod's expression as he
spoke.
“Thank you ... John. Pastor.” He shuffled in his seat
as he looked around the office.
“John's fine! So, what can I do for ya, Rod?”
“I, I really don't know.” He stood as though he was
going to leave.
“Now, wait a second.” Pastor John held out his hand.
Rod stopped, before turning the knob to the door, and
waited for John to speak. His hand rested there, just in
case he needed to bolt.
“You came here, Rod. You obviously wanted to talk
about something. What do you need?”
“What do I need? What do I need?” He turned to look
at Pastor John. “I wish I knew.”
John got up, walked over to Rod and led him back to
the chair. “Sit. I'll get Corinne to bring us a couple cups
of coffee. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
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“Great. Great.” He opened the door and yelled to his
wife, who was somewhere in guts of the church.
“Corinne. Would you be a doll and get me and Rod here
a couple o' cups of coffee, honey?”
Her voice echoed from somewhere in the building.
“Well. That's done.” He shot a broad smile at Rod
and sat again.
Rod never liked Pastor John's hair. He said it looked
greasy, too slick to be a man of the cloth, he'd say. But I
never minded. Not everyone was born with a perfect set
of locks like Rod. All that natural waviness would make
any woman envious.
I sat in the chair next to his left arm and Fawn was
sitting at my feet. “That's done.” I mimicked the Pastor
and giggled. I loved the Pastor and Corinne. Rod fluttered
his hand next to his ear.
“That!” Rod yelled.
John jumped. “What!” He looked puzzled.
“Did you hear that, that ... buzzing?”
“Buzzing?”
“Like bees talking with, words, like human words.”
John's eyes widened. “Bees talking?”
I have to admit it did sound crazy and I giggled again.
Rod jumped up from his seat and looked at the chair next
to him. “That! That!” He waved wildly around his left ear.
Fawn began to leap and play, which made me laugh again.
But harder, much harder. “Don't you hear it?” His face
contorted.
Pastor John got up and grabbed Rod by the
shoulders. “Rod. Sit.”
“No. Not there.”
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“Where then?”
“I don't know.”
Poor Rod. I felt a wave of pain sweep across my body
and spin me around.
Fawn followed me, nudging me around in circles.
She felt my pain too. Rod's pain.
Corinne walked in and saw the two men standing
there, with John gripping him, almost holding him up by
the shoulders. John looked at his wife and shook his head.
He mouthed Not now!
“Here, Rod. Sit. Over here.” John backed Rod up to
another chair that had a few books and some papers on it.
He swept them off onto the floor and gently set Rod down.
Then Pastor John knelt before him. “Look. Tell me
what's going on.”
Rod looked crazed for a second and then their eyes
connected. But instead of answering John, he covered his
face with his hands and leaned forward with his elbows
on his knees. “Oh God. Oh God,” he whispered between
his fingers.
“It's going to be okay.”
“No.” He uncovered his face abruptly. “No. It's not.”
“Yes. It is.” Rod moved, trying to get up, but the
Pastor blocked him. “No. Rod. No. You came to me for a
reason. Now, spill it. What's been happening? Why are
you so unglued?”
Dragging both hands over his face, Rod sighed. “Oh
lord.” Then he shook his head. “It's crazy.”
“What's crazy?”
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He dropped his arms into his lap. Pastor John
remained, kneeling in front of him. Then, Rod spoke, like
he was telling a secret. “I hear her. Bobby hears her!”
“You hear who?” Pastor John whispered back.
Rod cocked his head. “Hannah!”
“Hannah.” Pastor John sat back on the floor. “I see.”
“I told you. It's crazy.” Rod watched John as he
knocked the idea around in his head.
“No.” John shook his head but leaned back against
his desk like he'd lost all of his energy. “No. It's not
crazy.”
Then a broad grin broke out around his mouth. “It's
a miracle.”
Rod laughed. I almost laughed too but slammed my
hand over my mouth before anything came out.
“Now, I think you're crazy.” Rod chuckled again.
John pushed up and ran behind his desk to get his Bible.
“You'll see.” He flipped the book open and let the
pages flap under his thumb until he found something.
“Aha! Here it is.”
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THIRTY
“RIGHT HERE.” PASTOR JOHN SWIVELED
the Bible in front of Rod. “Numbers, chapter 22, right
there.” He pointed to the correct verse. “Read it.”
Rod fished into his pocket for his readers and slipped
them on. He looked rapt with the prospect that something
might be able to prove him sane. As he read, his face
slackened. His eyes went sallow and when he looked up
from the book at John, he slammed it shut.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? A parable?
A donkey speaking? Really?” Rod rolled his eyes and
slumped back down into the chair.
“You think this is just a, a story?” John appeared
insulted and hurt.
“Come on, John. Don't you?”
“Absolutely not. Not at all.”
“You're telling me that a donkey spoke to its master.”
Rod leaned forward with his attack.
“I'm not telling you anything. It's right here. In this
Bible.”
Rod rolled his eyes at John and let out a puff of air
through his lips. He cracked them in a cynical smile and
leaned back against the chair, folding his arms across his
chest.
“The Bible, Rod,” John explained, “is a historical
document. Not fiction. This tells how our Christian faith
came to pass. From Genesis to Revelation, this is written
by men who saw these things happen and more than not,
when miracles occurred, like with this here donkey? Well,
there was more than just one person who saw it happen.”
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John leaned against the back of his chair and it
rocked back way too far, making Rod feel uneasy.
“Careful. You'll fall.”
“If I do, it will be in the Lord's hands.” He smiled a
big knowing smile at Rod, who blew out another
disbelieving puff of air. “See, Rod. Faith is tricky. You
can't explain it because sometimes there's no way to.
People believe in one thing or another because they just
do.”
The pastor went to the door and called for Corinne
again. “Honey, we'll take that coffee now.” He pulled the
door open wide and Corinne walked in holding a tray set
up with a thermos pot, two cups, a beaker of cream and a
bowl of sugar cubes, and set it on John's desk.
“Thanks, doll.” He kissed her cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Pastor.” She winked at him, smiled
and moved through the door. “When you boys are done,
just call me. I'll come get that tray out of the way.”
“Will do, honey.”
Corinne pulled the door closed behind her and John
looked at Rod again. “Sugar? Cream?”
“Black's fine.”
He poured the steaming, toffee-colored liquid into
cups that looked like something you'd find at a hotel
restaurant. “Here ya go, Rod.” John stood, handing the
cup and saucer to him over the desk.
“Thanks.”
“I love that woman.”
“She's a good gal, John.”
“That she is. And, you know what?”
“What's that?”
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“She loves me too.”
“She does.” Rod nodded.
“Know how I know?”
Rod shook his head. “No. How?”
“I have faith.”
Rod tipped his head. “It's not the same.”
“It's not? Why’s that?”
“Well, love is different.”
“Explain it to me, Rod.”
“Well, you can tell when someone loves you.”
“You can? How?”
“They do things to prove their love.”
“I believe that.” John smiled. “Like what, for
instance?”
“Lord, John. Okay. I'll play your game.” Rod
grinned. “They think about and hope for your best and
they stay with you even when you're not the best person
in the world.” At that, Rod looked down and shook his
head ever so slightly, fumbled with his hands, and looked
up.
John held his cup in both hands and took a tentative
sip from the hot drink. “All good points. I agree one
hundred percent!” He sipped the drink again, this time
deeper and with more commitment. “Now, tell me this,
John. How is that different than God's love?”
“Well, heck, John. You can see it with people.”
“You can?”
“Yes.”
“What does it look like?”
“Okay. Okay. I know where you're going.”
“No. Please. Tell me. What does it look like?”
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“It's in the eyes. I suppose. You can feel it when
you're with someone you love.”
“So, what if you're not with the someone you’re in
love with? What if she’s at work and you’re at work?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re not there to see their love, how do
you know that the person really loves you?”
“You just do.”
“How!”
“You trust that they do!”
“You trust it?”
“John. Of course. You just know.”
“Just like I know God loves me and God loves you.
I just know.” John set down his mug and leaned forward
into his desk. “It's called faith, Rod. Love is faith and faith
is love. ‘God is love. He who lives in love, lives in God
and God in he.’ That’s from the Bible.”
Rod looked down into his cup of steaming brew. The
reflection in the cup rippled the surface of the hot liquid
but he could see his eyes. For the first time in over a week,
even through the wavy effect of the coffee, Rod could see
they looked alive again.
But, John wasn't finished. “You can't prove someone
loves you, like the way I love Corinne or the way Hannah
loved you. You just know it. And, conversely, Rod, you
can't prove that God loves you. You just know it.”
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THIRTY-ONE
“DON'T YOU WISH YOU HAD listened to me
when I was alive?” My words hummed in Rod's ear. He
pulled away but didn't freak out this time.
“Did she say something?” Pastor John noticed Rod
jerk.
Rod nodded.
“What?”
“I can't really decipher it but I have a feeling she's
telling me, 'I told you so!'“ Rod looked down into the
coffee again. He'd hardly drunk a drop. “This is good
coffee.” He looked back up at John. “Will you tell
Corinne, thank you for me?”
“Well, you certainly don't have to leave.”
“I need to get back to Bobby. I left him in the car.
He's probably barking his lungs out by now.” He took two
big slugs of coffee and then stood, setting the mug and
saucer back onto the tray. “She talks to Bobby too, you
know.”
“So you said.”
“You sure I'm not nuts?”
“Well, no. But I don't think you're crazy.” John stood
and grabbed Rod's hand in his and pulled him into a light
embrace. “Look. Trust me. Okay? If you begin to have
doubts, just call. I'm always here. The office phone rings
to our home when we leave. For emergencies and, well,
anything else people need.” He smiled big. “We're open
twenty-four-seven!” And, then he let out a big round
laugh.
Rod couldn't help but laugh too.
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Fawn loped in a tiny circle and kicked up her heels
and when I giggled at her, Rod pulled on his earlobe.
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THIRTY-TWO
I SKIPPED BACKWARDS AND FAWN
continued to prance around Rod in circles as he walked to
his car.
“Nanner nanner nanner! Told ya! Told ya!” I
giggled, bending over as I grabbed my stomach from my
constant laughing. Fawn saw me stop and bumped me
with her snout and then went to club me with one hoof but
I sidestepped her.
“Stinker! Don't!” I screamed. Rod paused, stuck a
finger in his ear and jiggled it around. “Don't you dare go
to the doctor for that!” I knew that every little sniffle
worried Rod and drove him to the medical center. Then
he said it out loud.
“Maybe I have an ear infection. Maybe it's just an ear
infection.” He said quietly to himself but it didn’t feel like
an infection. He jiggled his finger again but this time
tipping his head hoping to dislodge the niggling buzz that
my voice created in his ears.
I nearly choked to death laughing in my hands.
Then Fawn nudged Rod.
OMGee. It was the funniest thing because, when she
did Rod nearly tripped over his own feet. Well, that's what
it looked like anyway. “Lord. Now, I'm tripping over
nothing!” Sounding exasperated, he righted himself
heading for the car's door.
His hand reached the latch just as Bobby's face
peered up and through the window.
My sweet little pup panted, making steam doilies
appear on the glass inside the car. I stuck my face directly
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in front of his and he licked the glass, creating a tonguesized swatch of wet spittle through the steam.
“Help me, God. I need your help.” Rod's plea broke
my concentration on Bobby. I fell through the top of the
car into its interior and Fawn slipping in behind me. The
smell made me breathe in deep. It felt so familiar, like a
saddle just wiped clean with saddle soap and Bobby, the
smell of his mouth, his hair and his, well, all of him. I
breathed in again. Then he jumped into the backseat with
me. He sat as if he was looking at the back window and
barked, wagging his tail madly. We were face-to-face.
“Bobby.” Rod's voice sounded stern but there was
something else behind it, something that sounded like
fear. “Come on, Bobby. Up here. In the front.” He patted
his hand hard twice but Bobby's attention was fixed on
me.
“Rod. He wants to stay back here with me.”
Rod tipped his head and rubbed both hands this time
with the butts of each palm, into both ears. “Sheesh...”
Then, he turned back and stared at the dog, then
looked around as if trying to locate a thin transparent silk
thread. Something so minute that he had to squint for it.
His eyes tightened then opened wide, then tightened
again.
“Okay. Okay. Hannah! You win!” He shook his head
in defeat. “You win.” He started to laugh but as he did, a
thin film of wet edged his lower lids. “You win.” His face
twisted. He began to cry openly, his head leaning against
the steering wheel, as we all sat in the church's parking
lot.
Rod looked completely spent. “You win.”
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THIRTY-THREE
I FELT SO GUILTY FOR making Rod cry.
“Bobby?” The dog whipped his head toward me and
away from worrying over Rod. “Bobby. Will you do
something for me and Fawn? Bark once for 'yes' and twice
for 'no.'“
Rod rammed his finger into an ear again.
My little pup barked once. “Great! Thanks!” Bobby's
tail wagged, distracting Rod from his anguish.
“What is it, Bobby?” he said into the rearview
mirror.
“Will you help us, Bobby?” He barked once as he
stared right into my face and wagged his tail. “Good boy!”
I reached over and petted his hair.
“Good God!” Rod gasped when he noticed Bobby's
hair smoothing down and then lifting with my hand as it
moved back and forward against his coat.
“That's right, Rod. God is good!” I giggled and
Bobby let out a series of quick, happy yips. Then, once
again, I rustled his coat with both of my hands this time,
all the way down to his tail and back up to his head with
a scratch under the chin.
“Oh my goodness!” Rod pushed his back against the
driver's side door. He sucked in a huff of air.
“Rod. Get over it.” I said.
Bobby yipped once and looked over at Rod, then he
jumped over, across the car's console and into his lap,
making Rod grab him and loosen up a little. Bobby stood
up placing his forepaws onto Rod's chest and began
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licking his face, a thing he never let Bobby do when I was
alive.
“Is she petting you?” he mumbled through a series of
wet licks.
Bobby pulled back sat onto his lap stared up at Rod
and barked once.
“Does that mean 'yes?'“
Bobby barked once, staring at Rod deeply.
“I'm talking to a dog.” He swiped both hands through
his hair, ending at the nape of his neck.
Bobby barked again.
I giggled like a crazy person and Fawn jumped up
and down like a little spring lamb. Then, Bobby went into
a series of crazy happy yipping again, as if explaining to
Rod the most astounding story, in dog-speak, of course.
“Okay. Okay.” Rod broke in. “Get over in your
spot.” He pointed to the passenger chair. Bobby jumped
over into the seat and wagged his tail. “We're going to try
something.” Bobby wagged his tail again. “Okay. Sit.”
Bobby sat. “Good boy.” I thought it was funny that Rod
actually seemed surprised that Bobby obeyed him.
“Okay. Look.” He went on. “We're going to try
something.” He paused and said, “It’s insane, but, we're
going to try something.” Rod shifted to face the dog, front
on, bringing up one bent leg onto the seat. “Bobby.
Answer me, bark, okay?” Bobby barked. “No. Not now.
When I say. Okay?” Bobby wagged his tail. “Once for
'yes' and twice for 'no,' okay?” He yipped once, bobbing
his head to the side, lips parted answering him.
“Right.” Rod seemed oblivious. “Will you do that for
me, Bobby?” Bobby barked once again. “Not yet. We
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haven't even started.” Bobby's head dipped down and he
laid his jaw onto his front paws. “No, that's okay. You
didn't know.”
Bobby sat up and wagged his tail.
I giggled and Bobby turned to me, yipping three
times in my direction. “That's three times.” Rod sounded
annoyed. “This is ridiculous.” Bobby looked back at Rod
and barked once. “Right. Good grief. Okay. Bobby.
Okay.”
He pumped out his chest, taking air in. “Now. I'll ask
you a series of questions, yes and no questions and the
response will be bark once for 'yes' and bark twice for 'no.'
Here we go.” Rod paused. “Am I your dad?”
Bobby barked once.
“Okay. Here's the next one. Am I your mom?”
Bobby barked once, paused, then barked again. Rod
pulled back his chin and leaned against the driver's side
door. “Okay. That was weird.” He petted Bobby's head,
making the little dog pant and fling his tail slowly, sideto-side.
“Okay. Next question.” He leaned forward. “Is
Hannah your Mom?”
Bobby barked once. Rod waited, held his breath but
kept a steady eye on Bobby. Finally, he spoke.
“Whoa.” Rod's back landed against the car door.
“Okay. This next one is a very important question,
Bobby. Think about it long and hard before saying
anything. Is Hannah, your Mom in the car with us right
now?”
Bobby wagged his tail, parted his lips in a dog smile
and barked, wiggling a full-body wag. Then, he turned his
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muzzle to the backseat. I waved at him with one finger,
bending it and opening it again, as if scratching a single
small itch.
“Holy Cr—” He cut the word off. “Oh my….”
Bobby barked. “Okay. Okay. Bobby.” His royal
sweetness turned to Rod when he said his name. “Okay.
Another question, Bobby.” Bobby sat still, staring at Rod
intently. “Is Hannah alone?”
Bobby barked once, paused one half of a second and
then he barked yet again.
Rod looked as if he'd seen a ... well, he looked like
he'd gone into shock. Rod’s eyes opened wider and he
frowned.
“Okay. Here's another question.” Bobby wagged his
tail preparing for his next answer. “Did you enjoy your
walks with Hannah?”
Bobby barked once, tipping his head up, wiggling his
body, and patting his forepaws as if dancing.
“Did you hate your walks with Hannah?”
I giggled, understanding Rod's need for proof. Rod
scratched his ear. Bobby cocked his head and then he
looked at me, straight in the eyes and wagged his tail. He
barked hard and fast two strong yips.
“Do you love Hannah?”
Bobby barked. Once. Then mewled and laid down on
his paws. “I'm sorry. That wasn't a good question. Was
it?” Rod petted his head, making my little dog whimper
even more. “I'm sorry, boy.” Rod stroked his back and
then slid his hand under his chin, lifting Bobby's face up,
making him sit up again for the final question.
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“Now, Bobby. This is going to be a hard question.
But…” Rod's face contorted, his chin quivered, his voice
cracked and he began to cry. Bobby laid down again,
waiting. Rod lifted his right hip and reached into his
pocket pulling out a handkerchief. He wiped at his nose
and at his eyes.
“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay.” He wiped his
nose again then shoved the kerchief back into his pant
pocket. “Okay. Bobby? Did you see the person…” His
voice arced up, his face cringed, but he braved through his
words. “The person who, who killed, your Mom?”
Bobby paused. He mewled again and whimpered
then looked back to me. “Go ahead, sweetie. Answer
Rod.”
But, his face stayed glued on me so I floated up
above Rod, behind his shoulder and whispered, “Answer
Rod, Bobby.” Just beside Rod's ear, who flipped his hand
into my face. I pulled back so I wouldn't get smacked
again and laughed making Bobby's tail wag. Fawn loped
over next to me. We were all crammed in against Rod.
“Answer Rod. Now.” I ordered him.
“Bobby?” Rod interjected. “That's a tough one, huh,
bud?” He petted Bobby's head again. “Okay. We'll wait
on that.” Rod turned in his seat and grabbed hold of the
keys in the ignition. I flitted back with Fawn into the
backseat. The engine started. He dragged out the safety
belt to secure himself and then, looked over his shoulder
to see if any cars were around. When there were none, he
grabbed the automatic gear shift and pulled it to drive.
“You did good, son.” I encouraged him. “He'll ask
again. I'm sure he will.” I fluffed Bobby's shaggy beard
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and leaned over to kiss him on the head. When he
whimpered again, it got Rod's attention.
He placed his right foot onto the brake. “What's
wrong, boy?”
And, then, Bobby barked…
...just once.
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THIRTY-FOUR
THE PASTOR POURED OUT A shot of the tawny
liquid from an ornately etched crystal decanter, one for
him and one for Rod. He set the crystal container back
onto his desk, handed Rod his liquor and sat on the chair
next to him, facing him straight on, while Rod leaned his
spine weakly into his chair.
“Pastor John. I know it sounds wacko but I think my
dog saw the killer.”
“Doesn't sound inane at all. He probably did.”
“I know he did.”
“How's that?” Pastor John sipped at the short stubby
cobalt souvenir glass. Gold lettering boasted Santa Maria
Island and on it was a sketching of the sea fading out in a
small circle that wrapped the glass.
“He told me, that's how.”
John had barely pulled the glass from his lips when
he decided to return it to his mouth and slug back the
entire shot of whiskey. When he spoke, he nearly choked.
“He, what?”
“I'm telling you, John. She's in my car right now.”
“The dog?”
“No! Hannah.”
“How do you figure, Rod?”
“The dog told me.”
“The dog told you...” Pastor John looked back at the
desk where he'd placed the decanter and stood. He refilled
his shot glass, not bothering to re-cork the bottle. “Want
more?” He held the decanter to Rod, who threw back his
drink in dramatic fashion then held out his arm, full
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length, for a refill. The alcohol glugged twice and rippled
up to the rim, daring to spill over. Rod pulled the drink
toward his head and his head toward the drink in one equal
motion, somewhere in the middle, and he sipped at the
dome the liquor made to keep it from dribbling.
John decided on a different approach. “This dog of
yours. She's a smart dog, I gather.”
Rod rolled his eyes. “First off, John. She's a he. His
name is Bobby and, yes, he's a very smart dog. However,
I'm not one to go around listening to dogs talk.” He took
another sip at his drink. “Anyway, as everyone knows,
dogs don't talk. See, they don't have the same capacity. It's
a throat-structure-issue or something. Hannah told me
once.” Now he was rambling. “But, no. They don't talk,
or speak.”
“It's more of communication rather than speaking.”
Rod rambled. “Although there is sound and one could
suppose if another dog were in the room that sound might
be construed as speaking to the other dog. But, not
humans. No. Not speaking with humans. That's just
ridiculous. Don't you think?”
John sat numbly in front of Rod, saying nothing for
a few extremely uncomfortable moments. Finally, Rod
shuffled in his seat, knocking John's stare off him and
making him drink the full extent of the new whiskey he'd
poured himself. He sucked in a pocket of air after the
liquor had burned a trail down his throat and into his
stomach.
“I'm officially”—Pastor John swallowed hard—
”worried now, son.”
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Son. Rod considered the word. His father called him
son when he had to reprimand him. Son. Pastor John had
taken a parental tone with him. He immediately felt insult
at John's reference.
“Look. It was you who told me about the speaking
ass. Please do not take that tone with me.” He pounded his
drink back and stood to leave. Embarrassed. Hell no!
Humiliated, was a better word for it. To have believed
this, this ... man about animals speaking.
He felt duped.
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THIRTY-FIVE
BACK IN THE CONFINES OF his car, Rod
fumbled anxiously with his keys, his seatbelt, and his
rearview mirror.
Bobby nearly bounded into his lap, which irritated
him instantly. “Sit!” The little dog recoiled and slunk into
a curl over on the passenger's side.
“Daddy's mad, Bobby.” I whispered as I knelt before
him on the floorboard. “Daddy's in a bad, bad mood.”
Bobby smacked his lips and crimped his black eyes tight,
making them nearly disappear, trying to forget his
punishment.
“Dammit.” Rod scolded himself understanding as he
watched Bobby's reaction and ensuing despondency. “I'm
sorry, little man.” He touched his back, not caressing, not
patting, just laying his hand onto his back for comfort.
“I'm sorry.”
But Bobby felt the slur deeply and he didn't stir, even
when Rod turned the ignition key. He stayed put in his
tight curl even when the car inched forward, crawling
toward the road in front of the church's parking lot.
As he pulled forward into the right lane, I saw them
coming from the opposite direction. The motorcyclists,
two younger men in their late twenties, one with sandy
blond choppy hair, the other's red and curly—riding on
just one of the bikes now, both wearing regular clothing,
jeans and white T-shirts—but it was them. There was no
doubt.
“Bobby,” I whispered to him, “there they are!”
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The dog leapt up, jumping up onto the car's
dashboard. He barked loud at the window, toward the
bikers.
“Bobby!” Rod shouted. “Down!” He slowed as the
motorcyclists approached in the other lane. But Rod’s
attention was on the dog, not the traffic. He looked into
the rearview mirror briefly to see if he was slowing
anyone down behind him, then he pulled off the road.
Bobby leapt into the backseat as the motorcyclists
shot past them. He jumped off his seat into Rod's lap,
jamming his black nose into the window, smearing it with
spit and yipping, yipping, growling, baring his teeth and
yipping the entire time. He was inconsolable.
Then, he raced off Rod's lap, as the motorcyclists
passed the car, falling between the console and the
backseat, adjusting himself, then jumping up into the
curve of the back window, smashing his body into the
angle where the glass met with felt.
He refused to cease his wild, relentless barking.
Rod pulled onto a road next to the church's property.
He jammed the automatic gearshift into the park position
and turned behind him.
“Bobby! Bobby!” But he couldn't stop him from
barking.
So, I stepped in. “Bobby.” I touched his forehead and
caressed his neck. “Don't worry, sweetie. It will be what
it will be.” Bobby jumped down onto the backseat and sat
on his haunches. He panted hard, still staring behind,
toward the road, toward the cyclists.
“There.” Rod said anxiously. “There you go.” He
hoped his words helped soothe the dog even more. Rod's
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attention was on Bobby and the motorcyclists slid away
without Rod noticing.
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THIRTY-SIX
“NOT ANYTHING NEW. NO WORD of whoever
they were.” Officer Scott Johnson reported when Rod
called him and asked the status of the police investigation.
Fawn and I paced, crossing one another in front of
Rod, me chewing on a thumbnail and Fawn, head down,
eyes big and full of worry.
“Could they still be here?” Rod asked.
“Doubt it.”
“What about the cameras at the ferry? No one saw
them leaving, right?”
“The ferry cam isn't always reliable. Even though it
snaps shots of the dock once every minute, its visibility is
limited. It isn't a security camera. Plus, the position of the
camera allows for a few blind spots. One major blind spot
is where motorcycles line up, right in front of the semis.
They could've been sitting there for an hour before
leaving but the big rigs would've blocked any sighting of
them. Even boarding, the delayed snapshots cause huge
gaps. They could've boarded and gone upstairs, peed,
gotten food and come back down, and we never would've
seen 'em with ferry cams.
“Chances are they slipped onto a boat unnoticed and
have long since been gone.” Scott paused as if realizing
the loss of hope that Rod was feeling as he spoke. “But,
hey. Rod. We'll find these sons of mother's carcasses. We
will.”
Rod thanked his friend. But he didn't feel confident
that the authorities would track these guys down at all.
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After hanging up the phone, Rod looked over at
Bobby. He slept on the couch, on a pillow where I used to
read. Fawn and I flitted up and over to him, onto the back
of the couch, and alighted on the pillow next to him. He
lifted his head to look into my face and then rested his
head on my thigh. I stroked the bridge of his snout and
pinched the black wet texture of his nose the way I used
to. But, now, the sensation felt different, as if I could feel
every microscopic molecule. It felt sticky and nubby but
comforting, like warm water on cold hands.
Bobby breathed out, licked his chops and settled
even deeper into my thigh. When Rod slammed down his
fist on the hard wood, we all jumped, all lifted our heads
in his direction.
“I can not believe this!” His voice was a blending of
anger interspersed with the tears.
“Anger. Fawn. Anger is bad.” Fawn turned to me and
blew out a soft bray, like a tiny foghorn. Bobby crouched
down deeper into my leg and against the pile of the sofa's
material. He was scared.
“How could they get away with this?” His anger
poured out of him. “How?” He slammed down both hands
onto the arms of the chair. And continued to pound the
arms, making Bobby turn his head to the wall, away from
Rod. He continued to pound until his wrists looked
reddened and sore. He continued to pound, saying all the
while, “How!”
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THIRTY-SEVEN
FAWN AND I WATCHED ROD'S eyes roll
toward his ear. It was the same ear into which the young
sienna-skinned ear, nose and throat doctor—Dr. Jha,
ENT—had inserted the otoscope. Rod squinted his eyes,
feeling its strange eerie depth, but too afraid to move
The doctor withdrew his gadget and moved to Rod’s
left ear. “Don't worry. Everyone worries. I think it's my
age.” He looked squarely into Rod's eyes bending toward
him as he sat on the examination table. “I won't touch your
eardrum. I can see how deep I have the scope.” When he
finished, the doctor scrawled something onto a chart.
Rod rubbed the small fold of skin at the entrance of
both ear canals. They felt sore from over-attention.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.” Dr. Jha turned back to Rod and smiled
when he saw Rod lift his eyebrows. “I know. I know. I
look 'much younger'.” He said in a voice that mimicked
someone older with a deeper voice.
“You do look younger than thirty-one.”
“Well, I'm not. Was way ahead in my class at
Stanford, graduated early from high school and got my
undergrad a year earlier than the rest of my class. Guess I
was in a hurry.” He gave Rod a friendly smile and flipped
off the plastic cap covering the end of the otoscope,
pressed with his foot on the stainless steel lever of the
waste can and dropped the used ear protector into the
trash. “Okay. Everything looks fine. In both ears.”
“Of course.”
“You seem disappointed with my diagnosis.”
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“Well, I just can't help but hear that constant buzzing
sound.”
“Describe it for me.”
“It's a buzzing sound.” Rod frowned.
“Yes. I understand. I guess I should've ask how it
sounds. Like a bee?” Jha bared his teeth. Or like this?” He
made a long, loud distinct noise similar to a buzz saw.
Rod shook his head. “No. That would be awful,
wouldn't it?” He made a sound similar to the buzz of a
hummingbird's wings cutting out, or the sputtering engine
of a small plane.
“Hmm.” Dr. Jha's face searched Rod's. “We could do
a hearing test? You know, to eliminate any worries you
might have about hearing loss, assuming that's your
concern.”
Rod's concern wasn't the loss of his hearing but the
ultra-sensitivity of his hearing. But he said, “I suppose.”
“We can do it right here, today. Right now if you
like.”
“Sure. Why not.”
“Great. I'll be just a minute. I have to make sure the
testing room is available. I'm sure it is but I should check
first. It only takes a few minutes so if someone else is
using it, then your turn wouldn't be longer than fifteen
minutes, I would guestimate.”
“That's fine.”
Dr. Jha left the examination room leaving the door
ajar just enough for staff to see someone was still inside
and just enough to provide Rod some privacy.
He appeared sooner than Rod expected making him
jump a bit.
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“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”
Rod slid off the side of the table. “I didn't expect you
back so soon.”
“It's free so I wanted to get you right away. Before
someone else got it.”
He held the door open wide and let Rod pass through.
We followed, of course.
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THIRTY-EIGHT
INSIDE THE DARK SOUNDPROOF ROOM,
Rod sat with a set of earphones on his head. He looked
through a thick glass panel at Dr. Jha and at a short-haired
woman around Rod's age, a Certified Audiometric
Technician. They sat at a large slanted control board that
looked like the cabin of a jet fighter.
Rod was positioned high enough above the panel to
look down into the control room. A voice came through
the earphones.
“If you hear a sound in your left ear, raise your left
hand. If you hear a sound in your right ear, raise your right
hand.” The woman's voice sounded raspy, as if she was
just getting over a cold. “Understand?”
“Yes. Oh. And, I hope you get over your cold soon.”
Rod said.
The woman visibly laughed, turned to the doctor
covered the microphone, said something that made Dr.
Jha laugh, lifted her hand off the microphone and said,
“It's not a cold. It's my normal voice.” She laughed aloud.
“But, thank you. I get that sometimes. Always makes me
laugh. I forget what I sound like. An audio tech, no less.”
Dr. Jha walked out of view.
Rod's embarrassment could be seen through his
physical reaction. He turned his head then looked back at
her and mouthed, “I'm sorry.” Shaking his head and
making the audio tech giggle again. She shook her head,
smiling. “Really. It's okay. It happens. You're just today's
first. For some reason I always think it might stop.”
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She waved the subject off. “Okay. Right ear, right
hand. Left ear, left hand. Got it?”
Rod nodded.
“We're gonna start now.”
The first bong was loud enough. Rod lifted his right
hand.
“Good. That was a test,” she said. “The sounds may
be nearly so low that you won't be able to hear anything
and even if you think you hear something, please respond.
Okay?”
Rod lifted his right and gave her a thumbs-up. She
did likewise.
The next few sounds, Rod acted accordingly, raising
his left hand, then his right, his right, his right again, then
his left, a right, a left, two more lefts, three rights, one left,
one right. That’s when I began to giggle.
He looked so serious and goofy lifting his hands and
straining to hear some sound through his headset in this
or that ear that my giggling quickly grew to all-out
laughter. Of course, Rod could hear that buzzing sound
again as he had described it to the doc, a hummingbird
crashing. Good grief. What a visual. Anyway, by then I
was rolling on the ground in the sound room, which made
Rod begin to lift his hands, sometimes one at a time and
sometimes together, but the audio tech noticed and
covered the microphone. She called to someone out in the
depths of the office.
Dr. Jha came in fast, as if responding to an
emergency. Her voice mumbled through the fingers she'd
clamped over the end of the mike.
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Rod was still flailing, his arms lifting randomly
because I was still laughing.
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THIRTY-NINE
DR. JHA KNELT BESIDE ROD'S chair, trying to
console him. The tech held his right hand in one hand and
patted his arm with her other one.
“Rod. Like I said. We didn't hear anything. We track
the decibels of the sounds we're transmitting only. And
watching your response.” He looked at the tech now with
worry smeared all over his face.
“How could you not hear it? I had my headset on, for
crying out loud!”
“Look Rod. If you heard the noise, you're hearing it
with or without the headsets. Right?”
Rod nodded but his face looked broken. He looked
like a man giving up.
“Therese?” The doctor looked at the technician.
“Give us a minute, will you?”
“Of course, Dr. Jha.” She released Rod's hand and
patted his arm once more.
“This worries me.” Dr. Jha said. “But before I go
making rash and possibly expensive decisions here, like
ordering an MRI, I have to ask you some questions.
Okay?”
Rod nodded and lowered his head toward his chest.
“Okay. Tell me when these noises, this buzzing as
you say, began.”
“Three months ago.”
“You're certain. Three months. Because earlier you
mentioned it had been a few, or several weeks.”
“Three months. Exactly.”
“Exactly?”
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“Yes.”
“Okay.” Dr. Jha elongated the word while he thought
about his next question. “Three months. So, did anything
happen three months ago”—Rod raised his head as the
doctor continued—”that might have caused you any
undue stress?”
Rod appeared immobilized by the question, so Dr.
Jha added, “Anything major in your life—job-related,
money issues—anything?”
Rod sunk into his chair. He covered his face with his
hands.
“What, Rod?”
“Oh my God. I didn't put it together.” His hands
dragged down over his face. “My wife.”
“Yes?”
“She was killed.”
“Dear God.” Dr. Jha stood and pulled an empty stool
that had been sitting in the corner over next to Rod. “I'm
so sorry.”
“Thank you.” Rod breathed out a long sigh. “You
think you're getting used to it, you know.” He looked into
the doctor's eyes. “But then it just flips you inside out. All
this pain. All this emotion. It's unbearable. Then, this
noise in my head. I feel like I'm losing my mind.”
Dr. Jha lowered his eyes to his lap. “Look. I'm a man
first, a doctor second. I'm a spiritual man first.” The
doctor looked up at Rod. “I don't know how to say this.”
“Just say it, doc.” Rod urged. “Please. I'm about to
go insane.”
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The doctor looked down again. “Good grief. I can't
believe I'm going to say this to a patient.” He seemed to
be speaking more to himself than to Rod.
“Please, Dr. Jha. Please.”
When the doctor looked up into Rod's eyes he put out
his left palm. Rod seemed to understand that he was
supposed to put his hand in it. After doing so, the doctor
covered Rod's hand with his right. “I might get my
licensed revoked for this but I just have to ask.”
And his words tumbled forth: “Have you ever
thought that your wife might be trying to communicate
with you?”
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FORTY
“YOU TALKED TO JOHN?” BELLE sounded
surprised that Rod had gone to the pastor. Or any pastor.
He leaned forward, head slunk.
“I know. Crazy, huh? Me?” His shoulders bounced
once with a sardonic chuckle.
“Actually. No. It's great, honey.” She patted his hand
as they sat, coffee mugs in front of them, steaming,
smelling up the room. “I told you to see the psychiatrist
only because I didn't think you would listen to me if I told
you to go talk to a man of the cloth.”
“I've been blind, Belle.” He pulled his hand back and
leaned against the back of the chair. “It's like, I want to
believe. You know? I really do but it seems so ridiculous.
Like, I see all of these people I recognize as believers and
they all wear light blue suits, have greasy hair and say
things like’ Praise God’ and ‘Hallelujah.’ It's just not how
I can ever see myself.”
“I didn't realize you were so critical.”
“Neither did I.”
“Why should people in blue suits with greasy hair
dictate how you think and act?”
“I understand that it's silly to think the way I'm
thinking but some things have been hard-pressed into my
psyche.”
“So, therefore, you can't change.” Rod started to
speak but Belle brought up her hand to quiet him. “You
can't get an image out of your head in order to allow
yourself to believe in God?” She put up her hand again.
“That's just an excuse.”
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“An excuse.”
“Yes. An excuse.” She sipped tentatively. “You
watch too many movies.” Mom giggled but then her face
turned serious, like when I was a kid and acted out. That
stern motherly look I remembered. Something big was in
the making for Rod. “You're worried about appearances.
That's shallow water you're standing in, Rod.” Her eyes
squinted. “Take the dive. You might want to visit your
Church some Sunday. Take a look around at the people.
They look exactly like you, exactly like me.” Then she
paused for the kicker. “They look like Hannah.”
She set down her mug, not diverting her eyes from
Rod's for a second.
He seemed embarrassed.
“I wish I had gone with her.” His face buckled,
making Belle's eyes fill with heavy sad tears, but she
didn't make a sound. She sat up straighter. She wasn't
finished with him. She wasn't going to let him off the
hook.
“Well, that’s just a pity.”
He looked up amazed at her strength and the fight in
her. The spite in her words.
“I’m sure Hannah wished the same.”
The last words struck like a slap across the face. The
shock stopped his weeping. He wiped his nose with the
butt of his hand.
“Yes. Well. Now, I have to live with that fact, don't
I?” He rose, walked to the door, opened it, and said,
“Sorry to upset you, Belle. It wasn't my intention.” Then,
he walked out closing the door behind him.
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Belle blew out air between her lips. She got up
slowly and, hearing Bobby bark outside from Rod's car,
she quickened her pace. She heard the door slam and the
engine turn over.
“Rod!” She called to him from the door, making him
step on the brakes. He depressed the window's button and
it rolled down enough that he could bend his head out and
respond with, “What?”
“I'll go.” But Rod didn't make the connection and
rolled the window down farther, pressed the shift into
park, flipped the ignition switch to off and opened the
door but he didn't get out, he simply yelled from where he
sat.
“What?” He said again.
“I said, I'll go.”
Rod shook his head, not understanding.
“Together.”
Rod's head tilted again.
“To church.”
He blinked seeming to understand what she meant.
“I'll go.”
His face brightened.
“With. You. If you'll let me, that is.”
Rod buried his face in his hands. The sudden flow of
emotion was becoming routine by now for him.
The sound from him made Belle think of an animal
mourning the loss of its mate. She moved fast to Rod.
Then she bent before him and collected him into her arms.
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FORTY-ONE
“OKAY. REMEMBER NOW. ONCE FOR 'yes,'
twice for 'no.' Got it?”
Bobby barked once.
“Great.” Rod shook his head that he was once again
conducting such an experiment. It sounded quite insane.
He looked through a window to see if anyone could see
him.
Rod sat, with his legs crossed into a pretzel, in the
middle of the living room, next to the wooden dining table
that I had made the year before. The raw pine smell
flooded his senses. The table still had not been sanded or
stained, halfway between fresh clean wood and distressed
beaten wood, as we'd decided to finish it.
The idea for the table was to bring as many friends
and family members over to dinner in order for them to
scrawl their names, a picture or some way of identifying
them later in life, years after I'd stained and lacquered the
table. We had vowed to give ourselves a two-year window
of hands-on sketching and dremeling so that we could fill
the table with memories of people we loved. Rod called it
our “history' table.”
I'd carved with a screwdriver at the place I normally
sat the words, Hannah Sits Here. And, then decided to do
another etching, Hannah Loves Rod 10/25/2010. I'd
encased this one in a huge heart with a stick arrow
piercing its center, one that had stick feathers at the end
of the arrow.
As he sat next to the monstrous wooden slab, he
rested his hand on it, as if touching one of the last things
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I had touched. His eyes filled up fast and he swiped at his
nose.
“Dammit.”
Bobby laid his head down on his legs. Fawn and I
drifted down, me to the left of Bobby and Fawn to the
right. “You, can do this Bobby,” I whispered.
Rod poked at his ear canal. I giggled. Fawn patted a
hoof at me, trying to get me to stop. Bobby perked up
again and sat, panting small breaths at me, looking at me.
Waiting for my command.
But Bobby remained obedient. His angel wing ears
perked up in attention, his mouth slightly open, happily
awaiting someone's command.
“Is your name Bobby?” Rod asked.
“Say 'yes,' Bobby.” Fawn leaned her muzzle against
his neck and shoved just a little when I spoke. The little
white dog turned to Rod and barked, lifting his chin and
kicking up his forepaws almost off the floor.
“Good boy. You're right. Bobby is your name.” The
dog's tail fanned a wag out behind his rear end.
Rod smiled and looked deeply into his eyes, which
made me smile, which made Fawn smile which is the
funniest-looking thing you’ve ever seen.
“Next question.”
Bobby's front paws patted at the ground anxiously in
front of him.
“Do you miss your mommy?”
Bobby barked once, then dropped his chin to his feet
and began to whimper. My hand landed on Bobby's head
to comfort him.
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“I'm sorry, little man but we have to make sure you
understand. Okay?”
The dog sat up slowly and barked once that he
understood.
“You're very smart, aren't you?”
Yip! He gave Rod a quick answer. “Okay. You don't
have to agree with everything.”
Rod straightened out his legs and groaned. “One
more question. Now listen carefully. Again, Bobby. Once
for 'yes,' twice for 'no'.” He rubbed the little dog's head
and lifted his chin to his face, gazing into the depths of his
dark, ebony eyes. “Okay. Here we go. If I told you
mommy didn't talk to you, would you believe me?” It was
a complex question. Rod was testing him hard now.
With each of his two quick yips, Bobby's head
flicked to the left then to the right.
Rod filled his chest with air, not sure he believed
what he was witnessing but willing to move forward with
his plan. Finally, he breathed out. “Okay. That's good
enough for me, little guy.” He rolled up onto his knees
and pushed off the ground. “Wanna go for a walk?”
Bobby jumped up on his hind legs and lunged with
his forepaws onto Rod's legs, barking like crazy and
acting, as I used to say, like an animal. Obviously, the
Q&A period had ended and all rules were out the door.
Fawn and I swirled around the room. “We we’re
going on an adventure, Fawn!”
“K!” Rod laughed out. “Come on. Let's go to town.
We need to talk to someone. We need to find mommy's
killers. Don't we, son. You and me.” He picked Bobby's
halter and leash off the end of the stair's railing. The little
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dog continued to yip and bounce until Rod finally got the
lashing over his head and clasped the halter's latch.
“We're off!”
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FORTY-TWO
“LOOK, SCOTT. STRANGE THINGS HAVE
been happening lately.”
“Like what?” The big policeman sat back in his
swivel chair, making it creak in pain. He crossed his arms
and smiled through the long set of interior windows,
acknowledging someone who passed by outside his office
down the hall. The blinds sat at half-mast. The glare of
fluorescent lights washed over everything in the room,
paling and discoloring every item.
“Well, like, um...” Rod looked over at the person
walking by and then back to his friend. He peered into
Scott's eyes determining how he might take the talking
dog information. “Um. Well, let's just say that what I
didn't see before, I see now.”
Scott squinted and looked at his watch. “Rod. That
doesn't explain anything to me. What's going on?”
“I just don't think I can say at the moment.”
Scott hefted himself out of the chair and stood.
“Well, Rod. I'd love to help you with whatever strange
things you think are happening, but I have a job here.
Work to do. You know.” He moved toward the exit,
holding his hand out.
Rod looked around uncomfortably, not expecting to
be dismissed so casually by his friend. I sat on a stack of
folders held in a metal three-tiered tray. The top shelf,
where I sat, had been labeled Inactive Cases.
Rod noticed the label first, then his eyes moved up to
the tab of the top folder. Typed neatly in black, on a bright
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white sticker read the words, DEMSEY, HANNAH
2011/12/5.
“What's this?” Rod stood and reached over to pick
up the file.
I shuffled my rear off the stack, and seeing what Rod
was reading, I threw my hands up in the air, as if to say,
What the …? I ticked my head at Fawn, who loped up next
to my side and looked. She began to bat a hoof at the
stack.
Scott rolled his eyes regretting he hadn't hidden the
file or, at the very least, turned it over when Rod walked
in.
“You're not looking for them anymore?” Rod's voice
sounded weak, disbelieving.
“Rod. They're gone. We can't always catch the bad
guys.” He shoved the door closed again. “Sorry, man.”
“Sorry? Man?”
“Rod. Look. We have other cases that need
attention.” He took the file from Rod and replaced it onto
the stack. “It's not closed. It's just on … hold.” He turned
back to Rod. “I know what you're thinking here but—”
“You have no idea what I'm thinking. If you did, we
wouldn't be friends anymore.”
Rod turned to the door and walked out.
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FORTY-THREE
HE GRUMBLED ALL THE WAY home.
Creating scenarios of what to say next time they met up.
Things like,
Friends? You call yourself a friend?
and,
Kissing some higher-up's butt? Trying to make
captain or something, Scott?
You know, scenarios that place blame on someone
who really isn't to blame.
By the time we reached the house, he was so
wrapped up in his internal argument that he wasn't paying
attention. Rod let Bobby out of the car but then left him
behind, outside and went inside by himself. He slammed
the door so hard it made the French doors rattle and the
large Christmas bell I'd hung on the knob chime.
He didn't notice Bobby wasn't with him. He still
grumbled angrily to himself as whipped out a mug from
the cupboard and filled it with coffee.
He only realized the dog wasn't in the house with him
when he heard the screeching of tires on the road, then the
honking of a horn.
“Bobby!” He yelled, dropping the cup and thermos
onto the counter and running back outside. “Bobby!” He
screamed yanking the door open wide.
He heard the swishing sound of rubber on the road as
the car drove off. A deer trotted across the yard, skirting
a bank of blackberry bramble and disappeared.
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Then, Rod looked down. Bobby sat next his feet in
front of him on the black rubber welcome mat. His tail
whipped back and forth when Rod saw him.
“Oh dear God! Bobby! I don't know what I would do
if I lost you too!” He fell to his knees and embraced the
little dog, who returned the greeting by licking his face.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
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FORTY-FOUR
THAT NIGHT ROD KEPT BOBBY close,
cradling him against his stomach. What some people call
spooning.
It gave me reason to glow.
A shower of microscopic stars, like a shimmery,
drizzling cloud, fell onto my head, spilling off landing all
over Fawn while she lay next to me asleep.
It was impossible to sleep that night. The vision of
Bobby and Rod together there, that way, was all I needed
at that moment.
While I sat staring at them, Bobby stretched out his
hind legs and his whole body tightened. He yawned and
looked right at me. I cocked my head and Bobby slipped
out from under Rod's arm, allowing it to fall softly in front
of his chest.
Bobby slinked up to me and we gazed into each
other's eyes.
When he panted, the smell of his breath, a scent
between morning mouth and wet sugar, puffed into my
face. I couldn't help myself any longer. It was as if my
human body got tangled in my spiritual self because the
urge to press my lips onto Bobby's head overtook me.
Unspoken rules were placed in us the moment we died.
Like a child’s understanding of the difference between
right and wrong, we knew what we could and could not
do. And we were never to breach our dimensional planes
and contact live humans or beasts—physically or
otherwise. But the urge pulled me so strong that I leaned
toward him.
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Fawn must have felt me breaking a rule and awoke.
She batted her hoof at my arm, trying to stop me.
We were not supposed to engage our loved ones
especially. And kissing was the highest angelic crime we
could commit. The punishment? An eternal life
earthbound, never finding the road to Heaven.
But, it was too late. My whole essence had been fully
committed. A clap of thunder shuddered outside, rattling
the windows. The floor below me rumbled. The bed
swayed. But my lips had already connected on Bobby's
head.
That’s when I felt the initial stages of transformation
set in. And, yet, an opulence of love blanketed me in a
warmth so complete, so earthly, so honest that my body
sparked and sizzled into form.
When I finally lifted up from the kiss, Fawn looked
confused and scared.
She bolted and kicked her heels. She snorted and
brayed.
“Wha-at?” Guilty! As charged. I knew my sin, knew
what I had done.
But my body ached. It was miserable not being able
to communicate the way I had once done with Bobby. I
missed him so much, missed the way we used to be
together—our walks, our talks as physical beings able to
touch one another, to hug him.
But there was no soothing Fawn. Her head remained
down. Her eyes diverted from my gaze.
Fawn continued to act out, bucking and batting the
air on hind legs then stomping the ground in front of her.
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And, still, through all her fussing, I kissed Bobby's
head, happily, to the point I began humming a tune.
Through each kiss, of each eye, I hummed. Up to his
forehead the song flowed from me. I kissed his muzzle on
both sides of his face. I could really feel him now, this
time, the texture of his fur, the splits between each strand,
down to his skin, the warmth of his skin, the fullness of it,
the shape of his small body, each joint in his legs and the
silky moisture of his nose. Breathing in his smell—
something between dog conditioner and popcorn—made
me smile, eyes shut tightly enjoying the moment, the thing
I would come to own as my “now” memory.
And the song went on, tickling my lips as it flowed
into my mouth over my teeth and tongue. It was a melody
so familiar, one that my mother used to sing as she cradled
me on this old gray knobby rocking chair she loved so
much. While she hummed I laid on her lap fighting off
sleep, the song so simple and that old rocking chair
making the song so real—Sailing Sailing Over the Ocean
Blue...
So, when Rod awoke, I was caught unaware. And,
when he bolted up in bed, we all froze. Even Bobby.
“What the hell!” he screamed, knocking me out of
my joy.
I fluttered back off the bed and fell on my butt. It sort
of hurt. Fawn followed, spinning and patting at me, at the
ground. She flipped out.
Bobby yipped at Rod, who had balled up his fists and
pressed them onto his face covering his mouth. His look
of terror was one I'd never seen on him before, even from
the first instance I’d made contact.
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Rod tried to control his breathing. He huffed and
swallowed and kept saying, “OhmyGoodness!
OhmyGoodness!”
In a monotone, I chanted, “Go to sleep, Rod.”
“The hell I'll sleep!” He shuffled his back against the
headboard, keeping his bed covers pulled up tight to his
chest. His hands shook.
“Go to sleep.” I repeated in the same eerie tone.
“Quit saying that!”
I looked at Fawn. She shook her head and looked as
disgusted as I supposed a deer can look.
My visit this time seemed different somehow. I
rolled up onto my knees and brushed off the knees of my
red twill pant legs. When I finally stood, his eyes tracked
me. However, I couldn't be quite certain. It was dark and
all.
So I tested him to make sure he could actually see
me. And Fawn.
I jumped to the right landing on both feet. Rod
gasped. Fawn brayed. But he didn't take his eyes off of
me.
I jumped to the left, landing on both feet again. He
gasped again and, likewise, Fawn brayed again but he
refused to drop his gaze from me.
“Well, it's obvious you can see us.” I placed both my
pudgy hands onto my hips.
He swallowed hard. “Oh ... my ... God.”
“Yes. Yes. We understand you're upset. You can see
us, right?”
Rod looked around the room, more confused than
ever, balling up the sheets into his hands.
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“Well?” I goaded.
“Um. Oh good G—. Um, yes. I can see you,” he
whispered.
“You don't have to whisper.”
“I saw your picture at Belle's.”
“Yes. And...”
“Hannah?”
I couldn't believe he didn't recognize me.
“Well, who else?” I turned to Fawn. “And, Fawn.
You should at least say 'hello' to her.”
“Who?”
“Fawn, Rod. Her name is Fawn. Wow. Rude.”
He squinted and looked to my left, then my right.
“Well!”
“Yes. Um. Yes, hello Fawn.”
My hands slid from my hips and I crawled back onto
the foot of the bed again where Bobby was, still. “I miss
Bobby so much.” Fawn floated up and tapped me on the
shoulder to get my attention. “What?”
“Huh?” Rod responded. His confusion was started to
annoy me.
“I wasn't talking to you.”
“Who were you talking to?”
His question stunned me. The whole time I assumed
that he could see us both. Fawn drifted through the air and
landed on the bed next to Bobby, who turned and yipped
at her. “Bobby likes Fa-awn! Bobby likes Fa-awn!” I
chanted.
But Rod remained frozen. It became obvious to me
that he felt coerced into speaking.
“I don't bite, you know.”
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He shook his head quickly.
“You're afraid of me?”
He shook his head again.
“Liar. Are too.”
He cleared his throat and, at last, shifted his body a
smidge.
Then, he spoke. “I'm in shock.” He released the wad
of sheets from his hands. The wrinkles looked wet and
permanent.
“In shock.” I rolled my eyes. “You're a scared-y cat.”
“I am not.” His voice sounded stern as if he were
reprimanding me.
“Liar.”
“I'm not a liar either.”
“Are too.” I raised onto my knees, petted Bobby and
spoke to him. “Rod is a liar.” I lifted my eyebrows and
nodded my head. “He's a scared-y cat too!”
“I am not!”
I looked up at him, still smiling. “Are too!”
“Am not!” His eyes were big but his face had
mellowed. The tenseness was gone and I paused just
before finishing the argument.
“Are too, are too, are TOO!” I giggled so hard.
Rod lifted his hands to his ears. Jamming a finger
into each one and wobbling them hard.
I looked back at my dog and began humming again.
“That song.” He said as he pulled his fingers from
his ears.
“What about it.” I continued now, singing it,
“Sailing, sailing over...”
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When Rod joined in, stopping me, “ocean, blue.”
Then, he went on: “La la la la dee da dee da dee da dee da
dee dooo.”
“That's terrible.”
“I don't know the words.”
I giggled again. “Neither do I.”
“Why that song?”
“It's a memory.” I corrected myself. “My past
memory of my Mom. She used to rock me to sleep and
sing it to me. See, when we die, well, it's not really dying,
now, is it?” I smiled hard at Rod, showing him my teeth.
I swiped a finger and brought my lips together tight. Then,
started explaining again. “See, we're given three
memories. Just three. One for the past, one for the present
and one for the future.” I placed my hand back onto
Bobby and stroked his head again. “Mine are of my
mother, my husband and my dog. In that order.”
Rod sat up straighter against the headboard. He
seemed a little more at ease but I knew the slightest start
would freak him out, so I behaved myself.
“So, you have a husband?”
I cocked my head at him as if he were an idiot. Fawn
batted at me, scolding me for thinking that way, acting
that way.
“You're my husband, Rod. I had a husband. We don't
have spouses here.”
I looked over at the glaring red numbers on the
digital clock. It was 2:47.
“You have to leave?”
“Soon.”
“Where will you go?”
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I smiled. “I'm everywhere and nowhere. It's
wonderfully free here.” Fawn snorted. “Yes. I know.”
“You know what?”
“Fawn says we should leave.”
“She does?”
“Well, yes, she just...” And, at that juncture I realized
Rod couldn't see or hear her. “You can't see her, can you?”
He shook his head.
“She's right here, on the bed. She's standing, which
of course she shouldn't be, not on the bed. Mother would
be so angry about that.”
“Mother?”
“Belle.” I egged him on. “You know, my mother?”
And I understood he still didn't believe. He didn't
believe, although we stood before him, spoke to him, sang
in fact. He still didn't believe. Astonishing.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I'm here?”
“Well, holy crap, Hannah, if it is you … I mean, after
all, you were killed.”
“So, you can't think that I'm still alive but in a
different form? You can only believe me to be dead?”
He looked down into his lap.
“That's kind of pathetic, Rod. I mean I'm right here.”
I petted Bobby's head again and kissed him. Fawn freaked
again but, really, the cat was out of the bag, already. What
was the point to worry now? “Stop, Fawn. He sees me.”
“I have questions.” His voice startled me.
“What questions?”
“Well, what's it like?”
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I knew what “it” meant to him. It meant, how is it
being dead? I stroked Bobby's head and then looked at
Fawn.
“It”—I emphasized the word—”is so easy to explain
but very difficult to understand.”
“Try me.” Rod started to seem like his old self again.
“Okay.” I did a backflip off the bed and landed in a
perfect Olympian ten for him raising my hands high above
my head. He seemed to chuckle. “I never could do that
before!”
“What else?”
“Hmm. Well, like I said before. I'm everywhere and
nowhere. If something pulls me away from you and
Bobby—like Mom, for instance—I'll be with her too but
with you all at the same moment. But, I'm not really in
any of those places because I am not earthbound. Does
that make sense?”
“I think so.” He crossed his hands casually on top his
lap, like he was watching a show on TV or something.
“Go on.” Obviously he wasn’t freaking out any longer.
That was good.
“Go on, huh?” He nodded. “Okay.” I paused to think
of what more I could tell him. “Well, I can see everything,
in my world, of course. But, I'm not God. Not by a long
shot! Sheesh!” I giggled at him, scrunching up my nose,
which seemed to make him happy. So, I crossed my eyes.
“You were a silly little girl.”
“Were?”
“Sorry. You are a silly little girl.” His voice faded.
He looked down again, pondering the next question, then
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he looked up at me. “Um. Do you remember...?” He
stopped, making me cock my head. I looked at Fawn.
“Do I remember what?”
He shook his head and looked down again, asking
the question, not looking at me. “That day?”
“That day?”
He corrected his intonation. “That day.”
“That day,” I repeated exactly as he had, then finally
realized what he meant. “Oh. That day. My last day.” I
felt a rush of shivers embrace me and my electricity shot
off my skin. I shuffled over to the edge of the bed, resting
my thighs against it and caressing Bobby's back again.
“Yes. I remember.” Fawn bucked her back legs. “Fawn
remembers too.”
Then, as if he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning, he
got it. “Fawn!”
We both stiffened. Bobby sat up. Rod closed his eyes
and slapped the palm of his hand onto his forehead. “The
fawn.” He opened his eyes wide, his hand still planted on
his head. “The fawn that was killed alongside the road.
With you.”
I looked over at her. “Yeah. Fawn. That fawn.” I put
my arm over her shoulder and we stood together. “She's
here with me. We're together now. We'll always be
together. From now on, that is.” I ruffled her head under
my hand. She looked up at me and, well, she smiled. At
least, I could see she smiled. “We died together and now
we'll live together for eternity.” I petted her again and
pulled her in tight to me. “Not bad, that.”
I began humming Sailing again. As I hummed I felt
myself begin to fizzle.
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“That's a great tune.”
I just smiled.
“You won't forget this time, Rod.”
“Won't forget?”
“Our visit.”
“You did come before.”
“Uh-huh.” I smiled deviously, feeling myself
dwindle right before Rod's eyes. “But I made you forget.
I can't make you forget now.”
“Why not?”
A spark flew off my cheek. “Silly. I kissed Bobby!
Too intimate a gesture for an angel and a creature of the
earth. Too much, um, emotion, one might think.” Fawn
flitted over to the bed and pushed Bobby. Bobby shuffled
away, looking insulted. “She wants you to go to Rod,
Bobby.”
Fawn nuzzled him again. Bobby looked a bit
dejected but brightened up when Rod patted the bed
beside him. “Come here, son.” He pulled him in close as
I began to disappear again. They both watched in terror.
“Son.” I giggled as my voice cracked in and out,
becoming choppy. “I love that. Always, loved, that ...
when, you, called, him 'son,' Rod.”
He smiled but his face turned sad and he looked
down at the dog. Even then you could see warmth spilling
from his eyes, covering Bobby. To me, it appeared like
satin ribbons fluttering down, milky white pouring over
him.
“I. ha-ve… to… g-o-o.” The crackling became
obnoxious. I was disintegrating back to the other realm.
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Rod was distracted by the little dog but looked up
and saw me fading in and out.
“Wait!” he called, “Who killed you?!”
But just as I was about to speak, a zephyr zipped
around me, and in a puff of twinkling rainbow ash, Fawn
and I took our leave.
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FORTY-FIVE
OUTSIDE UNDER THE THICK UMBRELLA
of the large fir tree in back, Fawn clawed a divot into the
ground. Thousands of little gnats fluttered around us.
Angel gnats. Boy, were they pesky. But for a little while
they took my attention off of Fawn.
Still, she brayed and whinnied like a mule, pulling
my focus back to her. She spun and kicked her legs at me
and reared up, threatening me.
“All right! Already!” I crossed my arms and planted
my feet, bending one leg at the knee, turning it out ever
so much in order to tap my toe at her. “You've made your
point!”
She was bucking mad still. At me. At me becoming
visible to Rod. Explaining that now I'd have to reverse it
somehow.
“How will I do that?”
Fawn's head shook long and slowly in each direction.
“Well if you don't know, how the heavens am I
supposed to know, Fawn?”
When she looked up at me, I swear she glared.
“It's not like I can take back a kiss!”
Then, her eyes softened. Then they widened.
She nodded.
“Take back a kiss? How?”
Fawn paced in circles. First, she circled right,
stopped, then she'd circled left. Rinse and repeat. It
became quite annoying and I was just about to stop her
when her body went rigid. She looked up to the sky as if
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listening to someone speaking to her. She nodded as if
agreeing.
Then, she turned back, looked at me and glared
again!
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FORTY-SIX
“I WILL NOT DO THAT!” I yelled at Fawn.
She stood her ground. Her whinnying amplified and
she bounded and leapt with such furor, I thought she
might fall. Her eyes reddened with a fire behind them I
hadn't seen before in her. She seemed such a placid little
doe just minutes before. Now, Miss Sinister Venison was
standing in her place.
She planted her hooves firmly into the soggy ground
and scraped at it as if a bull in a pasture aiming for a target.
“You better not charge me, you wicked little thing!”
I screamed when she ran at me. I screamed but
giggled as well, not really believing that she would
trample me. I headed off in one direction and she caught
up fast. So, I turned, but soon she caught up and was on
my heels. I veered to the left, then the right. She stayed up
with me. Finally, I jumped in the direction of the big fir's
trunk, hugging it, revolving around it, trying to lose her.
Then, she stopped. We both panted, exhausted from
our battle. I wasn't laughing anymore.
“Stop! Stop!” My voice called out in puffy breaths.
She dropped her head and took in a few breaths, then
looked up and patted the ground again with one hoof.
“Look.” Gasp. Gasp. “Look, Fawn.” Gasp. “I don't
know how to take back a kiss.” Gasp. “If I did, I would.”
Gasp. “You have to believe me.”
Her eyes relaxed. Then, they became moist, filling
up and then draining out down along her snout and off her
lips. She licked at one tear, crossing her eyes as she looked
down toward it. After tasting it, she turned away from me.
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I never knew deer could cry.
Then, came the sound, a velvety light moo that a calf
might call as it searched for its mother. She turned and
walked away. We were getting too far from one another.
Listening to her, this way, caused a pain to grow in me,
one I'd never felt before. Not even as a human had I felt
such intolerable anguish.
“Fawn. I'm sorry! Stop! Please stop crying.”
She wanted to go home. She had tired of our time on
earth and tired of our search for the killers. She didn't care
anymore. She simply wanted to drift away from the land
below us and end up on higher ground, as it is in Heaven.
I skipped to catch up to her. Then, slowing my pace,
afraid I'd upset her more if I touched her, I just walked
beside her. Quietly.
I didn't know how to reverse what I had done.
Touching Bobby. Kissing him, allowing myself to be seen
by Rod in a way he would never forget.
Now, we couldn’t go home to Heaven. Not unless I
took back the kiss.
I had doomed us to spirits who roamed the earth.
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FORTY-SEVEN
ROD FELT ENERGIZED THE NEXT morning
and pulled the sheets tight to the headboard. He stepped
into and out of the pearlescent pile of powder I'd left when
my body dissipated the night before, on the floor at the
foot of his bed, tracking it all over the place. But he
couldn't see the branny gossamer sprinkles.
Only those at extremes of the heart—the purest or the
most sinful—could spot angel dust.
Of course, Bobby could see the dust. He was still on
the bed as Rod made it.
When Rod tugged again, he jostled Bobby,
murmuring soft words to him as he moved from one side
of the bed to the other, brushing a hand over the sheets,
ironing them out. Then, pulling up the sea-blue quilted
coverlet I'd purchased, he covered Bobby as a joke, then
pulled the quilt back off of him, fast.
“Peekaboo!” Bobby's tail swished behind him,
looking like a shaggy flag waving in a slow breeze. His
lips split open and he began to pant. Rod moved around
to where he laid. He lifted up Bobby, adjusted the coverlet
under him and then set him back on top of the quilt.
“There.” Bobby lay down, satisfied with his new
position.
Rod gazed through the window. This morning the
sun decided to make a cameo appearance, casting short
vibrant lines onto the floor.
The beams it threw onto the floor broke against
furniture creating dark images of chocolate brown that fell
around each angle of the nightstand, off the foot board and
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from Rod's body as he walked about the room, dragging
his shadow along with him as he headed into the shower.
But the shadow finally gave up its pursuit.
A hint of steam from the hot water stuck against the
window forming dunes like Christmas snow at each
corner bringing hints of lavender and coconut from Rod’s
soap and shampoo. In the shower, he whistled the tune I'd
been singing the night before. I didn't show my face. He
seemed too happy to disturb. 'Twas a lovely sight! And I
understood my appearances upset him.
Of course they did. That's why these rules like no
touching, no contact, no appearances, were created in the
first place. Plus, it just wasn't fair to show up so suddenly
in front of someone.
It's like the X-game of Boo!
As Rod whistled, you could hear the sound of a
distant ferry lofting by outside, somewhere in the straits.
Rod didn't hear at first. By that time, he was out of the
shower and fluffing pillows, still cooing to the dog on the
bed.
But Bobby heard. He sat up, and made a sound
between a growl and of smacking lips causing Rod to look
over at him.
“What?” Then he smiled, looking around the room
and added, “Son?”
The dog let out a shocking yip, only once.
Rod jumped. “Good grief! Bobby. You scared me.”
He laid his hand against his chest, walked over to the dog
and scratched under his chin.
“What's up, little dude?”
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Bobby rolled onto his back, allowing Rod to stroke
his chest.
“You're quite the manipulator, you know?”
The ferry's horn blew again, making Bobby roll up
into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. He barked
again, this time, toward the window.
“What is it?” He looked between the dog and the
window. “Is something outside?”
Rod moved in that direction and flung open the
bottom casement. A cold breeze drafted through the room
and lifted the corner of the sheet.
Bobby's hair rustled to one side as Rod leaned out.
“I don't see anything, son.” But then another blast
from the ferry sounded off in the distance. The vessel was
somewhere on the water en route to some unknown
destination, probably to Canada.
Bobby barked again.
“The ferry?” Bobby's tail flew back and forth in
quick bursts. “That's a ferry, Bobby.” He tried to explain
but Bobby began to bark furiously, whipping his head
from side to side and backing up with each snap of the
jaw, barking.
Rod pulled the window down again and twisted the
latch in place to hold it down securely.
“Shh. Bobby. Hush.”
When Bobby refused his command, Rod got angry
and yelled at him. “No! Bobby. Shut up. This instant!”
The dog's head fell immediately to his paws. His
eyes diverted from Rod's gaze when the ferry blew again,
making Bobby lift his head to Rod.
“It's the ferry. Just the ferry.”
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He came back to the bed and sat next to Bobby. “It's
okay. It's just a ferry.” He explained, patting his head.
And, they sat listening to the horn blare again, twice more,
then three times.
Bobby sniveled. Rod looked perplexed. A gauzy
cloud eclipsed the sun and the room went gloomy.
Rod brought his free hand up around his neck and
rubbed it while keeping his other hand on Bobby's back,
trying to soothe him.
The two sat there for a few minutes more listening as
the ferry coursed across the ocean then, finally, it stopped.
Bobby looked so sad. Rod frowned, feeling like he wasn't
able to communicate the way he thought he could with his
own dog.
Then he fell back onto the bed.
As he lay there, he thought about the night before—
how wonderful and frightening it had been for him to see
me, but how he awoke happier today.
In fact, he remembered waking with a song in his
head. Sailing, Sailing...
Just then, a ray of sunshine glistened at the edge of
the same lofty cloud scudding by, creating a streaming
meandering tinsel around the cloud. When Rod sat up
again, Bobby looked at him wagging his tail tentatively at
first, slowly.
His mouth parted open and he panted as he watched
his master.
When Rod began to hum the song again, his face
glowed in the sun's light. His skin went from shadowed
and ashen to bright and healthy pink as the sun brightened
the room completely.
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But his jaw slackened. He began to understand.
He continued humming the song louder now,
causing Bobby to sit up in attention. When the words
began to form over Rod's tongue, more in a whisper at
first then building, I knew Rod had realized why Bobby
was transfixed by the ferry.
“Sailing sailing over the ocean blue!” he boomed, at
the top of his voice while he sang the words. Then he
looked at Bobby, “Holy cannoli. The ferry. Were you
reminding me about last night?”
The sun broke out completely, as if the orb itself
wanted to join him in this state of delirium. The star hung
inside a brilliant blue canvas and shone on the bed,
lighting it with warmth, warming Rod's face as he lifted
each arm to the side, taking in the heat radiating,
enveloping him.
Finally, Rod turned to Bobby. He was wagging his
tail with so much force his entire body wiggled. And, as
he wiggled, he grumbled and panted.
“Do you want to go to the ferry, Bobby?”
And, the little dog yipped. Once.
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FORTY-EIGHT
BOBBY CLIMBED ONTO ROD'S LAP as he
pulled his truck up along the sidewalk. It was a sort of
loading zone where people dropped off or picked up
friends and family at the ferry terminal.
Rod liked driving his truck. It wasn't fancy, didn't
have chrome bumpers or roll bars, didn't even have a
decent paint job. In fact, the truck looked old and used,
with its white paint chipping off from a ding in the door,
a dimple in the fender, and a wobbling line of oxidation
running from the tip to the end on the driver's side from
someone, a kid most likely, who'd keyed it years ago.
The interior didn't look much better. Stuffing from
the seat threatened to explode out of a deep worn split in
the upholstery.
Rod didn't care. He thought all of the truck's
imperfections gave the truck character. Made it look like
a real man's. Plus, without the creaking hinge, he just
wouldn't feel the same about it.
“Hold on, Bobby. Let me get your leash.” Rod
clipped the silver metal oval ring of the lead to the dog's
halter. “There you go. Let's take a walk.” As he spoke, the
door squawked open and the little dog jumped from Rod's
lap, landing squarely onto the concrete walkway.
Bobby shook out his coat, then looked up to watch
Rod slam the truck door closed. Rod pulled the leash tight,
coiling it around his hand, keeping Bobby within safety's
range.
Cars poured through the ferry lane into a line where
a single ferry worker had been assigned. The man looked
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overwhelmed, his blotchy face reddened with stress. Rod
had seen the guy before, he figured from around their
small island somewhere.
He wore a thick heavy khaki uniform that was
stained with car oil, or what looked like car oil, anyway.
He wore a reflective yellow government grade vest
striped with orange trim. His boots looked like something
you'd get from Army Surplus and he wore a thick flapeared cap with fluffy ivory-colored insulation that looked
like the same material used in faux deerskin seat covers.
He looked stuffed into his outfit and looked
uncomfortable but warm.
His arms swung back and forth, like a pendulum,
toward the ferry sitting in the water then back to the lineup
of cars, then back again to the ferry. He pointed his fingers
as he directed and curtly responded only to those drivers
who asked questions of him and nodding blankly to those
waving at him. For them, he accentuated his gesturing.
You could hear him repeat robotically, “Juan Cortez.
This-a way! Juan Cortez. This-a way!”
The sky played hide-and-seek with the sun still
ablaze for the moment, making the day gleam in vibrant
psychedelic colors. An aqua sea, rippled below as shallow
waves busted high along boulders piled up in a retaining
wall that formed a berm around the U-shaped marina. The
cold wind made Rod's nose feel as if it were running, and
he swiped his hand under it, just in case.
The lone ferry bobbed between clusters of pylons
coated with thick shiny creosote and streaked with white
excrement from gulls and cormorants who made nests out
of crannies along the length of each pylon.
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The white and green ferry was anchored to a
movable ramp and showed years of streaking rust trailing
down its sides like zebra stripes.
Rod's attention was pulled away by a small
commuter boat, not more than fourteen feet in length,
heading to shore as it made a course from one of the
smaller nearby islands. Probably Deer Island, where no
ferry service existed and no cars were allowed. Just golf
carts.
A foghorn blasted and a rumble of car engines
gunned to life. Gulls cawed as they circled the ferry and
the loudspeaker blared out, like a bullhorn, the next
scheduled departure for Juan Cortez.
A brush of wind whipped up and smelled of brine
and decaying fish. It felt cool, cooler than Rod had
planned for. He pulled his light corduroy jacket tighter
around his neck.
“Come on, Bobby.” He shivered as he walked toward
the man directing cars toward the ferry's opening.
The man’s expression was somewhere between
bored and pissed off.
“Hey man.” Rod chimed out.
“Look. I'm busy. Can it wait?”
“Sure.” Rod dropped his head and turned slowly to
leave but Bobby jumped up onto the man's leg, wagging
his tail at him.
“Hey little guy,” the ferry worker said, and seemed
to soften. “It's okay.” The guy now said to Rod. “What’s
up?” he said to Rod. “It's not like I'm doing brain surgery
here.” He rolled his eyes and thumbed to the cars. Then
he yelled out, “Juan Cortez. This-a way!”
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“Thanks, man.” Rod pulled Bobby off the guy.
“He's cute. What kind of little dog is he?”
“A Westie.”
“A Westie?”
“Yeah. A West highland Terrier. They hail from
Scotland.” Rod said, imitating Sean Connery and making
the guy chuckle.
“This-a way!” he yelled again. “So, whatcha need?”
“I'm wondering if you know anything about these
ferry cams.”
“Sure! Whatcha need to know?” By now, the line had
thinned out and the cars in the last lane were starting their
engines, shifting into gear and getting ready to move.
“Hell. They can handle this without me.” The guy turned
fully to Rod. He was a few inches shorter but broader, like
a wrestler, thick-chested, big-boned and stocky. His hair
was jet black and soaked with sweat beneath the cap,
which he now slid off his head.
Rod noticed the guy's name tag: DANNY. He held
out his hand to him. “Hey, Danny, I'm Rod. Rod
Demsey.”
“Demsey. Why do I know that name?” He squinted
his eyes as he looked into Rod's face, trying to remember
but came up with nothing. “Huh. Well, nice to meet you,
Rod. What's the little guy's name?” He looked down at
Bobby.
“This here is Bobby.” Rod smiled as he spoke his
name.
“Hey Bobby.” Danny dipped down into a squat
position and petted Bobby's head. “You're a cute little
fella. Aren't you?”
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Rod grinned widely at Bobby. I'd always told Rod
that he was an attention-seeking magnet.
“He's an attention-seeking magnet.”
“Why, yes. Yes, he is.” Danny said as he pulled out
of his squat back to standing. “So, the ferry cams? What
about 'em?”
“Where are they positioned?”
“Oh. Well,” He pointed over behind Rod's shoulder,
“One is back over there on the telephone pole. See?”
Rod searched and found it easily. “Ahh. Yes.”
“Why do you ask?”
They began to walk in the direction of the ferry
toward the dock now and Rod wiped a finger just above
his top lip under his nose.
“Well, um. I'm trying to find someone.”
“With the ferry cam?” He asked as if Rod was
kidding.
“Sounds ridiculous, huh?”
“Well, shoot. There's only that one there,” He
thumbed back behind him as he walked toward the water,
toward the ferry landing. “The quality ain't that great. It's
more of a promotional thing for the islands, you know,
used for the ferry system and on the
SantaMariaIslandCam.com site.” Then he added, “The
quality ain't for snot if you ask me.”
“Who regulates it?”
“Well, the ferry does but it goes out to other sites as
a courtesy.”
“Where is the monitor?”
Danny pointed to the ferry dock's building, in the
direction we walked, a place where they gave out seasonal
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scheduled runs, sold tickets, kept a vending machine and
two toilets for public use. “It's in our office. We make sure
it's working okay and that it's on. Sometimes people forget
to turn the dang thing on after switching out tapes. Can
you believe it?”
Rod shook his head and got quiet but continued to
walk next to Danny, with Bobby in tow.
“Anything else?”
“No. I just...” Rod stopped walking, which stopped
Bobby, which stopped Danny who turned to them.
“It's just, what?”
“Nothing. It's nothing. Come on Bobby.” Rod
wanted to ask him how it might be possible to see footage
from the cams but instead he turned, held up a hand and
said, “Bye, Danny.” He walked away.
“Bye, Rod,” But Danny didn't leave. He scratched
his head with the hand he still held his cap in.
Then he called out, “Demsey, ya say?”
His words stopped Rod, making him turn around.
“Yes. Demsey. Rod Demsey.”
“You Hannah's husband?”
Rod looked down at his feet, at Bobby, and nodded.
“Hannah went to my church.” Danny explained and
walked back toward Rod closing in the space between
them. “She was a nice woman. A good woman. My wife
and she used to sit together. A recent development,
anyway, after the fudge issue settled.” He smiled like it
was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard of. “Fudge. Can
you believe it? Sorry, man about not coming to the funeral
service.” He held out a hand to shake again. “I had some
viral thing that had me laid up for three days.”
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Danny looked over Rod's shoulder, avoiding his
eyes. “Man, you must be so, so...” But he didn't really
know what he wanted to say so he just said, “Sorry about
your loss, Rod. Really sorry.” They still held each other's
hands, finally releasing them when Rod nodded to him.
“Thanks, Danny.”
“A motorcyclist, huh?”
Rod looked up. “Have you seen anyone?”
“Huh-uh. But, hey. I only work Monday through
Friday, seven a.m. until four p.m. If they left on Saturday
or Sunday, chances are I missed 'em. But Gliddy's been
all up in arms about it. I think there's a little bit of guilt
left over in her.”
Rod chuckled thinking about Gliddy and how she
seemed so upset at the reception. “You tell Gliddy that
Hannah never even talked about that anymore. Well, after
the initial upset anyway. Will you?”
“I will, Rod. Thanks for saying so. Maybe she'll get
some peace knowing that.”
“Well, we'd better go.” Rod pulled at the dog but
Danny bent down again to say his goodbyes to Bobby.
“You be a good boy, Bobby.” Then he stood and
offered his hand again. “You take care too, Rod. And, hey.
If you ever need anything ever, just call on us.”
“Will do. Bye. Thanks.”
Danny watched him walk back to his truck and load
Bobby into the cab and he watched as he started the
engine and drove off, waving to him as he passed on the
street where Danny remained. Then, he pulled his cap
back down tight onto his head and turned toward the ferry
building.
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FORTY-NINE
AT THE HOUSE, BOBBY CLAMBERED over to
Rod's lap. But, this time Rod paused and stared at the front
door. I insisted we paint the door red, to keep evil spirits
out!
The sun crept behind a bank of southerly clouds. Rod
leaned forward, looking up to the sky, noting that he could
make out the edges of the clouds the shape of a big
deformed turtle.
A soft breeze ruffled the noble firs and spruces that
edged the north side of the drive. The sun blinked into
view for just one second and hid again, but in that second,
moisture on the conifers' needles covered them like
millions of amber diamonds.
Then the sun disappeared again, stealing the
diamonds away with it.
As they sat inside the truck, the only thing you could
hear was their breathing—Rod's long and somber, and
Bobby's panting. It felt meditative. I shut my eyes and
soaked it all in. The sounds made me feel dozy, like when
I was still alive at night in bed, just before drifting off to
sleep.
Rod turned his attention back to the red door again.
My eyes blinked open.
Coming home sent a pang of emptiness into his
stomach. Although the rooms felt warm, he never quite
felt warm enough.
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As I followed, I left a trail of shimmering dust.
Somehow I knew that once the dust ran out, I’d be
earthbound forever.
Although the house was filled with furniture and
artwork, he never felt it was quite full enough. And,
although he had a roof over his head, he never felt quite
secure enough. Not like when you have someone to come
home to, to share it all with.
He didn't know if he ever might get that feeling back
again, that sensation that gives you a sense of comfort and
lets you know you're welcome there, that you're loved. He
figured he probably wouldn't for a long, long time.
His cheeks flushed and his eyes burned.
“I can't go in there right now, Bobby. What say we
take a walk?”
Bobby's ears pricked up and his eyes brightened. He
loved the word walk and Rod knew he could persuade his
little dog easily just by saying it.
“A walk? Wanna go on a walk?”
Bobby quivered and whined until Rod opened the
door. He leapt off of Rod's lap and onto the driveway then
ran to a nearby bush to perform his outdoor duties, lifting
his leg in an arabesque and turning his face in the direction
of Rod, as if to say, See? I'm doing it outside!
“Good boy, Bobby.”
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FIFTY
IT SHOWED SUCH STRENGTH FOR Rod to
bring Bobby down this stretch of road. It showed bravery.
Bobby looked like the lead sled dog on the Iditarod,
pulling so hard that he made a tightrope of his leash with
Rod leaning back, trying to restrain him.
“I know. I know.” Rod whispered. They'd kept up a
pretty decent clip on their walk and now Rod was showing
signs of exertion. His face wore a thin mask of moisture.
“Slow down, boy.”
They had about one hundred feet to the spot. The
spot where I had died.
Correction: where I had been killed.
Going there only thirteen weeks after showed such
heroism. But, in no way did I expect it to be easy for him,
for them.
As Bobby tugged closer still, Rod began to cave. It
happened in stages.
His face bent.
His free hand, the one unfettered by the leash, came
up and covered his mouth.
He choked back a loud moan and released Bobby's
leash, letting him run freely to the exact location. His four
short legs scrambled beneath him so quickly that he
looked like a dog chasing after a rabbit.
When he got to the scene where I'd taken my last few
breaths, he sniffed the ground frantically, searching for
me there in the ground.
Fawn had pulled away from me again. Watching this
caused her too much sorrow. She reared up at me, then
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spun and trotted off. Even the distance between us didn't
cause me as much pain as seeing Bobby here, hoping for
my return. My heart felt as if it would tear and I wailed
out in my despair.
Bobby sat stricken when he heard my suffering. I
began to twirl and thought I would topple at any second.
And, there was Fawn, in the distance, loping her funnylooking rocking-horse trot, away from me.
“Wait!”
But she refused me. The tether between us had begun
to fray and stretch, and I wasn't sure that it wouldn't snap
in two, cleanly.
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FIFTY-ONE
I LET FAWN GALLOP OFF.
When she saw I wasn't leaving Bobby, that I wasn't
chasing her any longer, she paused, and just watched.
A quick breeze kicked up and rustled my hair. It
swept over the earth and bent the tips of alders that lined
the road, looking as if they were taking a bow in front of
some celestial audience.
I turned and swept over to Bobby. Rod was only a
few feet away, still walking slowly, gripping both arms
around his stomach as if he might hurl.
“Hey, little man,” Rod groaned out.
Bobby's little ears perked up and he began to pant
and whimper. “I know,” I said, bending down in a squat
next to him. “See, I don't know how long I'm allowed to
stay here with you. I wasn't supposed to touch you. I
wasn't supposed to kiss you.”
Bobby's tail wagged slowly. He sat in the grass that
trimmed the road, just before it spilled off into the ditch.
His eyes looked so tender and kind that my hands,
once again, rose to cup his face.
Fawn brayed out, sounding like a donkey, one more
warning. But it made no matter to me. This one moment,
feeling these purest of pure emotions, was worth more to
me at that second than any length of a lifetime in heaven.
That's what I believed then, and that's why I touched
Bobby again. It felt like static electricity when I laid my
hands on my dog.
And that became my future memory. The one I could
always reach for.
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I didn't even twitch but Bobby squirmed under my
touch. “Shh. Shh. Sweety. It's okay.”
I turned and looked to Fawn.
Watching her there, with Bobby's chin in my hands,
Fawn's head dipped low to the ground. She simply turned
away, slow and sad, and like that night I appeared to Rod,
her body shattered into a million dusty particles. All
except one big bucket-sized crystalized teardrop that
formed in her place and fell to the ground. It crashed like
cymbals at the end of an orchestral score. A few last
fragments fell like ticker tape onto the ground and then
drifted away in the mournful whooshing breeze.
And, Fawn was gone.
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FIFTY-TWO
I TURNED BACK TO MY DOG. “Look, Bobby.
You must get Rod back to the ferry. His answers are
there.” I tipped my head and gazed into his soft sable eyes.
“Understand?”
He yipped once. His bark sent me high into the
firmament and I twirled with delight.
Rod, noticing Bobby's odd behavior again, walked
up next to him. “She's here, isn't she?”
Bobby yipped.
“Hannah. Will you show yourself?”
I swirled around him. My mind went crazy and I
didn't know what to do. Just a single kiss would elicit my
form in front of him.
Then, swooping down closer to Bobby, I swirled him
too. He watched, making small circles with his head as I
zipped around.
“Hannah. Come on! This is making me crazy. I need
to know I'm not going absolutely freaking nuts!” Rod
pivoted in place, switching the lead, alternating the rope
into each hand as he turned in a full circle.
But, then he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel
and realized someone might've heard his insane chatter.
But he had seen her, he kept saying to himself. He had
seen his dead wife as the spirit of a young girl.
He turned to the sound and spotted a woman, maybe
in her early thirties, walking toward them from across the
street.
“Hey there,” she shouted to Rod.
“Hello.” Rod turned to Bobby. “Come on. Let's go.”
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But, then turned back to the gal, who was now
walking to the mailbox on her side of the street.
“Um. Miss?”
When he spoke, she turned fast. “Yeah.” She took in
a short gasp of air.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”
“No. It's okay. Sorry. Um.” She giggled
uncomfortably. “My name's Jenny. Jenny Calley.” She
held the contents of the mailbox against her chest like a
baby.
“Do you live here?”
“Oh.” She tipped her head and gave Rod a weak
smile. “No. No, I don't. I'm just housesitting for Ida Mae.”
She stopped talking and pulled at a lock of straggly mousy
hair that had fallen over her cheek and, in the process,
dropped a few envelopes. “Shoot. Oops.” She giggled
again and bent over to pick at the scattered letters but as
she did the hair she tried to tame fell loose again. When
she tried to catch her loosened hair, all of the other items
from the mailbox fell onto the road.
“Oh God,” she exclaimed. “I'm such a dolt.”
Rod pulled Bobby's leash and they both walked over
to help.
“I can't believe that happened.” The worn cotton of
her dress threatened to unravel in places. She wore a dingy
cotton tee shirt under it like someone might wear under a
pair of overalls. Her hair was pulled back in a pink rubber
band.
“Don't worry. I do it all the time.”
She chuckled at Rod. “Right. You're just bein' nice
now.” They both stood at the same time.
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Rod smiled. “I wondered if you heard about the
accident here.” He tipped his head to the spot near the
ditch.
“Yeah. I heard. Awful thing.” She shook her head.
“People can be so sick.” She rolled her eyes and then
squeezed them tight. “I can't believe they just left that
poor little thing on the side of the road.”
Rod took a breath in.
“It was a fawn.” She made a tsk-sound between her
teeth.
He hadn't even considered the deer that had been
killed, realizing that this woman was more concerned
about the animal than his own flesh and blood.
“Moved it myself. One of Ida Mae's, I'm certain of
that. She feeds 'em. She's gonna die when she finds out.
Haven't had the heart to tell her, ya know, on the phone.”
Bobby began to walk away back to the ditch but
came to the end of his lead, dragging Rod's arm around
behind him.
“Wait, Bobby.” He pulled him back with a bit of
coaxing.
“He's a cute li’l fella, ain't he.” She smiled down,
clutching the mail to her chest again.
“Yes. He is.”
“Bobby, ya say?”
“Yes. His name's Bobby.”
“Cute.” She took a deep breath in. “Well, I better go.
Got another house to check in on.” She nodded. “Bye.”
She said with a sort of southern kick to it.
“Bye,” Rod responded. “Oh, and thanks.”
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“Sure, but I don't know what for.” She waved as she
walked off. “Bye!”
Rod tipped his head at her and then walked off with
Bobby, dragging him past the spot near the ditch and
farther down the road, away from there, back to their
home.
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FIFTY-THREE
“QUIT ACTING OUT.” ROD SPOKE through
clenched teeth and jerked Bobby's lead, hard, as he
dragged him away from the accident site. “Stop. I can't do
this.”
Bobby still strained against the lead looking behind
them, wanting me to follow.
But I couldn't seem to move.
Without Fawn, I felt a complete and utter disconnect,
like I might just sink to the earth’s core. It felt like
standing in the road with a car approaching fast, with my
feet nailed to the ground.
Without Fawn, my range had shrunk. My presence
felt strongest in the exact place I'd died but began to fade
at the edges.
Then terror cloaked me. An understanding that
without Fawn I might be stuck roaming this exact spot—
partially on, partially off—forever.
I watched Rod slump onto the side of the road, near
a grassy embankment just around the corner of where he
and Jenny had spoken. My hands reached for him but the
tips of my fingers began to disintegrate. I quickly pulled
them back. Bobby's rope remained tightrope tight he
leaned so hard toward me.
“You have to get Rod to take you to the ferry!” I
screamed to him.
“Come on, Bobby!” Rod moaned as he pulled the
leash in, alternating with each hand, shortening the
distance between them. Bobby's feet stayed planted and
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he shuffled uncomfortably backward around the corner
but continued, leaning in toward me.
“I can't go,” I yelled to him. “Get to the ferry, Bobby!
Get to the ferry!”
Then, with one final thrust, Rod pulled Bobby out of
my sight.
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FIFTY-FOUR
“FAWN!” I YELLED. MY BODY walked the
entire circle of my small perimeter as I called out. “Fawn!
Can you hear me?”
My body felt weighted down and when I looked at
my feet I noticed they were plodding against the earth,
actually, within the earth, dragging like yoked oxen,
carving a trench through the dirt. Even so, I felt thin,
whispery thin, to the point I could walk through things,
like the bramble that lined the backside of the ditch and
the barbed fencing that hung between each jagged cedar
fence post.
But I'd lost my buoyancy in this spot and felt as
though the earth had started to weigh me down.
I called out again to Fawn but she didn't come back.
She didn't respond.
It made me think that she might be lost too, outside
my perimeter. Her feelings had been hurt when I turned
away from her and went to Bobby.
Now I was alone.
The hum of a motor sounded from around the corner
up the road toward our house. When it appeared, it was
barreling straight for me. I tried to run but couldn’t. I
pulled and pulled, trying to move my feet, to make my
way over to the ditch.
The car raced closer.
I pulled on one leg, attempting to dislodge it from the
doughy earth. Nothing.
The car was only a few feet from me so I put my
hands over my eyes.
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As it passed through me, I felt a hot wave drift
through me. It felt so real, so palpable that it made me
dizzy, sick dizzy.
I sat down right there on the road, my feet sunken
into the planet, as if stuck in a patch of wet cement.
Was this my destiny? Literally trapped ankle-deep in
the ground? Stuck to the spot where I'd died?
I had to locate Fawn. I felt as if my very survival
depended on it.
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FIFTY-FIVE
EVERY CHANCE BOBBY TOOK TO sniff the
ground, Rod tightened his pull, jerking him up and back
into a trot next to him.
“Heel, dammit, Bobby!”
The dog corrected his behavior but when the anger
quieted, he'd forget and once again, the way he used to,
before, he'd looked to the ground, for a spot to get some
familiar but distant whiff. Then, Rod would yank Bobby
by the collar, reminding him that this walk needed to end
sooner than he had hoped.
“Ridiculous.”
Puffs of air spewed from Rod’s lips, like a radiator
cap ready to blow off.
“You fool!” But he didn’t mean the dog.
Wrenching Bobby's leash all the way back home.
Giving up on the search.
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FIFTY-SIX
“WHAT DAY WOULD YOU LIKE to see the
doctor?” The receptionist spoke quietly through the phone
when she asked Rod.
“Um.” He paused and looked at the calendar on his
laptop, which cast an odd glow across the kitchen counter
where he sat, beer in hand. The second one since he and
Bobby returned from their walk.
When he put down the beer, his hand shook wildly.
He stuffed his hand under his arm to steady it. He felt his
heart pounding through his chest.
“Just a sec.” He held the phone away and took two
deep breaths. Then he grabbed the beer and downed four
fast gulps. He blinked hard and focused again on the
computer.
All the days on the screen looked the same, empty
boxes, Sunday through Saturday, all except for the
occasional holiday.
“Um. Tomorrow?”
“He's completely full tomorrow.”
Rod let out a huff and realized he sniveled out Oh my
God in the process.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Demsey. If you need to see him
sooner, we can fit you in at the end of today.”
“Today?”
“Yes.” Rod could sense a smile enter her voice.
“Today. He can see you if you wish.”
“What time?”
“4:30 p.m. Will that work for you?”
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He looked at the computer. It was 11:04 a.m. “Yes.
That will work.”
“Great, Mr. Demsey. We'll see you soon.” Her voice
sounded hopeful and kind.
Rod took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “Oh good.
Thank you. Thanks for fitting me in.”
“Anytime, Mr. Demsey. We always try to fit people
in need into the schedule.”
In need. “Yes. Right. 4:30?”
“That's right, Mr. Demsey. 4:30. PM.” She added
making her tone sound somehow dripping sweet, like he
was a child needing someone's hand to hold onto and she
was there extending hers.
When he hung up his face flushed red. He felt like an
idiot. A simpering whimpering noodle of a man. He'd
seen people like that before and always hated them.
Thought they should buck up, as his father used to say,
“Buck up, son. It's gonna get worse than this.”
People should listen more closely to their parents. Of
course, realizing this now didn't help in the least. The
worst had come and gone but the going had left him
useless, listless, with nothing more to look forward to than
lawn care and dog walks.
He'd only told her he wanted out and that he was
leaving because he was angry. He knew he would never
have gone through with it, never. He knew he would never
let the topic of him leaving go that far. But he knew this
too late.
So how do you tell that to someone who has died?
How do you take back something like that when
you'll never see her again?
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Do two negatives multiplied together make a
positive? That’s what we learn in math class. Rod
wondered if it were true in love. It sure didn’t seem to.
How do you multiply two bad acts together?
It didn't matter now.
All he had left was a crushing hopeless feeling.
Buck up. Deal with it.
Live with it.
Because, in the end, you can't change the past and
there's no way out of the pain you're suffering until you
die. No matter how much you might want to now.
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FIFTY-SEVEN
THE ACRID SMELL OF ALCOHOL and
disinfectant filled the air as Rod sat waiting in the
examination room. Well, the office.
Dr. Strick's office.
Again.
He held his hands together, which felt absurdly cold
and sweaty, in a death grip on his lap. His knees pressed
with such tension against the other that they ached. His
heart thumped audibly in his own ears and when he
looked down he could see his shirt shivering from each
beat.
Was that sweat he tasted? Really? Sweat? On his
own tongue?
The only good thing was that the buzzing in his ears
had stopped. But he wasn’t sure if that was really good
because he hadn’t noticed Hannah’s presence hanging
around lately.
He felt foolish sitting there. And, just as he was about
to spin out worrying on things about what men should and
shouldn't need, the heavy maple door swung open,
bringing with it the distinct smell of men's cologne. From
Rod's estimation, he figured sandalwood. Spicy.
Sickening.
“Rod!” The doctor's voice boomed but he kept his
eyes down on the chart in his hand as if reading his name.
Then, he held out his hand and introduced himself. “Dr.
Strick.”
Rod felt his eyes pinch. “Yes. I know. I've come to
see you before.”
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“Of course you have. It says that right here.” He
tapped at the paper.
Strick dropped into the chair across from Rod.
“That’s right. Of course. I remember. You had a little
mishap here, as I recall.” Strick looked down and scanned
his notes. “Yep. There it is.”
Rod rolled his eyes.
“Not to worry. You're not the only one. I seem to
have that effect on people sometimes.” Strick chuckled.
“Seriously. It happens. Don't give it another thought. You
should consider yourself lucky it happened here and not
while you were driving or walking down the stairs.
Right?”
Strick sounded way too upbeat for Rod, but he had
to agree with him on when to have and when not to have
a fainting spell.
“So, Rod. Oh. You don't mind I call you by your first
name, right?”
Rod wasn't sure how to answer the question. No,
might mean yes. And, yes, might mean no. “Rod's fine.”
“Great then. Rod.” He smiled and lowered a pair of
readers from his head onto the bridge of his nose. “Give
it to me. What seems to be the problem?” Strick pulled a
mechanical pencil from a pocket in his lab coat, clicked it
into use and flipped over to a new sheet of paper within
the chart, set the nib down onto the sheet and looked up,
expecting Rod to answer and Rod half expecting him to
take dictation as he rattled off all the problems he'd been
having over the past three months, since his first fiasco of
a visit.
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Rod took in a deep breath. He felt the uncomfortable
urge to just blurt out everything. Which shifted in seconds
to an urge to crumble and then again to cry.
Anything.
Something.
But Rod did nothing. Couldn't form a word. Stared
at the doctor as if doing so might make the words form.
He cocked his head to one side. He lifted his eyebrows.
Made a face that looked as if he needed a bowel
movement. Shrugged his shoulders, again. Opened his
mouth.
But nothing. At all. Came out.
Through all of Rod’s display, Strick appeared
hopeful, then sad, hopeful again and then defeated. He
dropped his charisma act.
“It's me, isn't it?” Strick's face went slack. “I'm not
very good with my newer patients. Especially at the
beginning. Act happy?” He smiled. “Act sad?” He pouted
out his bottom lip and frowned. “It always gets to this
point where I have to stop acting.”
Strick lifted his readers onto his head again and sat
back in his chair.
Rod leaned back too.
“You seem a tad nervous, Rod.” One side of the
doctor’s face pulled up into a half grimace.
Rod breathed in deep and then barely speaking said,
“Not nervous. Embarrassed.”
“I'm sorry, Rod. I didn't catch that.”
Louder, he repeated, “I'm not nervous. I'm
embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? At a psychiatrist's office?”
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Rod looked him squarely in the eyes. Strick cocked
his head as if to say, “Really?”
And then, all the walls fell down. Rod brought his
hands up to cover his face and rested his head in them on
his lap. He shook his head slowly at how ridiculous it
sounded.
“Look here, Rod. No one, and I mean not any of my
patients should ever feel embarrassed with me. Look at
me!” Tom had his hair combed in what could only be
defined as a beginner's comb over. His ears were overly
large. He had a paunchy midsection and he was short.
Things Rod hadn't noticed before when he crashed at that
first visit.
“Now...” Rod began but Tom cut him off with his
hands lifted in defense.
“Look. We all go from young and cute to old and
unattractive in a matter of a few years. It doesn't bother
me. Not really. Okay. It bothers me but there's nothing we
can do about it. Right?”
“Right.” Rod's response didn't sound as convincing
as Tom hoped for.
“Hey. Let's start this way. Follow my lead. I think
you'll know the first answer. Take a breath.” He waited
until Rod breathed back out. “Again. Take another one.”
He waited again. “That's right. Okay. Here it goes.” He
squinted into Rod's eyes. “Ready?” Rod nodded
tentatively. “Okay, then. Here's your first question, since
we're on the subject, if there was anything in the world
you could change, what would it be? And, I have lots of
tissue so have at it.”
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FIFTY-EIGHT
DR. STRICK STOOD NEXT TO ROD at the
receptionist's counter as she checked the doctor’s
schedule for the next four weeks. Rod couldn't believe he
was setting up appointments to see a shrink. His mind
rolled to before, a place that seemed safe, and he analyzed
what the Rod back then would think of who he'd become.
Pathetic. Weak. Mewly.
“Mr. Demsey?”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. That's fine. I have nothing on my
calendar for the next month.” He sort of smiled at how sad
it sounded, but the truth was the truth. No need to hide it.
Especially there.
Strick patted Rod on the shoulder, grabbed his
shaking hand, and pumped it once. “See you in a week. A
week. That's all. You be okay?”
Rod nodded.
“Good. But, if you think you need to talk before then,
you have the number. I can be reached, literally, twentyfour-seven.” He turned to leave but then stopped and
looked back at Rod. “Now that's sad.”
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FIFTY-NINE
THE SUNNY CHILL OF THE day startled him.
Rod only remembered how the interior of the office felt
stiff and warm, too warm. Still, the March temperatures
hadn't wanted to move much higher than the forties so,
Rod zipped his jacket up to just under his chin and pulled
out a pair of leather driving gloves.
When he looked toward his truck, he noticed Bobby
already peering through the back window. His forepaws
hung over the top of the seat and he held his mouth parted
in what looked like a smile—a dog smile but a smile
nonetheless.
Bobby shook under the motion of his tail wagging.
A fierce happy wag.
“Hey Bobby.”
The dog yipped once and looked away but then
quickly looked back at him as he pulled himself off the
seat. By the time, Rod got to the truck, he'd jumped up
onto the arm of the driver's door.
“Get down.”
Bobby yipped and pulled himself back and off the
armrest.
“Thataboy.” Rod opened the door and Bobby moved
toward him. “Stay back.” But Bobby persisted acting as if
he wanted out. “Do you need out? To pee-pee?”
The little white dog's body shivered feverishly at
Rod's words.
“Okay. Hold on.” Rod clipped his leash onto the
dog's halter. Then, with one swooping motion, Rod
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grabbed the little dog under his belly and glided him down
to the ground.
Bobby bolted over to the landscaped area of the
office complex at the edge of the parking lot. He lifted his
leg and did his duty but then acted like he wanted to linger
about, sniffing the ground and stalks of plant life. Rod let
him. He was in no hurry to get back to an empty house.
As he let the dog maneuver about the grounds of the
building, Rod noticed a couple coming out of the same
door. He recognized the guy from the ferry. He figured
the woman must be the guy’s wife. What was her name
again? Shoot.
There they were walking straight over. The woman
saying something quietly, behind her hand. They were
smiling like teenagers caught in the act. The ferry guy—
what was his name, now?—nodded as they approached.
Rod felt himself nod back. He searched his memory
desperately to remember his name. What was it again?
Was it...
“Rod! Hey, man.”
Rod instinctively switched Bobby's lead into of his
left hand, held out his right and their two hands connected.
“Hey...”
“You remember Gliddy, don't you?”
“Of course I do. Hey, Gliddy. How've you been?”
She tipped her head and made a face of pity, a look
he'd become accustomed to over the past several months.
“I'm fine, Rod, but how are you doing?” She tipped her
head the other way. Amazingly, none of her red curly
locks moved. In either direction. They stayed there almost
like a helmet. A helmet with curls.
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“Getting along.”
She elbowed her husband. He responded as if he
were on a witness stand.
“Oh. We go to marriage counseling.”
At that Gliddy elbowed him harder. “Danny!”
Danny. His name was Danny. “Not that!” She pressed her
eyes into his and tightened her jaw. “The other.”
“What other?” Danny looked totally confused.
The exchange made it obvious to Rod why they were
in therapy.
Then Danny bent his knees once in an Aha! moment
bounce, and shouted, “Oh!” And, smiling apologetically
at Gliddy, he said, “That!” He popped himself in the
forehead with the butt of his hand.
“Oh, yeah. Okay.” Danny looked between Rod and
Gliddy. “Duh.” He rolled his eyes and continued, “Okay.
Well, yes. Thanks, Gliddy. I, um, I was looking through
some old video of the ferry cam.”
“Yeah?” Rod's word sounded long and drawn out.
He held Bobby's leash in a death grip.
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SIXTY
ROD STOOD BEHIND DANNY WHO sat
perched on a cheap, yellow naugahyde-covered stool. The
thing creaked as Danny moved to type or turn around to
see Rod's expressions. Especially, when he landed on
something he deemed of great importance.
The ferry terminal office smelled like a combo
platter of the BBQ pork sandwich and cigarette smoke
that seeped in from outside and looked governmentefficient in its décor—chalky composite tile floors,
eggshell white painted walls and window trimming,
chipped sky blue Formica counters that ran in an L-shape
of two walls, a stubby black metal microphone used for
announcing ferry arrivals and departures, a corkboard
with the latest ferry schedule secured with pink plastic
thumbtacks, a 1980s bone-colored phone.
And a thin laptop, a printer and a video monitor that
housed the controls for the ferry cam.
Rod breathed in when Danny pointed to the next still
screen he'd copied and pasted into a file he'd labeled,
DEMSEY-FOOTAGE-12192011(b).wsdot.com—two
weeks after Hannah's death.
“Wow. Two weeks later?” Rod leaned onto his left
leg and placed a hand onto the counter.
“I did a little diggin'.” Danny turned to Rod and
smiled. Rod smiled back but didn't take his eyes off the
computer's display.
“There.” Danny pointed again and turned to check
Rod's face.
“I don't see...”
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“The fatboy.” He pointed to an unmanned
motorcycle on one side of the ferry.
“Oh.” Rod bent in to get a closer look. “No one's on
it.”
“They went upstairs inside the ferry.” Then his finger
slid over the screen to the other side of the gaping auto
deck. “Look.” It landed on two men in motorcycle gear
standing outside on the upper deck standing on opposite
sides of the platform but when he pulled in for a close-up,
the picture became grainy and distorted.
“Two of them?”
“They both boarded late. There's probably more
bikes at the front but we don't have a shot of that.”
“Why do you think...?”
“Here.” Dan shrunk the screen and reversed the
footage to when they boarded. “Right. Here.” He said as
he clicked through to another scene. “This one shows
them in action.”
Rod felt a sudden urge to use the bathroom but
remained stuck to the floor next to Danny. He knew it was
just his nerves playing havoc with his bladder.
“See?” Danny looked up at Rod and pointed sliding
his middle finger across the screen, following the two
bodies as they moved.
“They split up.”
“Looks like it, why else would one take the port set
of stairs and the other the starboard set?”
“Play it again.” The words sounded like a command.
“I mean, will you? I want to see it again.”
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“Sure.” Danny pulled the gadget on the video's
screen back to its start position and the footage began
again.
They both watched as if for the first time. Locked.
Mesmerized by what they were witnessing.
“I talked to Scott. I hope you don't mind that but I
asked him about the crime scene. For a few specifics. Ya
know, for public information.”
“Ahh.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to check and thought you
might be interested in what I'd found.”
“Yeah. I am.” Rod's eyes stayed locked on the screen
until he felt Danny watching him. Rod straightened his
back and looked at him. “Thanks, man.” He rubbed a hand
through his hair, turned away from the computer and
leaned against the Formica counter. “Wow. I don't know
what to think.”
Danny grimaced but then turned it into a smile as he
spoke. “I showed Scott too.”
Rod seemed to hear him in slow motion because it
took him a few seconds to respond. “Oh. That's good.
They need to know.”
“That's what I thought.” Danny pushed the laptop
closer to the wall, spun on his stool, and leaned his back
against the counter like Rod. “I mean. I can't imagine why
they didn't scour through these things in the first place.”
“Well, like you said before, they're shot in segments
not sequential. Right?”
“Right. But, still ... you know ... you'd think.”
“Right.” Rod turned to Danny. “So, what did Scott
say?”
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“He said, they'd ‘look into it.' Ya know. The standard
cop answer when they don't know what to say.”
One side of Rod's mouth lifted in a half-smile. He
held out his hand to shake Danny's. His hand felt rough
and cold and somewhat sticky from eating his sandwich.
“Wow. Thanks, man. I mean. Maybe this is
something. Right?”
“Maybe.”
Rod turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Oh.
Hey. Can you blow up that shot of the bike? I mean, can
you see the plates?”
Danny spun back to face the counter. Rod stood
behind his shoulder again.
Danny pulled his computer closer again, clicked and
dragged a portion of the image, copied and pasted it into
a new document and then resized it. He hit print and the
printer squeezed out a fuzzy image with six distinct green
numbers displayed on the Washington state-issued white
license plate.
They lived in the same state.
Rod felt his heart palpitate. He was walking but he
didn’t know how his legs were still holding him up.
Danny watched him as he moved within the confines of
the small terminal office.
“You may want to check with Scott. See what they
think.”
Rod pointed to the ferry schedule to the very next
departure from Santa Maria to the mainland.
“Huh?”
“You might wanna call Scott.”
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Rod smiled a fake smile at Danny then said, “Of
course. Sure.” Then he moved toward the door and pushed
out.
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SIXTY-ONE
“HEY, ROD.” THE UNIFORMED GAL sitting at
the entrance checkpoint just inside the stock metal,
double-safety doors at the police station chimed with a
cheery voice when he walked in. Her name was Sandy.
Rod knew her from around town just like everyone knew
everyone else—from around.
“Sandy.” He pressed his lips tight. “Is Scott around?”
“Sure thing. I'll buzz you in. He's in his office.” She
pressed the switch that unlocked the secure door. “He
expecting you?” She asked, a little too late, after
unlocking the doors that housed the offices inside the
station.
Rod didn't answer and Sandy didn't stop him but he
could see she shrugged her shoulders and was about to
twirl to stand, possibly to stop him but the phone rang and
Sandy responded, “Santa Maria County Sheriff's
department. Is this an emergency?”
Rod walked, unchecked, around a set of file cabinets
by the door to Sandy's post and over to the door where
Scott worked.
He rapped once on the open door, which bore a thick
plank of oak with a name plate that read SCOTT
JOHNSON and below his name read his title UNDER
SHERIFF.
Scott looked up and smiled. “Rod!” Scott wore his
standard police-grade khaki uniform, thick black belt and
clipped to it his holster was a 9mm handgun—all standard
issue—and he extended his hand.
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“How the hell are you? You know, I've been thinkin'
about you...”
But, Rod's face didn't budge. His teeth were set firm,
as if biting on a bullet. He ignored Scott’s hand and
instead closed the office door behind him.
“How long have you known?” Scott gestured for him
to sit down.
“No thanks. I think I'll stand for this one.”
He walked up to Scott, chest to chest. Way too close.
Scott paused, squinted slightly and turned to go back
behind his desk. He placed his shooting hand on his
holster.
“You better sit.”
“I said, I'm fine.”
“Do as you please.” Scott sat down slowly and
squinted again. He tapped his fingers on top of his desk.
“I asked you a question.”
“Please. Repeat it.”
“I said, 'How long have you known?'“
“Enlighten me. Known what?” Scott frowned.
“The video from the ferry cam?”
Scott’s face slackened, went blank and Rod couldn't
read him. It was a look between shock and
embarrassment, anger and sympathy. “Yes. Well. We're
looking at the case again.”
“I would assume so!” Rod grabbed the back of the
guest chair, picked it up just inches and slammed it back
down into place. “How could you? Dammit, Scott. Don't
you think that's a little information that I might want to
hear about?”
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“It's an ongoing investigation...” He was about to say
the standard protocol mumbo-jumbo but Rod cut him off,
again.
“Baloney! Scott. It's me.” He jabbed a finger into his
own chest and then added, “Me!” He slammed his fist
onto the back of the chair.
“I'm between a rock here, Rod.” Scott looked sad.
“Don't you think I wanted to tell you?” He swiveled his
chair out and stood. “Don't you think that? Of course, I
wanted to tell you, but...” He walked over to where Rod
stood in front of him now and placed both his hands onto
Rod's shoulder.
Rod twisted away from him.
“Look. We have to make sure of several things.”
Rod looked at him as if to say, Yeah. Like what?
“It's standard operating procedure. What can I say?
Because you're one of my best friends...”
Rod huffed at his comment.
“...because you're one of my best friends,” He
repeated slowly for the words to settle in Rod's mind, “I'm
supposed to stop doing my job? When this is a time you
need me to do my job the best that I can?” He slammed a
palm down onto his desk. “Dammit. Rod. We cannot
afford to mess this up. I want to find this bastard just as
much as you do.”
Scott walked around his desk and sat back down. “I'll
keep you informed each step I take. How does that
sound?”
“It sounds like you're appeasing me.”
“Come on, man. I can't involve you in your own
wife's murder investigation. If they've left the state there
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are extradition rules, forms, lawyers,” Scott said bitterly.
“You know how complex this is. The incident is
categorized as vehicular homicide. If we do everything
right, we can get it to court with intention, we can amp up
the charges to murder. I. Do. Not. Want this one screwed
up.”
Murder. The word made Hannah's death seem so
much worse than it had been before. This was the first
Rod had heard it referred to as such.
He sat and let Scott have his say.
“Okay?” Scott asked.
Rod stood without responding.
“Okay?” Scott repeated demanding Rod to respond.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say you're okay with it.”
He spoke unconvincingly, “I'm okay with it.”
As they looked at each other, Rod's eyes burned.
Scott searched Rod's face. Then he smiled, in an attempt
to cover a look that might show Scott what he was going
to do in the next few hours.
That's all he felt he had. A few hours.
He couldn't wait for protocol. He had to act.
“Look. We're on it.” Scott turned Rod toward the
door with a hand on his back. “Like Blue Bonnet.” Then
he added, “And, by the way, next time you pop in for a
visit, Rod? Do it nicely. Ya gotta come in here nicely. I
certainly don't want to put you on our blacklist.”
Then, he chuckled. It sounded happy, too happy
maybe. Rod took Scott's comments as words of warning.
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SIXTY-TWO
“WELL, CRAP, SCOTT. HE OUGHTA know.”
Danny's skin moistened and his face turned red as he
spoke into the receiver. He pulled the handset away from
his ear and mouthed a profanity at the mouthpiece and
rolled his eyes then put the receiver back to his ear.
“Yeah. Whatever. I gotta go.” Then stopped. “Yes.
Like I said, he left on the last boat.” Waited again then
spoke. “Because, I told you, if he didn't board, then no
harm no foul. But he did, on the 11:05 and now I'm
calling.”
Danny paused again listening. “Dammit, Scott, I was
loading a flippin’ boat, that's why I didn't call sooner. I
called as soon as I got done.” He rolled his eyes as he
listened once again then interrupting he said, “Scott.
Scott! Listen man. He's got a photo of one of the bikes. It
has a clear image of the plates.”
He jumped and pulled back the phone again, then he
barked out his response. “He said he got their information
via some reverse look-up online. Look. I gotta go. Take it
out on them, not me!” He slammed the receiver down onto
the outdated phone.
“Holy Cannoli!” Danny stood as if jumping into
action. “What am I, the flippin’ ferry police now?” He
stomped around the counter where the phone sat
innocently. “If you did your job, I wouldn't have to play
outfield for y'all, now would I? Son of a bi--” But just as
the word was being formed on his lips, a walk-on
passenger pushed through the door to ask him a question.
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SIXTY-THREE
AS THE FERRY PULLED AWAY from the dock,
Rod watched as the land became smaller and smaller.
Perspective was a funny thing. The farther away you got
from your target, the less chance you had to hit it. He
honestly wondered if he was closing in on it or losing
sight of it.
Rod pulled on Bobby's leash. He just needed a little
fresh air. The ocean smelled like pond water, like rotting
kelp, but he breathed it in as if breathing for the first time.
He checked his pocket. The tear of paper was still
there. Of course it was. He'd torn off a scrap from a sheet
of paper by the computer, something he'd been using to
scribble
on.
The
internet
search
of
www.freelicenseplatesearch.com wasn't exactly free, but
certainly worth the twenty bucks he had to pay to learn
the name and get the address from the plate of the
motorcyclist who ran down his wife.
“Come on, Bobby. Let's get to the car.” He led
Bobby to their vehicle and placed him inside. “Move over,
son,” he said. Then he stood in the fold between the door
and the car letting the brisk breeze wash over him.
He could feel an end nearing.
It felt, somehow, cleansing.
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SIXTY-FOUR
AS ROD CLIMBED INSIDE THE car, the ferries
motion nearly made the car door close on his leg. The
scent of his coffee dragged at his tired eyes and pulled him
inside the car with his dog.
That’s when his cell phone buzzed. He slammed the
door, straightened his legs and reached into his pocket. He
examined the digital display.
It read: JOHNSON, SCOTT
“Crap.” He grumbled. Bobby looked over but then
curled up on the passenger seat. He rested his head on the
console and watched Rod.
Rod answered his phone, “What?”
“Where are you?” Scott asked.
What no “Hello, Rod. How are you?
“What's it to you?”
“Don't do anything stupid, Rod.”
“Well, stupid is very subjective. Plus, it's a very large
subject, as I've been finding out.”
“Cut the bull, Rod. You can't go near these guys. You
have no proof at all...”
“Look, Scott. Tell it to the judge.” He hung up and
powered down his cell. “I don't need you telling me what
I should and shouldn't do.”
He cursed at the phone. Bobby lifted his head,
making Rod look over at him and pat him.
“Sorry 'bout that, Bobby. Daddy's angry with Uncle
Scott.”
Bobby licked his lips once, yawned, set his head
back down and squeezed his eyes into a tight line in an
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effort to sleep. Rod sipped at his coffee. The cream and
sugar in it turned his stomach.
Rod reached past Bobby's head to the glove
compartment. He breathed out a sad sigh and unlatched
the glove box.
Of course, it would still be there. He'd put in there
himself.
What? Would it have unlatched the lock itself and
walked away.
No.
Still...
...he had to look at it.
Had to see.
And, there it was. Bright and shiny. His .357 lay
innocently inside the yawn of the compartment.
Innocent?
No. Efficient.
...Deadly.
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SIXTY-FIVE
AS THE FERRY UNLOADED AT the Anacortes
dock, Bobby sat up to peer out the window. Rod's heart
thudded once in anticipation of what his next few moves
might be.
He blew out air from between his lips.
The ferry worker pointed at his car then directed him
to drive out of the lane, to the front of the boat and off the
boat onto the ramp, and onto his destination.
He'd made the same trip a thousand times before,
mostly with Hannah sitting next to him in the car where
Bobby now sat.
Just after the first stoplight onto the road that led into
town, 12th Street, a sign sat proudly: PORTAL TO THE
SANTA MARIA ISLANDS! All in white lettering and in
italics like someone's handwriting, juxtaposed with a blue
sky as the background.
As Rod drove the slow road toward the center of
town, he thought about Anacortes. The town had been
named after the wife of the explorer who discovered it,
Amos Bowman. His wife's name was Anna Curtis and
that was just about the sum of Rod's knowledge of the
history of Anacortes.
He made a silent vow to learn more after today. He'd
have lots of time to read after doing what he was about to
do—exacting vengeance on Hannah's killer.
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SIXTY-SIX
SCOTT WATCHED AS EACH THICK wave
curled up and under the front, sides and back of the county
sheriff’s twenty-eight-foot boat. The phrase “weather
permitting” crossed his mind and he made a sign of the
cross. “God willing,” he thought, and kissed a clenched
fist afterward.
He stood with a tight hand on the steerage at the
stern. Wearing cadmium yellow rain gear that made him
appear even bigger than he was and a lot like the logo of
a Gorton's fish sticks commercial, Scott muscled the small
craft through the vast water of the Santa Maria Straits
toward Anacortes.
The gunmetal lenses of his steel-rimmed sunglasses
blacked out his eyes completely but you didn't need his
eyes to tell what kind of mood he was in. A permanent
scowl on his lips, caused creases to droop off his jowls
also causing his neck muscles to bulge and throb.
Rod had to be stopped.
A spray of water drenched him. But he continued to
maneuver against the jarring attack on the boat from the
chop of the ocean.
He spit out saltwater and yelled over his shoulder at
someone standing inside the cabin of the cruiser. “Where
are they?”
“Still five miles due east of us.” The voice returned.
“Damnit! That's at least fifteen minutes ahead of us.”
Scott pounded the wheel but then another high wave
knocked the boat from the starboard side, making him
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grab hold of its wooden grip again. “I have this boat at full
tilt. If I push any harder we could go under.”
“Can't we call ahead? Stop the ferry, boss?”
“And tell 'em what? We have a grieving husband
who may or may not try to find someone who may or may
not live in Anacortes?” He fielded another onslaught of
high waves, cutting across them to keep from toppling the
small craft. “Nah. Wish we could.” He wiped an arm
across his upper lip. “Consider this more of a
complimentary call. No charges just yet.”
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SIXTY-SEVEN
ROD TURNED OFF OF 12TH Street onto M
Avenue. He wiped his hands smearing sweat on his pants
and then he let off the gas pedal. As he slowed, he scanned
address plaques, looking for 1106 24th St, #73. Twelve
blocks to the east, he knew where it was, and yet he
guided his car down the corridor as if it were the first time
he'd driven through this town.
The neighborhood sidewalk heaved in places where
grass and weeds shot up through cracks, giving the area a
shoddy feel. The cars parked along the street looked
chipped and dented. Seeing the disrepair of assets lining
the community somehow gave more meaning to Rod's
quest. Like the person who killed Hannah could've given
no more of a damn about her than he did his own rat-trap
of a home. Or car. Or sidewalk.
His eyes burned and he rubbed his sleeve against the
bridge of his nose.
Redirecting his eyes back onto the street plaques, he
inadvertently caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.
He looked like a rabid dog.
He tilted the mirror up to avoid seeing himself again.
Only seconds before he'd been a block away. Only a
day before, he'd given up all hope of ever finding
Hannah's killer.
A month whirled past his mind like an old film
flipping backwards on its reel.
Three months, only three months ago, almost to the
date, Hannah was still alive. No. It wasn't a perfect
marriage, but he remembered the last time she kissed him.
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They had just had another stupid spat. Something
about the cracked corn that had spilled in her car. When
he had seen the mess on the floorboard he unwound.
Totally lost it. For what? It was her car. But timing was
everything with them. When she was happy, Rod was
angry. When Rod was angry, Hannah was hotter than a
missile.
Timing had undone them and it was timing that
killed her. Bad timing. Just a bunch of crappy timing. A
marriage will always be rocky when a couple's timing is
off. Or, until together they make a directed effort to reset
their clocks to work in unison.
He continued to scan and stopped at an intersection
just before what looked like tenement housing with rows
of copycat windows stacked seven total, top to bottom.
The dwelling sat well off the beaten path, nearly hidden
from tourists who might get the wrong impression of the
town. A town known for its upper crust and its expensive
side, this neighborhood was definitely a deal breaker for
attracting new residents.
Rod barely checked oncoming traffic to the right
before continuing into the center of the four-way stop. He
heard a horn blast from his left. It came from a small truck,
gray-blue, with one door rusted out. It was only a foot
away. The woman behind the wheel, scraggly-haired and
middle-aged, flipped him off.
He felt his shoulders shrink as he cowered from her
outrage. He mouthed he was sorry, lifting his arms off the
steering wheel as if to say, What happened?
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But she mouthed something back that looked a lot
like a slam against his own mother. One he'd used himself,
once, when he was a hotheaded punk.
He thought age had a way of softening a person's
mind. Maybe not for that lady. But he did know that the
death of a family member had a way of lobotomizing a
person’s soul. So he rolled along meekly, away from the
woman, and edged his car toward the curb of the large
colorless building at 1106 24th Street.
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SIXTY-EIGHT
“WHEN DID THE SANTA MARIA ferry arrive?”
Scott bellowed from the police boat to a ferry worker at
the dock controls. He angled the craft as if parallel parking
up to a mooring, next to a ready cleat to tie off his rig.
“On time!” The ferry worker chimed, happily.
“What time is on time,” Scott growled back.
“One p.m., sir.”
“Son of a...” He gnarled as if spewing out lava. “We
lost five minutes.” But then Scott reacted fast. “Rex,” he
barked at his assistant, “tie this son of a mother's carcass
off.”
“Yes sir.” He jumped out from under the protective
canopy, grabbed the steering wheel and let Scott de-board
the boat.
Scott leapt a yard over the gap between the wooden
pier and the boat as it rocked under his feet farther away
from the dock.
“You can handle it?” He turned back to Rex asking.
“Yep. Can and will.”
Scott didn't say thank you. Instead, he double-timed
it across the dock and to the parking lot where the Santa
Maria County kept a vehicle for business use on the
mainland.
He breathed hard as he jogged, grumbling the entire
stretch about losing another five minutes. He looked at the
top of the vehicle. It had no emergency lights. Only the
Santa Maria County logo painted on its door.
Scott could taste bile in his mouth. He slowed his gait
and as he did, he pulled out a set of keys. Jogging as he
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went and clicking the open switch on the car's remote key
operator.
He only had about twelve feet to go.
Again, he looked at his watch.
Yep. And. Son of a mother's carcass. Five minutes
on the dot.
He was now thirty minutes behind Rod.
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SIXTY-NINE
I WAS STILL STUCK IN the road. But, now, I’d
sunk to mid-calf-deep.
I stopped cringing as cars raced through my spirit
body. In fact, I braved them all, standing proudly,
enjoying the whisking feel of winds thick and sultry
rushing into me and oozing out the other side. Almost. I
could sense each car slowing as it spent time within me.
I wondered if the drivers and passengers felt my
presence too.
I could certainly feel them and witness the good and
the bad of everyone in every car, truck, tractor and bus.
The good feelings lifted me up by millimeters out of the
pavement, while the bad ones sunk me lower.
Over the past few days, I had witnessed more bad
acts than otherwise. Still, my spirit soared and I
remembered someone saying, from a point neither past
nor present but somehow from all times, to count all
tribulation as joy. So I lifted my hands when a school bus,
shorter than those that I’d seen in the big city, rounded the
bend and plowed into me. A load of school kids sang a
tune from a cartoon. The lilt funneled into me well before
the bus entered my spirit and for an indeterminable
amount of time but they sang loudly, along with the driver
whose smile felt like the cool water, so natural and
purifying it was.
And, as it passed through the other side, it tugged me
up, higher, back to ankle deep.
It turned down around the corner and onto the road
where I used to live.
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My heart fell. I missed my family. Bobby. Rod. My
Mother.
Fawn. Where could Fawn have gone?
I called out not so quiet that would seem like a
whisper, but not screaming either, “Fawn.” And waited.
And waited some more.
But, no one answered back, not even my own echo.
Silence.
“Fawn!” I yelled a little louder this time.
Nothing.
Just complete silence.
I touched my cheek. An angel tear sparkled on the tip
of my finger. Pearl and opal fluid formed a droplet that
soon broke apart and trickled off.
The tear seemed to give me permission to cry.
I sat on to the road, brought my head to my knees,
and covered my face.
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SEVENTY
THE SOUND OF ANOTHER CAR headed my
way broke the moment. At the same time, a tiny lone baby
raccoon had begun to cross the road.
“No!” I screamed. But, of course, the small creature
couldn't hear me.
The car, a silvery blue SUV, continued to pick up
speed after making the corner and plowed down the
corridor. Faster than the speed limit.
Toward where the tiny animal was making its track.
I figured the little beast couldn't be more than a
month old.
It must've gotten separated from its mother.
Shooing at the little fellow didn’t work so I
screeched, shook my arms and flailed with as much
emotion as I could muster. No!
Turning, I saw the blue car was almost on top of us
both.
NO!!! I screamed and, covering her eyes, let
whatever was coming next come.
When the car's tires locked and the gears whinnied
out in pain, my hands opened like a set of barn doors.
The SUV skidded to a curving stop. Rubber on the
ground formed two parallel charcoal S marks when the
brakes grabbed and the tires stopped spinning forward,
forward, forward...
A larger raccoon appeared chattering from the side
of the road, where the littler one had emerged. It was
puttering, cooing and whooping, calling its baby back to
cover. To safety.
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The woman inside the vehicle appeared stunned. She
clasped both hands tight on the wheel, with her chin on
top of it. After watching the baby raccoon escape, she
rolled her eyes, leaned back against the driver's seat and
blew out in a sigh of relief.
Checking again, to both sides of her car and once into
her rearview mirror, the lady maneuvered the gear shift
and eased the car forward in an extra cautious manner.
I stood up as her car neared and lifted my arms.
It was a good decision for me.
The car was filled with good people—the woman
and her kids in the back seat. They filtered through me
and lifted me out of the mire. I smiled, tipped my head
back and giggled as I pivoted. Finally, one foot was free.
As they drove off, the little girl in the car turned and
plastered her hands to the rear window. She looked right
at me and waved. I waved back and giggled. Then, she
must’ve realized I was a spirit because her eyes widened
then she covered her mouth with both hands just before
turning the corner and driving off.
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SEVENTY-ONE
THE LITTLE GIRL'S PINK FACE was smudged
with food. With the door open, Rod smelled a toxic whiff
of cigarette smoke leaching through outside where the
two of them stood, the girl looking up at him and Rod
looking down at her.
“Shut the door!” A woman’s voice rang out from
inside.
Rod peered deeper behind the girl into the darker pit
of her home but the little girl stepped out and closed the
door behind her.
“Hi.” Rod said looking back down at her and forcing
a smile.
“Hello.” Her voice sounded like Minnie Mouse to
him, making him smile for real this time.
She smiled back. A tooth was missing, layering more
innocence on her already pure presence.
“That your Mom?”
She nodded her head and her mouth parted like she
might scream for her mother.
“It's okay. Don't worry.” Rod bent down to her level.
“I'm just wondering if Tucker is here.” His hands
trembled at saying the boy’s name.
The waif shook her head again, no.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
This time she stepped across the threshold and closed
the door behind her.
As she walked past Rod, she shook her head again,
but this time ran to get her two-wheeler—a miniature
version of an adult woman's bicycle and with pink
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handles, pink fringe, and a white plastic basket clipped to
the handle-bar and training wheels that would keep her
from tipping the bike when she rode.
“I can take you,” she chirped.
Rod felt a curious connection to the girl who looked
markedly like Hannah's picture as a child. He figured that
most little girls must appear as pixie waifs around this age,
full of that thorough innocence that reminds you of a
daisy.
“You can?”
“Sure.”
She toed the kickstand out of the way, mounted her
training bike and stood on the pedals propelling herself
forward with the bicycle.
“See?” She asked Rod. “I can ride a two-wheeler!”
Glee exuded from her.
“You're good.”
“Thanks.” Her lips formed broke into a big smile, a
contagious expression that Rod mimicked back.
But then his smile evaporated and he asked, “Where
is Tucker?”
“At the Brown.” She chimed.
“The Brown?”
“You'll see.” It was all a game to her.
Rod tipped his head, and took a deep breath, trying
to regain his courage.
The little girl would lead him to Tucker. The person
who killed Hannah.
He'd get answers. Once and for all.
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SEVENTY-TWO
“OH.” ROD STOPPED. “WAIT A SEC.”
He veered away from the girl toward his car and
opened the passenger door. He clicked open the glove
compartment, pulled out the weapon, stuffed it into his
waistband, and snapped up his jacket. Then he grabbed
the leash and beckoned Bobby over. The dog jumped
from the driver's seat onto the passenger's and his crimson
tongue lopped out with excitement and his tail wagged
with anticipation and the prospect of.
“Yeah. We're going for a walk.” Rod confirmed as
he let Bobby jump down to the dingy dove-colored slab
of sidewalk.
He slammed the door as he walked back toward the
little girl and blipped his remote once to lock the car.
“Okay.” His tactic worked. The little girl only
noticed the dog, not the gun.
Her eyes got even bigger than before, if that was
possible. “A puppy!” she squealed.
But when Rod got to her, she wouldn't move. Her
demeanor had changed. She looked scared, in fact.
“What?” He asked.
“Mom says I'm not to talk to strangers.”
“Oh. Well...” And as he was about to tell her his
name, she interrupted him.
“I'm Ruthie.” She stuck out her petite hand.
He looked at the size of her arm, this time taking in
how tiny this girl was, this Ruthie. The smooth skin that
only kids have, a peachy softness, the physical equivalent
to innocence exemplified. Her eyes were big doe-y pools
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of question marks swirling with a promise of future, like
becoming a ten-year-old one day, then a teenager, then an
adult.
Those visions little girls have of being like her
mother, or sister if she even had one. The ideal future
lived there in Ruthie's eyes.
“I'm Rod.” He grinned and stuck out his hand to meet
hers. “This is Bobby.”
The little dog sat with perfect manners.
Limply, like a fragile toy, she lifted her hand up
once, then down, in their handshake, as she'd most likely
seen other grownups do. Then she slid her hand, a fifth
the size of Rod's out of his hand to pet Bobby's head.
“He's so cute,” she said in her Minnie Mouse voice.
Bobby wagged his tail again and Ruthie looked up at
Rod as if for assurance.
“He likes you.”
“Come on! Let's go see Tucker!” she chimed. Then
Ruthie plastered her hands onto the bike's bars, stood high
on both thick rubber pedals and pushed with a bunch of,
what Rod would call, effort down the sidewalk. The same
sidewalk that would lead them to her brother.
Tucker.
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SEVENTY-THREE
I SAT AND PULLED, BOTH hands clutching my
left ankle, with as much effort as possible. As my sentient
adult self, I could've been able to wedge the other foot out
of my shoe and then out of the ground. But as a kid in the
afterlife, my earthbound strength was not nearly enough
to unlock my feet.
The grainy pavement poked nubs into my rear end
but I refused to relent.
Then, another car drove around the corner. This time,
I leaned back, lying back onto the ground, allowing it to
miss me.
A fierce, definite sensation melted over me.
Rod's face came into view. Just his face. Like a
snapshot in a photo.
He looked tired. His shaggy hair was grizzled
somehow and his beard stubbled. Lines formed around his
red eyes. He looked like he’d reached a maximum level
of stress and couldn’t take one more thing to happen. I
remembered that look.
This was the first time since I’d gotten stuck in the
ground that I’d seen him.
His frown indicated worry, hatred and sorrow all at
the same time. A thin layer of moist film covered his raw,
angry eyes.
He looked demented and dangerous. That's how
contorted his brow looked. I saw a distinct edge one can
only describe as pain. And, if pain were to have a color, it
would look like Rod's skin—pasty and sallow. He
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frightened me and my heart broke as I viewed this image
of him.
Then, Rod’s vision seemed to call to me. I didn’t see
the car coming and stood the moment as it zoomed
through me—one filled with bad energy that anchored my
legs deeper into the tarry terrain.
I buckled and began to weep—for me, for Rod, for
my dog.
A thick wind whipped my hair into my face.
I hollered for Fawn, but again got no response.
I squinted my eyes so hard my eyes almost disappear
into their sockets.
I breathed in super deep—once, twice, three times—
and yelled with everything I had in me.
“Rod!”
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SEVENTY-FOUR
ROD, RUTHIE AND BOBBY STOOD waiting for
the coming ferry traffic to let up. It seemed like miles
long. But when he couldn't wait any longer, he put out a
hand to an oncoming car, making it stop and the three of
them crossed 12th Street.
A police car coming from the other way stopped for
them too and let them cross safely. Rod nodded to the cop,
a stocky-looking woman with her hair knotted under her
cap. She frowned at Rod for jaywalking and pointed an
angry finger to the side of the road. Then, she rolled down
her window and called out, “Use the crosswalk next time,
sir.”
Rod lifted up an apologetic palm and called out that
he was sorry. The trio hustled over to the other side of the
road. Rod lifted Ruthie's bike up by the handlebars and
seat and set the small bike up onto the sidewalk so that
Ruthie didn't have to dismount her trusty two-wheeler.
Bobby stayed out in front of both of them at the end
of his lead and, once they got onto the sidewalk, he shook
his coat then sat and waited for Rod and Ruthie to get
situated.
“Okay, Ruthie. Where is the Brown?”
“There and down that way.” She pointed up to the
Anacortes main drag of Commercial Road, curving her
finger left past 12th Street. Rod could see the street end
where the ocean began. The Brown was somewhere
between them.
“Downtown?”
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Ruthie gave an exaggerated head-bob. “Uh-huh.”
Then added her usual Ruthie-ism: “You'll see.”
They all started walking again but then Rod stopped
as if he'd walked into an invisible wall. “Did you hear
that?” His question sounded more like someone waking
from an odd dream.
“Huh?” Ruthie answered.
He turned to look behind him, for someone. “Did you
say something?”
“Nuh-uh.” She shook her head, making her mousebrown curls flip around her face.
“Someone called my name. Sounded like a girl.” He
spun around looking to the other side of the road but no
one was there. “That’s weird. I thought I heard...” He
trailed off, confused. “Oh well.” They started walking
again but Rod glanced behind himself just to make sure,
but saw nothing.
“Do you still want to see Tucker?”
He looked down at Ruthie. “Yes.” He paused. “Yes.
I do.”
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SEVENTY-FIVE
I SCREAMED AGAIN, THIS TIME with more
force, “Rod!”
And pointed my ear to the east, hoping to catch a
sound of anything, a voice, something that resembled a
reply.
But, the wind whipped, scudding clouds over the tree
tops, over swatches of farmland and bending a hedgerow
of poplars that lined old Farmer Johnson's road. His cows
stood near the fence close by watching me. Some were the
color of chalk, some were black but with all them standing
there together, they looked distorted like a crazy set of
piano keys. They brayed and cluttered my hearing along
with the wind.
A distant plane coursed overhead.
A melancholy church bell rang, but was muffled by
rustling branches and the sighing wind.
I called out, even harder than before, hoping he
would hear me. “Rod!” Then once more.
But, only the earth and the whistling sky answered.
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SEVENTY-SIX
RUTHIE STOPPED OUTSIDE AN ANTIQUE
door to a tavern. A brass sign swung from the eave over
the walkway and read THE BROWN LANTERN. Ruthie
pointed to a stained-glass door. The window was in the
shape of a lantern.
“Here,” Ruthie proclaimed proudly.
“Oh.” Rod's heart jumped.
“The Brown.”
“Okay. You're a great scout. Thank you, Ruthie.”
She smiled proudly and jumped up onto her pedals
acting as if she were going to push off and ride away, back
home.
“Wait. Ruthie.”
She stopped but planted her feet evenly on both
pedals standing high on her bike, in a neutral position.
“What?”
“Well, um. I can't take Bobby inside a food
establishment.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So, um. I'm wondering if you can go in and
get your brother for me.”
“Tucker.”
“Yeah. Right.” Adding a name to Hannah’s killer
didn’t help. Rod didn't want to add any human quality to
him. He paused but then said his name back. “Yeah.
Tucker.”
“Sure.” And, at that, Ruthie jumped off with both
feet, landing in a semi-squat. She stood up straight like a
tiny Olympic gymnast, looked at Rod for approval, who
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nodded and smiled at her. Then, with all of the clumsiness
of a child, she ran to the door, pulling it open with a great
amount of effort, and screamed into the dark tavern,
“Tucker!” With her full voice.
Rod stuck his foot in-between the door and the door
jamb holding it ajar.
From inside, Rod heard a male voice respond. It
sounded far off, deep inside the building, “Ruthie, what
the hell are you doin' here?” The boy's voice pitched up in
anger. “Hold on. Dammit Ruthie. Wait outside. And shut
that door behind you!”
Ruthie walked back out and looked up at Rod. “He's
coming.”
“Great.” Rod's face twisted as he tried to form a
smile. His heart thrummed fast.
“Can I go home now?”
He almost didn't hear her.
Then two things happened...
The door of the Brown blew open.
And Rod heard a girl’s voice calling his name again.
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SEVENTY-SEVEN
“CASCADE CALLING DAVID-2, WE have an
urgent request from SMC-2. Pick up.”
Patrol Captain Jim Little bit a chunk off his apple.
He was heading east down R Street toward Highway 20,
keeping traffic to a crawl as he motored along the 25 mph
strip. The call, dispatched from Mount Vernon—
otherwise known as “Cascade”—originated from the
Santa Maria County Sheriff's Department. He figured
upper echelon, with the number-two ranking.
He placed the apple he'd been gnawing on fully into
his mouth, picked up his radio handset and depressed the
talk button. “David-2 here. Whaddup?” The words
muffled around the apple jammed in his mouth. Jim
sounded young for his fifty-two years, but the apple
subtracted ten more years. He released the button for the
dispatcher to speak.
“A possible fight in progress.” Cascade alerted him.
Jim dropped the apple between his legs. “Possible?”
“That's what SMC-2 says.”
“Where?”
“The Brown.”
“Good gravy. Sometimes that place...” he said, then
depressed the button. “Has anyone from the Brown called
this in?”
“David-2, sir, we only have data from SMC-2, sir.
Out.”
Jim blew out air through his lips. “Wonderful. Great.
I'm responding.”
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He pulled off to the side and let the car idle. He
emptied his handgun and then popped open a case and reloaded it with six red-tipped bullets.
Then, he flipped the car into drive and Officer Little
swung his vehicle around the other way, due west but
didn't flip on the sirens or his lights.
He swore silently again at the island out there that
seemed to send over more than their fair share of
criminals off the ferry straight into Anacortes. After
mulling it over, Jim flicked the switch to his lights and
sped up another five miles over the speed limit.
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SEVENTY-EIGHT
“TUCKER!” RUTHIE RAN AND JUMPED into
his arms when her brother emerged. “You smell like
beer.” She giggled.
A siren wailed in the distance, sounding like a dying
bird. It was heading toward town. A wind kicked up and
knocked Rod off balance.
When it did, he reached under his jacket and grabbed
at his belt.
The door swung closed slowly behind Tucker but
then reopened quickly when another boy, a shorter one
with curly red hair, came through.
Even though the ferry cam image had been grainy,
Rod could tell these were the ones. The two young men
standing there in front of him were Hannah’s killers.
Rod and Tucker's eyes connected for only a second
when Rod grabbed his head and bent forward. “Ahh!” He
roared as an electric jolt shot through his head, causing
him to lift both of his hands to his temples.
In his right hand, he clutched his gun.
Tucker gasped.
Ruthie's face looked stricken. She screamed.
The red-haired boy cowered behind Tucker as he
stood there holding Ruthie in his arms.
Rod's face contorted. He looked behind him,
searching for the voice calling him. “Do you hear that?”
He yelled in pain.
“Oh, man?” Tucker's voice shook with fear.
“Hear? That girl. She keeps calling me.”
“Hey man. I don't hear anything.”
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But, all at once it stopped, the pain and Hannah’s
voice. Rod stood slowly. His face looked sweaty, oily.
Deep wrinkles carved out frames around his eyebrows,
around his eyes and his mouth.
He brought down the gun, not realizing he was
wielding it around like a baton.
They stood there, shoulders moving fast with their
breathing, looking at one another. Tucker's face went
white. He was holding his breath, waiting for something
to happen. Then his face turned red. He looked at Ruthie,
then past Ruthie.
Rod thought he might bolt, take off. So he lifted his
gun.
Then, everything changed. Tucker's demeanor went
dark, like a light switch being flipped off.
Staring off in the distance, the one siren had become
two and Rod could see their flashing lights heading
toward them, a mile down the road.
Then Bobby barked and jolted Rod.
“Bobby. No.” Rod commanded but Bobby had gone
into attack mode. He lowered his shoulders to the ground
and bared his teeth, then scuffled closer to Tucker but
reached the end of his leash.
Rod had never seen Bobby act this way. He wasn’t
acting like a dog who just heard a knock at the door. He
was acting like a dog who wanted to kill.
Then Rod knew for sure.
These were the guys who killed Hannah.
Ruthie began to wail.
And, several scenes played out across Tucker's
face—terror, fear, anger, and finally, realization.
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“Oh man. We didn’t mean to.” He turned to the other
boy and became emotional. They both started getting
upset. Then, Tucker turned back to Rod, “Look, if you're
going to shoot me, man, then just get it over with.” Tears
welled up in his eyes. But he wasn't sobbing or making
any noise but tears streamed from his eyes. “But, man, all
I ask is that you let me put Ruthie down. Let her go, man.
I mean. She had nothing to do with that lady.”
He was confessing about killing Hannah.
Rod’s gun shook in his hand next to his leg.
Bobby growled and yanked out of Rod's grip and
latched onto Tucker's pant leg.
Tucker didn't flinch while Bobby yanked and
gnarled. The sirens grew loud.
Ruthie was screaming and Tucker hid his face in her
neck and wept. The boy behind them was crying too
holding onto the sleeve of Tucker’s jacket.
Wheels sped up, grinding close to them in the street.
Then they screeched to a stop.
“Put the gun down, sir.” Jim's voice barked through
the electric police car megaphone.
Rod looked down at his hand. The gun appeared
useless, limp.
“Sir. Put. The gun. Down.”
He glanced over to the police car.
Then raised the gun at Tucker.
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SEVENTY-NINE
“SIR, DO NOT FIRE. I’M warning you.” Officer
Little demanded.
“These two,” Rod’s voice cracked, “freaks killed my
wife!” Ruthie continued to cry. “They have to pay.” And
Rod cocked his gun.
The world sounded like one big firecracker
exploding everywhere. Tucker kneeled fast covering
Ruthie with his hands. The red-haired boy fell to the
ground behind Tucker.
Bobby yelped and ran toward Rod, who was lying on
his back. The little dog was frantic, yipping wildly. But
Rod didn't move. He didn't breathe.
A set of tires screeched to a skid and stopped. Then
came the sound of feet running toward Rod at full tilt.
“Dammit, Jim. What the hell were you thinking?”
Scott shouted and fell next to Rod’s body. “Oh. Dear
Lord. No.”
Bobby whimpered next to Rod.
Jim Little walked up to Scott. “You know ‘im?”
“He’s my friend.” Scott shook his head. “His wife
was murdered, run down on the street a few months
back.” He stood and faced Officer Little. “This is,” he
shook his head again, “tragic.”
Little put his arm around Scott’s shoulder.
“He don’t worry, man. It’s gonna be okay. They're
rubber. He'll be fine. Watch.” Jim Little bent down
removed the gun from Rod’s hand, pocketed it, then
compressed Rod's chest. Rod sputtered and sucked in a
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deep pocket of air. Then Rod let out an anguished moan
and rolled to his side. He grabbed his stomach.
And, Scott got in his face. “What the hell, Rod! Were
you gonna shoot this boy?”
“It's empty.” He choked out and pushed up off the
ground. He looked like he’d been kicked in the gut by a
horse.
Scott's face turned purple. “Why, you stupid mother
of a gin drinker's ass. You could've been killed.”
Rod looked around and sat up on the pavement,
focusing on the Anacortes cop talking to Tucker and the
other boy.
The two boys seemed to be fighting each other now.
“Just tell them, Tucker!” the other one said while Ruthie
clung to Tucker’s leg, still bubbling out tears and
whimpering her brother's name repeatedly.
Tucker buried his fists deep into his eyes.
“Oh God. Help me!” The words crashed out of him.
Words that seemed to have been building all his guilt. “Oh
man!” Then he burst into tears. “Okay. Okay!” He
crumbled his next few words and then lifted his hands out
of his eyes to the sky as if asking for forgiveness. “We did
it. Oh man. We did it.” He said quietly. “Oh my God. I'm
so sorry.” He looked at Rod then fell to his knees, holding
of Ruthie for support. “I'm so, so terribly sorry.”
The red-haired boy cried too. “It's true. It was an
accident. Oh man. Oh man. We'd been drinking.” He
blubbered. “Oh man. I'm sorry, man.” This time the boy
spoke directly to Rod. “Oh God. If I could take it back. I
was so scared.”
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He crumbled to the ground next to Tucker. “Oh
please forgive me.” He said to Rod. “It was an accident.”
Bobby sat next to Rod who was still sitting on the
ground. He was crying too but patted the dog’s head,
something that soothed them both.
But Rod did something strange. He wiped an arm
under his nose, wiped the tears from under his eyes and
crawled on his hands and knees over to the three of them.
Ruthie and Tucker sat crammed against each other.
When Rod reached them, he grabbed Tucker by the
shoulder with one hand.
Scott made a move closer. Jim followed.
But Rod paused. He stared into Tucker’s red, wet
eyes.
Then pulled Tucker into his arms. Tucker’s tears
shook his body but Rod held him tighter, trying to quell
the boy’s sadness.
While he held Tucker, Rod glanced over at the other
boy and extended a hand to him. The boy fell forward into
Rod and the four of them, Ruthie smashed in the middle,
stayed there until their emotions drained out.
All the lies. All the secrets. All the pain. It crashed
out of them.
Then, Tucker looked like he might collapse but Rod
held him up.
Bobby nudged through their bodies, climbed onto
Tucker’s lap and snuggled into his stomach. He laid his
head on his leg and rolled his eyes to Tucker and then
back to Rod.
They remained there, each seeming to understand the
other's pain.
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In one solitary act of grace and forgiveness, a simple
hug and a moment that dissipated all too soon when Jim
and Scott approached to dispense with necessary
procedural duties.
A crowd of passersby and patrons from The Brown
had formed.
Scott pulled Tucker up by one arm. “Come on.”
Tucker was still crying and clinging to Rod, who was
still clinging to him.
Scott began to lead Tucker away but not before the
boy apologized again making sure Rod heard him and that
he meant it.
Tucker wiped his face with the bare skin on his arm
and patted Ruthie on her head. “Go home. Tell Mom to
come to the jailhouse.” He looked at Scott for
confirmation. Scott nodded. “Now, Ruthie.”
Ruthie cried but did as her big brother said. She
jumped onto her two-wheeler and sped down Commercial
back toward her home.
Then, Jim walked over to them and pulled the
redheaded boy off the ground away from Rod and Bobby.
His eyes looked wet and red and swollen. He grabbed
Rod's hand before they led him away and Rod grabbed
back, with both of his hands covering the boy’s.
“Mister. I tried to miss her.”
Rod looked down at his feet.
“She was on the ground. I didn’t see her. I’m so
sorry.” The boy crumbled again, “I hid my bike.” And
then he bawled.
Scott and Officer Little led him to a separate police
car.
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Bobby snuggled against Rod’s leg. He gazed at Rod
in what he’d come to know as Bobby’s dog smile.
“That’s right, boy. It’s done. We can go home now.”
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As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so
panteth my soul after thee, O God. Then shall the lame
man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing: for
in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in
the desert.
Part III
EIGHTY
“I'LL BE OVER NEXT WEEK, Tucker.” Rod
waited as Tucker spoke, then he said, “Yes. I'll bring
Bobby too.”
After hanging up, Rod sipped a steamy cup of coffee.
He thought about how much he hated Island County Jail
but figured Tucker hated it more. So he'd taken up a
routine of going to see him, with his Bible in tow, for
weekly visits. He and Bobby.
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Rod looked down at the little dog as he slept. He
went to the door and lifted Bobby's leash from a black
hook that look a lot like a raven. It was something Hannah
had gotten, something that remained a sweet reminder of
her in their home.
“Come on, Bobby. Let's go for our walk. We've been
avoiding this far too long.”
As soon as he heard the leash's clasp jingle, the dog
raised his head in attention.
“That's right. We're going for a walk.”
The dog scuffled out from under the stool. He
pranced about as Rod tried to fit the little dog's head
through the halter. Bobby darted around excited and
making the process difficult.
“Hold on, Mr. Popcorn.” Rod took a breath. The
memory stopped him. Hannah used to say the same thing
as she haltered Bobby.
He longed for a time when his memories of her
wouldn’t hobble him. For a time in the future when his
memories wouldn't ache in his chest.
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EIGHTY-ONE
A CRISP SUMMER MORNING SUN pirouetted
among branches and speckled the ground, making it look
like the rump of an old trail horse he once rode as a kid,
long ago. So, many years ago that he'd forgotten the
horse's name. Chip, or something. Snip. An old
swaybacked Appaloosa they named Snip. They’d named
him because he used to turn his head and bite riders' feet
as they slung in the stirrups.
When Rod looked to the right, he realized Bobby and
he were standing in the exact spot on the driveway that
Hannah stood the day she died. When he’d called to her
to tell her he was leaving.
“Hannah!” he remembered yelling to her and halting
her progress.
She stepped back into view, so he could see her
again. He remembered her asking again, “What?”
She had been in a good mood and smiled. She smiled
at him.
He wished so much he hadn't said it but the words
sort of tumbled without control. He was still trying to hurt
her and said, “I'm moving out.”
All the brightness in her face vanished. Her smile
faded. She turned her head and looked down the road in
the direction they were headed. She didn't move for a
moment.
He remembered feeling miles apart from her
standing there.
He knew it wasn't what she expected. But he wanted
to injure her, to cut her.
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How foolish. “Hannah, if you can hear me. I’m so
sorry, babe. I miss you so much.”
At the memory, Rod's legs went weak, as if they'd
lost all their blood. He couldn't move. It felt as though his
feet had become cemented to the ground. A rush of heat
rose quickly up and over his back covering his chest and
face.
Then Bobby yanked forward on his leash. That
yanked Rod out of his trance.
But the memory continued. Hannah didn't answer.
She just turned away from Rod and walked out of sight.
It made him wonder at what point on that last walk, she'd
started to cry. When her face crumpled the way it did, like
a little girl's who couldn't find her favorite toy. How far
she walked so that he wouldn't see her or hear her.
She just walked away.
Bobby led Rod down the road the same exact way
Hannah and he used to walk. The same way they'd gone
the last time he'd seen Hannah walking Bobby. He
wondered how many times the vision would replay, how
many times they would end up in that same spot again so
he could somehow make it right.
Bobby walked like nothing was wrong, like the little
soldier he'd been proving himself to be. Like Colonel
Popcorn.
Rod had taken to calling him by Hannah’s nickname.
He held his head so high and sniffed the air. He marched
with meaning, a sense of importance emitting around him.
He knew the route well and was taking Rod for the walk,
not the other way around.
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“Okay. Lead the way, Bobby.” Rod let the leash slip
out to the full extent of the line.
But, Bobby stopped at mid-step and shook out his
coat, hard, and sniffed at the air as if he caught the scent
of a deer. Then he put his nose down.
He stepped up his gait.
Rod kept up with him. He was getting a familiar
feeling.
The feeling that Bobby expected to see Hannah.
Even after all this time of absence and living without
her, he felt as if the dog always knew he'd see her again.
And it broke Rod's heart.
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EIGHTY-TWO
“YOU’RE KILLING ME, YA KNOW? How can
I explain that she’s gone? How can I make you
understand?”
Bobby’s tail wagged once, stopped, then he
grumbled and put his head down.
“I’m sad too.”
Rod knelt next to his dog and petted his back.
Tourist season was in high gear and yet few cars
traveled their neighborhood that day. Still, Rod kept alert
for them anyway. He looked down the road and then back
the other way.
I was still locked in this weird time warp, this space
where, now, no one could hear me. Not Rod. Not Bobby.
Not Fawn.
My heart was breaking at my fate but mostly how
Rod and Bobby were torn up each time they visited this
spot—the place I died and, the way it looked, I would
forever remain.
And then the understanding entered me of why
spirits were never supposed to make contact with humans.
It was so that humans would not be led to believe that the
spirits were greater than God. So humans would not keep
trying to search for the spirits and instead to keep their
hearts turned to and focused on God.
I felt terribly guilty and began to cry. Soft rose petals
fell out of my eyes and tumbled around me. “I’m sorry,”
I called out to Him and then as if forgiven right then and
there, Fawn appeared.
“Fawn!”
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She trotted over to me but I guess I yelled a smidge
too loud because Bobby barked.
It startled Rod.
“What was that for?”
Then he yipped again and pointed his nose at me.
Rod tried to see whatever Bobby was barking at but
he was staring only a few feet ahead of him, not across the
street or deeper into the woods.
Then Rod moved to Bobby, basically stepping in
front of me and nearly on top of my body.
Rod knelt down.
“Hey,” I tried to push him out of the way but he only
tottered like he’d lost balance for a second. Then he
righted himself and began another conversation with
Bobby.
“I know, son. It’s hard to leave this spot. It kills me
each time we come here…”
But Bobby moved around to his side so I was in his
sights again. I opened my eyes wide and giggled, “I love
you, silly boy.”
“Hey, Bobby. Come over here.” But Bobby refused
even with Rod pulling at his lead.
Rod stood and watched the dog. He was acting
strange again and looking at something in the road.
I put my hand out but my fingertips were too far from
his head. My range of motion had shrunk considerably. I
wanted to touch him so badly. The feeling was so strong.
A mother’s love for a child could undo the soul.
Wind rustled his hair and Bobby closed his eyes
gently.
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Fawn nudged me again and bobbled her head. “I
know, Fawn.” Then rose petals fell from my eyes again.
My heart wrenched in pain and I begged God to stop the
feeling. I begged so hard that Fawn mewled. It was quite
a sight, I’m sure.
And the rose petals kept pouring out of me.
When, all at once, one fizzled just outside the
perimeter of my existence, where I’d been cordoned off,
where my feet were stuck, and it floated like a pendulum
down, down, down and landed right on the tip of Bobby’s
nose.
“What the—?” Rod nearly fell back into the ditch
when he witnessed the petal. Bobby remained frozen, his
eyes locked onto his snout. His little eyes crossed and I
couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh my good—” Rod proclaimed. His face melted.
He leaned over Bobby’s head and lifted the pink petal.
“Where’d this come—?”
“Whoops.” I said to Fawn who was lying inches off
the ground rolling around, kicking her hooves in the air.
“You think this is funny? Now I’m in deeper trouble than
before?”
But as Fawn continued her silly act, Rod spoke
again, “Hannah? Are you here?”
I couldn’t hold back, “Yes!” I cried out in a scream
that pierced the sky. And another rose petal fizzled
through the perimeter and landed on Bobby’s nose again.
Bobby sat still as if obeying a command. I’d done it
again. Broken the boundary between heaven and earth.
“Uh-oh.” I covered my mouth. My eyes were so wide
I felt like I could see the entire universe.
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I hadn’t made the rose petals appear. I hadn’t even
asked for rose petal tears and yet there they were.
Rod lifted the second petal off Bobby’s nose.
“If you’re here, give Bobby another rose petal.”
I looked at Fawn and frowned. I couldn’t believe Rod
still needed proof. So I did nothing.
Not for Rod.
But when Bobby began to whimper and bark again,
my heart swelled.
“Please God, please?” He knew what I wanted before
I ever asked. I knew that since I’d broke a heavenly rule,
I had to make amends. Rod and Bobby were hurting and
I had to resolve the matter or stay in this spot until I did.
So I clenched my eyes shut and prayed. I prayed for
children—those living and dead, those human and not. I
prayed for humanity—those who believed in God and
those yet to believe. And I prayed for Rod. For his soul to
find peace and to understand God’s amazing grace. His
mercy. Because it was by his grace that all of what
happened next played out the way it did.
When I opened my eyes, I knew I had to say
goodbye.
“Bobby. The only reason I’m still here is because I
made contact with you and your Dad.” Bobby put his head
between his forepaws as he listened. “But I have to go
now.” He grumbled and sat up. “I know. I don’t want to
but… I have to.” Then he began to whimper.
I couldn’t handle it any longer so I just turned and
put my hand on Fawn, “I think I need your help, to pull
me out of this,” I gestured to the earth around me, “this
situation.”
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Fawn turned away from me and then looked back.
She tipped up her head and pointed with her nose to her
rear end.
“Really?” I asked. She nodded twice so I placed both
my hands around her tail. It was like holding onto a
joystick.
The little deer acted like a small tow truck pulling me
out of the mud. My feet plowed a trench that got shallower
and shallower as she walked forward pulling.
Then finally I was unlocked from the earth.
Bobby barked twice.
“Yes, Bobby. I have to.”
He barked two more times.
I looked at Fawn who was telling me, in her deer
way, not to do what I was thinking. Not to run to Bobby
and embrace him.
So, I turned and joined Fawn and we walked up and
up along a path that led us away.
A gate made of sapphire and amethyst stood before
us and opened. Beyond the gate was a field so vast, so
lush that no green I’d ever seen compared. And the music!
It was as though Mozart, Beethoven and Bach all got
together to compose a symphony.
My jaw dropped open.
Then we saw someone at the gate. It was a man. I
waved and he waved back and smiled.
It was my father. My human father.
And I was about to run to him but something stopped
me and wheeled me backwards, back, back, back…
Like a bungee cord snapping me in the opposite
direction.
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EIGHTY-THREE
ROD HAD NO CONTROL OVER Bobby. The
little dog had gone bonkers. Drool fell from his mouth. He
growled so viciously that Rod stepped to a safe distance
from him. All he could do was watch his dog and, every
couple of seconds, say ‘no.’
As I tumbled back toward earth, I saw that Bobby
was still watching for us after we left.
“Oh Bobby. No. Baby.” I whispered. By then my
body was hurtling toward the earth like a small meteor.
Within seconds, I landed. I landed with such force onto
my back that I grunted.
I had to stay there for a couple of moments until I
gathered myself.
And, as I was just about to get up, Bobby jumped
onto my stomach.
“Oof!” I grunted.
He stood with all fours on me and panted. Then he
laid down onto my stomach.
We were face to face. “I’m going to get into so much
trouble!” But by then I was giggling.
He scooted up to my face. Now, we were nose-tonose.
“Don’t do it.” I warned him. I mean, how would I
ever get to heaven?
Now, this is the thing… I’d always thought of Bobby
as a good boy but I’d never thought of him as welltrained.
He parted his lips. I caught a whiff of his breath. It
smelled like meat sticks and pumpkin cookies.
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And that was my undoing.
I began to laugh when I did he plastered my face with
dozens and dozens of dog kisses. I giggled and begged for
him to stop but he wouldn’t. So I stopped begging. My
arms wrapped around him and I kissed him back—all over
his face and head and neck.
Rod watched as Bobby laid there licking the ground.
Then Fawn nudged me. She was still with me. We
were still together. I wasn’t condemned this time.
Because, this time, I wasn’t the one piercing the veil.
Bobby was.
“Bobby, you silly boy. I have to go. I have to go,
now.”
That time he seemed to understand. We both did.
“Please never forget that I will always love you.
Always.”
He barked once and sat up strong.
But Rod was a wreck. His hand covered his face and
his shoulders were shaking. Then he said, “I'm sorry.” He
lifted his face to the sky, “Hannah, you’re here, right?” He
waited but then added, “I want you to know I didn’t mean
it. That I'll always regret my last words to you. How we
left things...”
And he crumbled.
How could I explain that I didn’t blame him? That I
forgave him because I understood all of our humanness?
How? Now that I was on the other side?
So, I whispered into his ear, so softly I could barely
hear myself, “I’m sorry too. I forgive you and I’ll always
love you.”
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And, just then, a rose petal fell, catching his left
cheek and landing on his shoulder.
He picked the petal off his shirt and then spoke my
name. Bobby barked once.
Before turning away for the last time, I blew a kiss
to Bobby.
His tail was wagging hard. Rod knelt down next to
him and was still looking at the three rose petals in his
hand. The ones God sent him as proof.
Then Fawn and I were whisked up again to the gates
and when we walked through, I hugged my father. He told
me that he missed me so badly. I figured I knew how he
felt. Then he asked about Fawn.
When the gates closed, I looked down through a most
spectacular prism of gems at Bobby and Rod.
Bobby was wagging his tail and looking at Rod who
was shielding his eyes from the brilliant light blazing
through the woods—a light that broke, refracted and
intersected between trees from the wind bending
branches.
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EIGHTY-FOUR
A CARNELIAN BERRY FOUND ALONG their
path told Rod that the days had grown into summer. Long
slender shafts of grass, no longer dry from the winter, had
all but been devoured by a lush loden canvas that seemed
to whorl in colors, as if God had used a brush slathered in
paint that He slapped onto the earth's surface.
The blue sky dragged them out that Sunday. Six
months later, in June. The first day in June. And, it looked
like a good day to take the dog for a walk. A good day to
walk, to think about his wife and how much he had loved
her.
How much he still missed her.
Bobby, to anyone who knew them, was his dog now.
He slept with Rod on his side of the bed where Hannah
used to lay her head. And, now, Rod's idea of self-worth
revolved around this small animal, their dog.
Hannah once told him that self-worth rated a close
second in importance to the average person's survival
instincts. Now, Rod, supposed it did with him too. He
knew if any harm might come Bobby's way, he would lay
down his life for his dog. He had to speculate that same
reasoning might've been part of what led to Hannah’s
death. Why else would Bobby survive and not her? He
had to believe Hannah had made sure Bobby was safe. As
they walked, Rod considered all the things he had left to
do, that he had left to accomplish.
Like going through Hannah's things. The sad task of
giving some of her belongings away and keeping some.
How does a person make those choices?
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But by spring this year, the house needed a new coat
of interior paint. The paint would help cover up rotten
memories of a cold time in his life.
Rod wanted to feel cheerier by now. Maybe a sunny
yellow coat of fresh paint would help. Even sky-blue
walls sounded good lately.
“How you doing, Bobby?” The words spilled out
easily, soothing Rod, like pulling on a warm sweater over
cold shoulders.
“Come on, Bobby. This way, son.” And the two
turned, left, down the road, the way that took them toward
the water.
THE END
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You just finished reading THE DEER EFFECT by
Susan Wingate.
If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review at
the following link:
http://amzn.to/1zhXcCk
And you may also enjoy Susan’s other books which
you can find at:
www.susanwingate.com.
You can also find Susan on the following social sites:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorsusanwingate
Twitter: www.twitter.com/susanwingate
Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/susanwingate
Google+:
https://plus.google.com/u/0/107176228678049355232
And you can read Susan’s blog Writing from the
Couch at:
http://bit.ly/PS56HD
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amazon Bestselling Author, Susan Wingate’s
stories have been hailed by international bestselling
author Michael Collins as “writing of the finest quality.”
Susan Wingate pens gritty crime fiction, thrillers,
and visionary metaphysical suspense. Her family drama
entitled “Drowning” won the Forward National
Literature Award in the category of drama and instantly
became a #1 Amazon bestseller. Her mystery novel
“Bobby's Diner” also became an Amazon Bestseller.
Susan began writing as a child when she learned her
father was a writer.
A vibrant public speaker, Susan offers inspiring,
motivational talks about...
…blah, blah, blah.
That's the stuff my agent wants you to know. You
can find out all that mumbo-jumbo throughout my
website. I hate redundancy. So, if you really want to
examine my career, check out the pages for my books,
awards and FAQs.
What I want you to know is a little about me, the
person.
I like to golf. I want to learn to fly planes. I've
parasailed in Mexico... Ixtapa-Zihuatanejo, to be precise.
I ride horses and love animals of all kinds. I'm one of these
people who removes spiders from the house and then sets
them free outside. I save moths from spider webs when
they get caught. This frustrates the spiders who I have
saved but, what do you do? This is what I call a
"conundrum."
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I live on five acres of rural land that is heavily
wooded and is home to a herd of deer who I feed. I feed
all the wildlife here, the raccoons and birds alike. We have
eleven cats, two dogs, and twelve birds--doves and three
pigeons who are rehab birds.
I enjoy eating chips and salsa to the point of
addiction. I don't think there are any rehab centers for
chip-and-salsa-addiction but maybe if we all ban together
we can show the powers-that-be how devastating this
addiction is to one's rear-end. I'm sure we'll see growth
(wink) in that area of "intervention-need" soon.
Pizza is second on my list of addictions. So far, Papa
John's has a fortress-strength special interest group
blocking the way for any rehab facilities for pizza
addiction. It's a conspiracy, I tell ya.
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HERE’S ANOTHER READING TREAT FOR
YOU… an excerpt from Susan’s novel entitled, WAY OF
THE WILD WOOD, a Christian fantasy.
WAY OF THE WILD WOOD
by
Susan Wingate
A person might wonder the particulars of how a
precocious girl got lost in the wild wood. But! Until a
person walks a single step into the wood, all the
wondering shall get lost with the girl.
PROLOGUE
If you asked—
“Who are you, Meg Nightly?” Best bets will prove
her feet setting a pace so fast away from you that in a start,
you’ll bolt off running after her to hear the answer.
That if you asked, “Why do you love those cats so
much?” She’d call back to you as she runs that they’re her
only friends, “Now that momma is gone! Now that Pa is
sad.”
Your efforts, trying to catch Meg, will find you at the
edge of the woods. A yin and yang place of sun so bright
on one side the blinding verdant flora appears iridescent
crystalizing before your eyes with dragonflies sewerroach-long with wings the size of hummingbirds, or ones
no larger than a rug needle bright as rubbed carnelian
moving with helicopter finesse chasing gnats for dinner,
where a single gold and black caterpillar inches her way
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forward to the end of a dead alder twig hanging over a
stubby mag of moss as she pads her crown—a costume of
gossamer tendrils covering its length—to a spot where she
comes to rest at the thinnest place, the end of her world, a
stick where she will subsume herself in a cocoon until she
emerges weeks later as a gypsy moth displaying creamy
wings like showy square dance skirts, lined with jigs and
jags of black geometric decorations.
The light on that side of the forest, the yin side,
contrasts starkly with the yang, the dark side where
shadows and gloam foam-thick hide tree frogs, hide their
lime green bodies shiny as a yolk’s, slimy as a clam
among the repetitious gradations of green, green and more
green. Where a misplaced hand can meet up with a
snake’s fang or the jaws of a disturbed wolf spider. Where
a misplaced foot will find you in a trench so deep, so
steep, climbing out without the help of rope and pulley is
not an option. And you don’t want that.
The light and dark have different smells too—one
side smelling like toad bread baking in a cast-iron skillet,
the other like cold chopped parsley—both have good and
bad points. One makes you want to sit for a spell and sip
cinnamon tea on a chaise lounge and the other makes you
want to wash your clothes on a rock. Each activity has a
time and a place, a season, but you can guarantee the
sunny side has a waiting list for reservations miles long
while the dark side has an insatiable appetite for new
customers but finds few.
There, at the forest edge, you stop because you fear
something— the clog of growth, pillar upon pillar of lazyarmed cedars, daggers behind each Nootka rose blossom,
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scotch pines so cocky they look as though each branch has
lifted its hand just for you, just to flip you off. With
timothy grass so seductive, swaying their hips making
you sway yours, hypnotizing you into a primal dance once
started it cannot be stopped. Or, the labyrinth of ancient
mystical Garry oaks holding hands with each other lining
a dizzying path, gnarled and dark old witches, leading you
away from safety.
You fear something right then, right there at the edge
of the woods because if you don’t fear it now, you will
later.
You dare not breach the corral of webbed brush, the
spears of the bramble, the fallen evergreens—a girth
protecting the forest from those not capable of outlasting
a trek among its creatures, pits and poisons.
You’ll stop. The hair will stiffen your nape, down
your spine under each follicle as your skin blisters into a
billion tiny knots warning you away.
Then you’ll call after for Meg when she enters the
forbidden land and she will and she will answer you but
in a voice distant and muddled, in a voice sounding much
like a gull’s cry through the fog, a song sung in the rain.
Not clear. No, not at all.
And when you call her name again, a dragonfly blue
as a neon sign, will rise as a decoy up from a mound of
dead grass wet from dew capturing all odors within it—
grubs that chew its roots, roses from mere proximity,
nettle blossoms so sweet and alluring many forget their
deadly personality. Your heart will seize when the fly
soars up making you trip backwards into a bush, the
nettle, the guard of the woods demarcating areas none
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should stray out of, creating barriers none should cross
lest you find devils hiding within their saw-tooth leaves
or sitting on the string of beads growing at the tips of their
spires where only devils will dare to sit.
Other sounds will drag your attention away from the
direction of the girl as she runs the narrow path away,
away, away… a kit fox squealing, a chitting nestling, a
fawn puling for its mother to return with food. These baby
sounds—hidden and elusive will take you here then turn
you there until you spin around in a corkscrew so many
times that when you stop, you’ll find you’ve landed in a
kaleidoscope of opals—starry bursts appearing before
your eyes with lightning bolts jagging your peripheral
vision and you won’t be able to determine up from down,
left from right, in from out. That’s when you’ll find
yourself drifting, lost, lost and alone with Meg as she
leads you deeper and deeper that way, down, the way of
the wild wood.
CHAPTER ONE
Without a mother, a child will lose her way. And,
after the mother stopped caring, she was no long able to
buffer the daughter’s abuses by the father.
She didn’t intend to walk in the room the exact
moment her mother pulled the gun. Or see her mother’s
body whip back on to the bed but that’s what happened.
At eleven (and a half) since the winter of her birth,
feeling too old for her age and with more questions than
normal, Meg Nightly—tan-skinned, washed-out hair,
taller than most other kids in the sixth grade, dry-elbowed,
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lanky like her father only pretty like her mother, but
mostly curious—needed a break from her current
situation.
With her bony knees curled snug to her chest, held
tight by her spindly arms with skin smooth the way only
a child’s skin can be smooth, she sat hunched on a snag
of bare roots at the base of an ancient Garry oak perched
on a cramped ridge, sky high on a Mountain Goat trail,
the one that crossed in front of their cabin, looking out
over Whisker Ridge and contemplating what was left of
her world since her mother’s death.
Meg remembered the wide bandages wrapped
around her mother’s chest. She looked like she had broken
a rib not like she was dying of cancer.
With a sunburned nose and putty freckles, making
her appear as though someone spattered her with
paintbrush full of watercolors, she stared at the vast
landscape before her, the river a good one hundred feet
straight down, a funnel of smoke from an errant fire miles
and miles off in the distance curling up in a lazy turtleshaped cloud, she viewed the roll of the land as it buckled
up and down in varying shades of greens, yellows and
browns with that stray patch of burnt orange California
poppies, the one hanging on to the season with more
strength than she knew she had and with butterflies flitting
from pistil to pistil in swarms trying to leach the last of
summer’s sweet nectar.
Her eyes connected in a flash when a red fox leapt
out through a cover of tall wheat after something racing
for its life. She sat staring at all this (some might call it
beauty, some might call it primitive), not noticing the
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scene at all and twisting and twisting a lock of hair around
a pudgy finger, hair that only six months before framed
her high cheekbones and her delicate chin and looked as
shiny as yellow taffy, now took on the texture of a sandy
stone.
It was a week today since her last bath. Not that her
father much noticed. He didn’t notice much of anything
these days, not without the help of Meg’s mother.
In a time when and in a place where neighbors turned
their attention away about how to best raise a child,
Meg—with all her adolescent sensibilities, all her wistful
childish ideals, her hungry hazel eyes and time passing
with a slow and madding pace—now owned a direct link
to her father, Pa, as she called him.
This direct link she used anytime of the day, on any
day at any hour and with the persistence of a gerbil on a
spinning wheel. She kept up her voracious attack on him
about the how’s and the why’s of her mother’s sudden
passing. Her strained voice, her tears made her Pa shrink.
And because he could barely stand to look at her face, a
face resembling every nuance of his late wife’s, he went
sullen inside and blocked every effort to hear or
understand her. Because understanding might mean his
own undoing.
Her quest for knowledge began by waking him from
naps while he slept on their beaten down couch. Tugging
on his arm proved a volatile and unfruitful undertaking.
Meg learned this fact with an exclamation point after he
shook her by the shoulders and yelled at her that
“Questions should be written down and asked later… if at
all! If they’re still important!”
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But her attempts to find answers didn’t stop there.
She learned fast not to attack him the moment he
arrived home from work. He stormed around, snarling, his
back turned to her and snatched his first beer of the
evening. Upon slamming the refrigerator door he whirled
around, letting his left hand sail freely out in a roundabout manner, with an open-palm, that clipped her across
the nose.
Connecting so suddenly with his large, rough hand
that, when she began to bleed, she didn’t realize it at first.
With her head thrust to the side, she barely grasped what
had happened. She only recognized something was off
when his eyes widened, when his chin quivered, when the
first few droplets of blood pooled in-between her feet.
Pa ran to the sink for a dish rag and, speeding back,
placed the rag above her lip.
Only at that point did his jab send forth its full
weight.
With eyes wide as fifty-cent pieces, she struggled not
to cry, she struggled to keep tears from welling up and she
struggled to forgive the incident as a mishap, although she
wasn’t sure. She struggled to understand why he didn’t
apologize and then she struggled at how he seemed to
forget about cracking her in the nose entirely.
But, then again, Pa forgot most things more easily
than she did. He refused to look at her bruised face
because to acknowledge the injury meant remembering
that he struck her and Pa was getting good at forgetting
things, like, that her mother ever existed or what her
mother might’ve done in the same situation or that she
needed a new pair of gloves for Church or to go to Church
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at all during the “days of bruises,” bruising that contrasted
vividly against paler skin across the bridge of her nose,
making her appear as if she were donning a blue mask.
And because of her new blue mask, she took to
imagining herself as a super hero and then took to calling
herself, The Blue Bandit.
She wore swimming goggles and a moth-eaten towel
the color of a Robin’s egg tied to her neck and zoomed
through the house missing chairs in the way, missing her
Pa’s feet resting on the footstool, swishing dangerously
close to the hair on his head.
She zoomed out the door, lifting off the ground as
she leapt from the porch, puttering sounds through her lips
like a jet engine and screaming for her mother. And Meg
ran. Circling their cabin in dizzying repetitions, she called
to her mother, saying how she was a super-hero now and
for her mother to call her The Blue Bandit.
“Come back, Ma! Come back! I’m the Blue Bandit.
Can you see me, Ma?”
She ran to the edge of Whisker Ridge where she
bolted to a stiff stop, jettisoning out her arms pretending
to fly off the edge of the world and down, down inches
over the small snaking river, the water flowing through a
jag of brown broken tree trunks, tripping over monolithic
gray boulders bigger than a school bus, bigger than Pa,
big enough to crush him.
The edge of Whisker Ridge where she pretended to
soar off the cliff face and down from their hilltop
existence to the town where people lived, where they
talked and laughed and smiled, where they shopped and
ate and played in the small gated schoolyard safe from
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evil things, where they read books on park benches and
listened to pink transistor radios on beach blankets in the
sun by the fly-soaked lake on hot sunny days, where the
world smelled like roasting hotdogs and her mother kissed
her forehead and lips, fluttered butterfly kisses on her
eyelashes, stroked her cheeks and where mother kissed Pa
and he sashayed her in a polka under the Noble Fir right
next to the water’s edge, where the place oozed out love
and joy—all the things they used to do during their time
as a family before mother died.
The only letup from the never-ending clawing inside
her belly…
Was she hungry? Was she angry?
…the only letup was her time out alone on the ridge
or at the edge of the forest because out there her
imagination took over and she became the girl she used to
be—the one with a mother.
The ridge held dreams and the forest, secrets.
She was tired of dreaming.
She needed to find something—an answer to why.
***
The woods spoke and Meg listened. Of course, Meg
never told a soul this. It was her secret.
They called to her. In bed, at night before sleeping
the woods conversed with her. Telling her they needed
visitors, they were lonely and wanted a fresh face to gaze
upon. They spoke not in words but in their own lullaby,
as they swayed their windy hips and arms in a hula dance
and their swingy plunky song with words rhyming and
chiming, beckoning her to come anytime, morning, noon
or night.
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The woods conducted a chorus of accomplices.
Tambourine crickets, opera owls, bongo frogs, castanet
beetles—entire string, percussion and reed sections. The
music of the woods rocked her to sleep, like the music she
listened to on her radio—the crackling between stations
at the loss of the signal. The swell of music and the
thunder of bass drums all through a tinny speaker giving
the noise a surreal flavor, something distinct and mystical.
The woods understood Meg’s sadness and let her
know that they existed for her alone. She talked to the
woods and they listened to her. They comforted her when
she cried showing her their big woolly branches that
would hide her if she would only come to them. And they
asked, begging her to let them give her comfort and to
soothe her sorrow. Especially on windy days, they
whipped their arms, pulling at her, signaling her over to
them.
They appeared bigger than life when she walked to
the edge. The woods towered over her in stark contrast to
the grassy field that flooded her and Pa’s land where their
house sat and the house itself, a matchbox next to the
woods. They towered high above the land, an enormous
closed door just waiting for her to unlock so she might
enter.
Still, though, Meg obeyed the rules her mother had
laid out for her—to never go into the forest. Remembering
the dangers implied by her mother—animals not spoken
of in words but eluded to in her mother’s dire facial
expressions, with her eyes widening and in her voice
becoming serious and deeper, more stern.
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Her mother insisted that Meg mind this one rule, if
no other.
Now, with her mother gone, she didn’t believe the
rule still applied.
***
Small fat toes, caked with a week’s worth of grit,
wriggled, syncopated with the sound of the goldfinch’s
warble—a street musician, a jazz flutist, hat upside-down
collecting silver and gold from passersby—while the
goldfinch nibbled at a crust of bread tossed by Meg.
Runted, adolescent bones and hairless skin gave
away her true age. The nose patently a child’s nose, small
and sloping, skin smooth as a block of butter, Meg still
felt older than the way people treated her. If you believed
what people said about things, Meg didn’t.
Asking questions first, making up her mind second
about everything— certainly about the alleged danger of
the woods—the only person who ever Meg believed was
gone.
A lesser fuchsia was growing outside her window
next to the grandfather of all fuchsia’s, one that clung to
the side of the small cabin, toppling over the roofline and
growing along the splintery shingles like ground cover up
there. In fact, this plant grew so close to the house that its
trunk buckled the ground beneath the dark first stretch of
baseline timber. Each timber built upon the next,
alternating between white chinking and coffee brown
beams until the walls reached a short six feet in height.
Each timber looked to be two hundred years old but
had already stood up to the gale-force winds, roof-high
snow and searing dry heat of the ragged summers known
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around Whisker Ridge—with a bad land attitude, the spot
where their cabin sat, only allowed the strongest of people
any chance of survival.
The hot pink fuchsia with a sapphire blue nipple
dripped in front of Meg’s window making the scene look
like a framed, color photograph.
When the picture moved Meg pretended she was
watching someone else’s television set, maybe The Wild
Wild World of Animals, a TV show she’d seen once long
ago at her uncle’s, at her mother’s brother’s house.
Depleted from months of neglect, a worn silken sock
her mother turned into a thistle feeder, served a single
goldfinch its final helping of tiny blacks seeds, seeds
turning to dust from exposure to the elements. The finch,
bright as the morning sun singing a cheery song during its
meal, hopped along the silk casing with the ease of an ice
skater. When another yellow bird landed next to it, the
first flitted off, probably due to some instinctual
understanding of allocation and distribution of resources
letting the next get a go at the scraps remaining. Their
food source would dwindle long before summer’s end.
Meg worried. She had no money to replace the seeds
mother used to buy at the feed store. She was only eleven
and her father never slipped her a penny! The way mother
did before she died.
“You save this or spend it. Wisdom loves a wealthy
man but it’s your choice, Miss Meg.” Her mother’s words
landed softly each time she handed over some of the warm
coins she held in her palm.
Meg’s smile turned sour when she remembered
spending the remnants from her glass piggy bank.
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Dull on the inside, a hint of someone’s charcoal
barbecue sent Meg’s stomach rumbling. The peanut butter
toast she fixed that morning had worn thin and needed
replenishing. A can of tomato soup and a sleeve of soda
crackers was all Meg remembered seeing in their
cupboards.
Bouncing to the edge of her twin bed, she got sidetracked by the creaking and began to jump up and down—
trampolining on top of the mattress, landing cross-legged
on her behind, then straightening her legs, tightening them
in support of the new position, knees bent for balance,
springing higher each time, with her muscles bulging out
from the effort under her cut-off denim shorts so ragged
the fringe appeared like cotton balls instead of stringy
thread. Her polka-dot chambray blouse billowed and
settled when she stopped and felt damp from the exercise.
Meg bounded off the bed, skipped to the door,
opened it and began singing a single refrain to Sweet
Caroline, “Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so
good,” over and over, in turn irritating her father.
“Stop!” Was all he needed to say, halting Meg’s
croon, halting her skipping through the house, and
walking with as much speed as she walked with to the
counter where she nearly halted her lunch when she
dropped the can of soup onto the wooden floor, denting
the rim.
“Damn, girl!” Pa didn’t look up from his newspaper
but she saw his red billow up from under his shirt to his
neck and get lost somewhere under the tangle of his flax
hair. The red of his skin made the hair look more blonde
than its usual sand coloring.
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Reaching down to retrieve the soup can, using both
her small hands and mustering all the focus she could
muster, Meg picked the can up and replaced it onto the
butcher block counter near a design of shapes—rings
from the sweat of her father’s beer bottles, the outline
from an oily fork, a rectangle of sticky paper from the
cereal box, and near a plate filled with scraps containing
stale toast and smears of peanut butter from earlier that
morning.
Opening the soup can made Meg’s arm muscles burn
in pain from twisting and twisting the metal can opener.
Where it once slid with grace and ease around the lip of a
can, it now stalled and stuck against a thin ridge along its
blade more often than it spun. Rust filled the gears
exacerbating the effort to move around the muck of the
blade.
She wanted to ask her father for help but after he
barked at her, she reevaluated asking him anything. He
probably had another bad day at work.
Well, she had another bad day at school! And it was
continuing after school and into the evening.
He got home late again, smelling of the bar—the
cigarette smoke, the liquor, a hint of some woman’s
sickening perfume.
It had only been eight months since her mother had
died. Her father carrying on like this needed to stop.
The final click told Meg the soup can was opened.
The disk dislodged now looked like a round raft floating
on the barn red consommé and it was taking on soup
threatening to sink if she didn’t fish it out. “Dang thing.”
She dipped her fingers knuckle-deep into the contents
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within the can. When she snagged the disk between her
index and middle finger, she pulled out the metal and let
the soup drip onto the counter adding more artwork where
she placed the disk.
Meg transferred the soup into a pot and struck a
match to light the gas stove. The burner coughed out a
ring of flames that flew out into the air about a foot long
and then syphoned back down circling the coil.
When the initial flame burst from the burner, Meg’s
body spasmed and she pulled back to a safe distance.
“Dang thing!” She repeated, this time to the stove.
“Shouldn’t curse, Meg.” His voice carried low and
sleepy from the couch.
“Dang thing nearly burnt my face.”
“Still— shouldn’t curse.”
Meg clicked her tongue against her front teeth and
rolled her eyes. He shouldn’t be carryin’ on like a wet dog
neither but there he is doin’ so anyhow.
“Sorry Pa.”
The hot bisque in the saucepan formed pea-sized
pockets of air that bubbled up from the scalding bottom
finally exploding to the top. Bubbles formed and
exploded exponentially now, the flame licking a circle
around the edge of the pan’s bottom, forming a thin skin
against the inside of the pot. Bubbles puffed out a rapid
beat.
Meg placed her hand near the metal of the saucepan
close to the bottom, near the burner. Maybe Pa would
comfort her if she hurt herself, accidentally.
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Her hand there was so close the heat could melt
plastic. She paused and looked at her father. He didn’t
give one hoot about her.
As she turned back toward the stove her hand
glanced the metal, it felt like dry ice and seemed to draw
her hand closer like getting snagged by a jumping cactus.
Meg jerked. The slightest nick burned her knuckle before
pulling it away. She placed her knuckle in her mouth to
soothe the small burn and then flicked off the flame.
***
Pa drank more now because when he drank he forgot.
Because of this, Meg learned that her mother’s death
was not a stagnant occurrence but had a constant flow and
evolution to it—a living thing, a slithering one-celled
organism that did not stop when they placed her withered
body into the ground.
No. Her death was an event that continued to
metastasize daily evidenced by her Pa’s fits of drunken
crying, evidenced by Meg hiding from him out on a ledge
just over the lip of Whisker Ridge, by running (cape and
all) to her room and scrambling beneath the bed’s box
spring or burrowing deep in the closet behind the hill of
dirty laundry. Not exactly noble or worthy hiding places
for a super hero.
Pa simply burst through the door as he raged,
dragged her by the foot out from under the bed or by the
hair out of the closet. The acrid smell of his stale breath
filling her with terror, screaming at her about things he
refused to explain to her, “Shut up about her!” He’d
scream and then he’d beat her butt until she wept, until
she couldn’t breathe from weeping so hard.
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And she learned to notice the signs of his temper
begin to bubble out of control—like discreet movements
meant to trick, sleight of hand. She watched for his
giveaways when she sensed she’d pushed him too far—
fingering his waistband, the first sign, sitting stiff, arching
his gaunt shoulders together like an ostrich attempting to
fly—a futile and pathetic gesture.
When he slipped a thumb between his dirty denims
and leather belt then fiddled at the buckle became the
beating that sent her into her room and ended with her
plunging headfirst into her bed, nearly bashing it on the
wall.
She counted—five, six, seven, eight, nine cracks
with his bare, open hand coming down onto the skin of
her thighs.
Burying her face in a pillow the wailing, “Please Pa.
Please,” between each sob, sobbing that went on long
after the attack.
She wished she could recognize, in a look, his moods
changing sooner. If she could then she could stop
whatever she was doing that bothered him. But, it was
useless to examine his square jaw or his black eyes for
clues. He worked, many years, he said, before having a
family, on stilling his face, a face, he boasted that won
him lots of money. But if you believed that, then you’d
believe anything.
They weren’t a family of means. They had no
money. Nor could Meg ever remember a time of plenty.
She only saw the worming scar from an old bar fight
trail under his chin, run up to just under his red earlobe.
She only saw the flat wide nose with a single bump that
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angled down where once it might’ve grown straight or
even upturned. She only noticed his thin lined neck where
his hair met his shoulders, the hair he left growing wild
and let go oily, hair that resembled hers more than she
wanted.
To Meg, her Pa’s face didn’t look like it came from
money—smooth or gallant as money brings to a look.
So, Meg stopped trying to read her father’s face, a
face resembling hers more now after she lost most of her
baby fat since the springtime, since the funeral.
Yes. It sickened her that she had begun to look like
Pa.
***
Kneeling on her bed, facing the black window for a
trace reflection, using an old portrait of her mother—a
tarnished photo with a white crimped frame—Meg played
with the makeup her mother left behind, trying to draw it
just like she had it in the picture.
She wobbled on a line of paint, attempting to draw
the charcoal around each eye. She swiped a thick coating
of mascara onto her lashes. She made bold strokes on her
lids using her mother’s favorite color, an umber powder
that looked like crushed mica. Meg used a coral gloss that
accentuated her pouty lips. She pulled up her hair in a
twist, like her mother’s and placed bobby pins along one
side and down the other, just like her mother had done for
her only a year before when they went to Church for
Christmas. The pins didn’t feel as tight after she finished.
They felt loose and her hair began to unfurl almost when
she took her hands away.
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“Dang hair.” Chastising herself, she dug around for
her mother’s brush and pulled out sticking knots, pulling
out some of her hair in the process. “Ow! Dang.” But she
continued to drag the brush in strokes down each length
of snaggles and as she continued she began to hum the
song her mother sang to her when she brushed Meg’s
hair…
She combed her hair
But once a year,
Risseldy, rosseldy,
Mow, mow, mow,
With every rake
She shed a tear,
Risseldy, Rosseldy,
Hey bambassity,
Nickety, nackety,
Retrical quality,
Willowby, wallowby,
Mow, mow, mow.
And, forgetting her mother wasn’t there, Meg
laughed at the lyrics continuing to comb out her hair to
the beat of the song.
Within seconds however her laughter went sour
when she sensed something off. Looking through the
mirror at the door, she saw the shadows moving just
between the crack and the floor.
Was she smelling yeast and hops? Was the smell
somehow engrained in a connection with him now? Could
her imagination elicit in her olfactory glands the dank
smell of yeast and hops by merely thinking of her father?
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Then she heard her Pa shuffling his ragged footsteps
just outside her room. The sound reminded her of a pit
bull digging for a bone, a bone far too deep to get at and
buried just outside of its reach, beyond the confines of its
pen.
***
Because Pa was the way he was now, tight and
meaner, hard and brooding, Meg felt like he and all the
world closed a door in order to keep secrets from her.
And, when he burst through into her bedroom, the
brush fell from her hand, she flipped around, her hair
flying out like a square-dance skirt, and time feeling like
it was slowing down.
She gasped and curled back on the bed.
Pa didn’t say anything right then but she noticed
something she had never seen in him before, the minutest
tic—once then twice and what she assumed an effort to
stop, an ever slighter third tic. The dimple formed in his
left cheek but then disappeared in blinks.
“What the hell!”
“Pa, I…”
“Shut up.” He didn’t yell. No. He kept his voice quiet
making it feel worse to Meg than if he yelled. And then
he was upon her. He swept down and stole the makeup
from her grasp. Some fell onto the bed, some scattered on
to the floor.
For a moment, he forgot about her. Instead, he
attacked the tubes, the small jars, the brushes by flinging
them to the right and then to the left, sending it all into the
walls, to the head of her bed and to the floor next to her
closet.
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The small ivory plastic compact that was streaked
with varying shades of brown making it look like marble,
shattered as it slammed against the wood of the closet
door making chunks of the caked tan powder crack and
crumble out.
Meg scurried closer, tighter to the corner and pulled
a pillow into her stomach and her legs into her chest
holding them so tight that her knees turned red.
“This is not yours. Don’t touch her stuff. What
right…”
He bent down to pick up the pieces he’d strewn
around the room, kneeling sometimes and other times
squatting, gathering all of it into the stomach, into a pouch
he made of his soiled denim work shirt. When he stood,
he stumbled back onto one foot but regained his balance.
“This is hers.” His voice broke. He coughed, clearing
the tears from his throat, “Hers. Do you hear me?”
Meg nodded with emphasis. Her eyes remained on
him. Her breathing ramped up. She were inside a cage
with a wild tiger.
A painful expression bent his eyes down when he
looked at her, looking so adult like that with makeup on.
“Wash yer face.” His head tilted by only a millimeter
but she noticed it. A muscle in her neck loosened but she
continued to hold her legs close to her chest.
He turned his head toward the door but kept up his
commands. “Go. If your face isn’t washed, I’ll pummel
your ass. You hear?”
“Yes, Pa.” The muscle in her neck stiffened again.
He walked through the door with one hand on the
knob but turned back to look at her one more time and that
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time all the poker playing in the world couldn’t hide the
sadness he felt as he looked into the eyes of his daughter
who reminded him so much of his wife.
***
“But Pa…” Meg’s voice poured like water, this time
dragging her father’s name out far too long irritating him
more than urging.
“No! I said. She’s dead. That’s it. Dead. Now shut up
about ‘er.” Pa’s words stung like hot pokers on her skin,
in her eyes as she remembered their morning tussle.
***
Up on Whisker Ridge, Meg sat and adjusted her cape
as she gazed out and squinted at the sky. Moisture welledup in her eyes from the glare of the vibrant sun and her
hand came up to protect her. Rays, white titanium in their
intensity, penciled out short morning shadows behind
rocks and trees and shrubs and even sketched contrasts
within waves of the tall grass, making the stalks pirouette
in a ballet with the wind—shadows shortening and
disappearing under the imminent noon sun.
But Meg’s questions would not melt with the
narrowing shadows. And although she dug, she could not
unearth the answers to questions about her mother, not
from Pa anyway.
Way up there on the Mountain Goat trail, spinning
from a sudden wave of vertigo brought on by an impatient
gust of wind, one that warned of another dying season,
through the stabbing sadness, Meg pressed her fingers
inches into the dirt in an attempt to hang on to something,
to anything solid, anything kindred and she leaned against
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the trunk of the hard oak and closed her eyes until the
woozy sensation dissipated.
Hungry always, she figured she could go inside to
make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and come back
out on the ridge to eat it. When she let go of the earth, she
patted her hands together. A crust of filth caked each of
her nails, trimming a half moon outline grit under them
and lined each cuticle.
But as she scraped at her nails, she gazed over toward
the edge of the woods and became hopeful. It filled her
like bread to a starving dog.
See, something Meg knew for sure was one fact
about the fields of Whisker Ridge—how all those wild
kittens (it seemed like seven every year) were enchanted,
how they arrived early each hot summer, braved the
changing seasons up until the first hard frost then
disappeared forever seeking shelter within the depths of
Fennel Forest.
A rare grin widened Meg’s mouth and she breathed
in and held it as she remembered their antics, tumbling
and clawing, hissing and bounding about as each kitten—
a dainty spirited calico that leapt forth one day from the
gully, the yellow tabby with sad eyes, a black and white
tuxedo looking slick like Fred Astaire, a dark tortoise
shell that reminded Meg of a sloppy jam, a snowy white
mottled with copper with a bright pink nose so iridescent
she didn’t seem real, the Russian blue who loved to hang
out by the Nootka rose bramble and, finally, a shy
Siamese who liked to hear himself talk. Each kitten leapfrogged between one another in rolls and fits, spurts and
leaps, squeals and yowls as they tumbled behind their
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sedate momma cat as she tried to teach them how to catch
field mice and avoid toxic lizards and grasshoppers, while
she instructed how to properly clean and ear and lick each
other’s faces, showing how to run for cover at the site of
a turkey vulture and how to bask in the warmth of the
noon sun with slivers of dry grass clinging to their short
needle whiskers.
And even as Meg saw these scenes play out in her
mind, the horror of what happened after they
disappeared—after that summer’s batch left for good—
tortured Meg. They simply never came back and were
always replaced by a new set of kittens. The answer to
why these kittens never returned paralyzed Meg.
Meg tried her hardest to keep upbeat thoughts about
the kittens, fashioning stories, stories she relayed to Pa of
the kittens finding homes beneath the forest understory. A
cat haven where they all sat around a leveled tree trunk on
mossy stumps and played card games, drank teacups
filled with the most buttery cream and nibbled on mouse
tails.
No wait.
Not mouse tails. Meg altered her imagination to suit
a more peaceful cat lifestyle.
She rewrote the scene in her mind and whispered her
thoughts out there in the field to all the souls of those who
might be listening, "Where the kittens nibbled on sweet
peas" and as she dropped her hand onto the ground next
to her leg, it landed on a tight lacy, yellow flower. "And
dandelions!" Meg bellowed. She smiled because she
knew these golden-laced flowers were not really weeds
but vegetables.
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She made up another scene in her head so that she
might shoo out visions of wolves, grizzlies, and raptors
living near the woods who preyed on small animals.
That's what Pa told her once and it irked her. Meg
remembered hating him for the information and, then,
hating herself again for hating her father again.
"Anyway, kittens barely make a decent meal."
Mother had said, recovering for Pa’s horrid suggestion.
"Why not just leave the tiny things be, Russell?" Her
mother’s pretty voice chimed and she winked at Meg.
And, it was only at this moment that Meg hoped—
maybe her mother too had disappeared, gone to live
within a forest just like the one encircling Whisker Ridge.
But her smile faded and her hope felt like the
dandelion gone to seed, one deliquescing after a fairywish--open-handed, a kiss blown, hopeful then forgotten.
Meg made a silent prayer for so many of the kittens
she'd chased, played with over the last seven years living
in Whisker Ridge. Made a prayer for her mother, refusing
to believe she was gone forever. Made a prayer to stop
hating Pa.
But Pa flat refused to give her information about her
mother’s passing. She wanted him—no, she needed him
to explain how her mother died.
After a half-year, Meg burned for closure.
She hated hating Pa. Wasn’t right to hate your own
kin. But right then, right there sitting on the lip of the rock
face overlooking the vacant expanse below, again Meg
felt hatred gnawing at her belly. She didn’t know what to
think anymore.
Meg made a second prayer to stop hating her father.
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She accidentally wiped a smudge of fresh earth from
her palm across her brow and got up, brushed off the seat
of her grimy denim coveralls, untangled a twisted strand
of bone-colored hair sticking to a thin layer of perspiration
on the side of her face, and frowned when she looked back
at the rickety cabin her father built. Where he was
determined to hide himself forever.
Meg lowered her arms. She untied the knot from her
super hero cape and pinched the ends of the towel
between her frail fingers.
Meg turned toward Fennel Forest again.
Something beckoned to her. The wind whipped up
just then and seemed to whisper, a voice that, as she
listened closely, began to form words.
Come, it said. Come to me. I’m your friend. We need
each other.
She opened her fingers and dropped the cape around
her feet. It caused a waft of dusty earth to rise up into a
sudden wind that blew the wafting cloud off the edge of
the cliff, the dirt cascading in a opalescent smoke
grabbing glittering sand on its way down, down, down
that waffled and toppled into itself lower still until another
breeze caught hold, shifting and shattering the pearl
smoke once more before falling so far down there that it
disappeared entirely.
Meg’s breath caught at the back of her throat and she
coughed. The chalky odor of dirt that hadn’t seen rain in
months, choked her.
She cleared her throat and viewed the cape lying at
her boots. It looked ordinary now. A regular old faded
blue towel, the kind with tiny loops that were snagged,
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strings pulled out like ripcords, with HIS embroidered
across each end.
Just a stupid regular old towel.
She kicked the thing away from her foot and it nearly
slipped off the ridge. She gasped thinking about what kind
of trouble she would get into with Pa if she lost one of
their few towels.
She squinted down in to the gully and then she
redirected her eyes over to the forest. She craned her head
backwards toward the cabin to see if her Pa was watching.
He wasn’t.
Why would he be watching her? He could give a
flying leap about her.
And without looking at the cape, without looking
into the gully and continuing to stare at the cabin, a
lookout for Pa, with the toe of her boot she nudged the
towel closer to the edge. She nudged it again. It rolled in
on itself picking up speed until the direction of it curled
over the edge of the cliff. But then it stopped. Hooked on
a snag of a small root, the towel stuck there, seeming to
hold on for its life.
Meg didn’t care—the stupid old thing.
She shuffled closer to the edge of the rock face,
looked back toward the cabin again and, once more, she
nudged the soft tube the towel had become. It slipped off
slowly and unraveled from the weight of gravity, wafting
like a green maple leaf, fluttering and sailing down,
folding in and opening, hitting the steep wall and rolling
into a tube again, rolling and rolling, until it became
snagged on a sharp dagger jutting out of the cliff-face,
onto what looked like a broken off baseball bat of a dead
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root. Meg gasped to think how the thing appeared like a
flag, one Pa might notice if he ever emerged from the
grotto of their home.
Meg knew that if her Pa ever saw that towel there,
she’d be in for it. She turned back to see if he might come
out. But after a few moments without him showing she
knew she was safe. And as if God himself understood her
fear, he sent a brisk wind that lifted the towel off its hook
and cast it deeper into the gulch in a sail once again,
soaring and soaring, finally falling somewhere so far
down, somewhere hidden within a prolapsed mangle of
branches, earth and rock, the towel found a grave of its
own, finally disappearing from view.
***
With every muscle aching and trying to keep the
bottom from scraping, making any sound against the
floor, she heaved open the chunky hand-hewn door, her
child’s frame lifting it with all her might. Her face tight
and bright as a plum, her lungs aching from refusing to
breathe for fear, if she made the slightest noise, she might
wake her father.
There he laid there—a cranky old mutt, paws
twitching, growling out every wheezy lungful. Lung air
that leaked out yeast and hops from the beer he drank to
put himself to sleep.
He didn't look young like he used to, like when their
small family of three lived in Ash Fork where Meg was
born. Life in Whisker Ridge had a way of cutting people
down, bringing a mask of age even to the youngest faces.
People often mistook Meg for a freshman in high school.
She sort of liked their error but understood how it might
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occurred in their hilltop hamlet. A place so remote that,
when folks traveled, some preferred travelling from the
base of Garret Gulch on foot or by mule forgoing their
cars because the ragged terrain chopped at underbellies of
their vehicles.
Meg snuck around her father. Making sure to avoid
each loose plank on the floor.
She crisscrossed and tip-toed as far from his head as
possible. And avoiding him (as best she could) in her tiretreaded, dusty hiking boots, over bare wooden slats that
looked as though they hadn't been nailed down.
The musty odor leaching from greying chink so old
it crumbled into talc between some of the logs in the walls
and with upholstery so worn it looked shiny from the skin
from Pa’s face.
As she crept past him, she noticed her father's
calloused bare foot, mostly his toes. Each toenail had
grown grotesquely long. Many were chipped or cracked
and one, his right big toe had a chunk out of it, about oneeighth of an inch, curved into a crescent that looked as
though a mouse had nibbled out a bite.
His foot hung as if it were broken, slung off the arm
of the couch like that, at an odd angle. They were trimmed
around the sock-line in a crust of dirt and sawdust from
the mill. Meg felt her eyes narrow and her lip raise.
Moving past him still, she sucked in a silent pocket
of air, trying to lighten her step as she made her way
around.
"You just gettin’ home?" His voice smacked of a
nightmare passing. It was sudden and full of fight. Meg
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jolted to a stop feeling her hands go cold and sweat cover
her palms.
She let out her breath and spoke in a whisper. "Sorry,
Pa. Didn't mean to wake you."
"Answer me." He tried opening his eyes but one
stuck closed. It was all Meg could do not to laugh. His
large hands helped when they came up to cover his face,
hers to cover her mouth. He rubbed the slow eye harder
and continued his inquisition. "You just gettin' home?"
"Yeah. Yes." She recovered so he couldn’t yell at her
about how to say yes.
"You sure do daydream a bunch. Whatcha think
about out there?"
"Nuthin' Pa. Just stuff."
"Stuff, huh?" He pushed up and swung his legs to the
floor but cracked his ankle hard against the wooden
footstool, the one he used while reading his books. While
reading to Meg stories about whales and war and
westerns. How her dad loved westerns. How she longed
to be a writer too.
"Ca-ristmas!" He barked and rubbed the bruised knot
forming fast.
Meg's body stiffened to attention.
"Ever daydream about cleanin' up yer room or
learnin' to cook?"
Meg sidled closer to her door. She knew what was
coming, understood his tone and really didn't want to deal
with Pa. She certainly didn’t want to hear about all the
disappointing things he felt about her. She wanted to be
alone as much as he wanted her mother back, as much as
they both did.
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Neither were going to get their wish. Not this
evening.
"Come here." He commanded. "We need to talk."
Meg's body loosened. The blood in her head pooled
to the soles of her feet and anchored her where she was.
Fear locked her to that spot on the floor and she closed her
eyes knowing what was coming—the tirade of demands
to pick up the house, to do her homework, to get out of
his sight.
But not before the inevitable swats to her rear or a
mean smack across the face that, lately, he seemed to take
pleasure in.
***
At eleven, Med had already seen too much grief and
didn't feel like more right now. She needed a break, a
respite, she'd once heard it called by one of the mourners
at mother's funeral service.
"You need a respite from all this heartbreak,
Russell.” She’d said. “One man shouldn't have to endure
the amount of pain you've had to bear." The old woman
patted Pa on the shoulder and walked away as the
processional line moved on, some of the folks crying,
some shaking their heads, most trying not to make eye
contact with Meg.
It's always the kids who suffer--in divorces and when
parents die. Always the kids.
After his punishments, she only heard the pitch of his
commands and insults and fought a fierce fight to keep
from crying in front of him. She hated crying in front of
him and hadn’t not even at the funeral.
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He had no idea how to raise a child. That was
mother's expertise.
Her swollen eyes had long since dried but she
remembered their talk. It began with a snap of Pa's middle
finger onto the thin skin of her forehead. His fingerprints
still burned into her arm. And she tested with her tongue
the small split across her lip that plumped and oozed,
soothing it and measuring its length.
She kneeled on her bed, looking into the mirror from
across the room angling her head into its reflection to see
if anyone might notice the injury.
Then Meg got up and went to the mirror. After taking
in the swollen redness of her cheek, the bloody lip and
knot on her forehead, she turned away. Tears burned in
pain of the assault, the cruel comments he slurred out at
her bubbled up to the top of her throat.
Trying to keep from sobbing, she dived into the bed
and buried her head in her pillow.
Her tears and muffled wailing stopped instantly.
Some boiling sense of courage built in her and she felt
more determined than ever. She’d show him.
Opening the rusted lock on the cabin's chunky timber
door made escape impossible without stirring Pa, even
while in another room, as he slept in bed.
Meg knelt under the window and unhooked the latch.
She patted the window with her flat palms, testing the seal
of the window with the sill. It shifted up and remained
crack.
She became animated and jumped up to stand on her
bed her feet sinking deep into the mattress with each step.
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She gripped the lower part of the window frame and
pulled up. It slid open, too easily.
The night air flowed in cooling her cheeks and
soothing her eyes. She closed her eyes. Nature’s aroma
cascaded in and around filling her room. Nature’s sounds
sang to her heart, her soul and with everything she felt
while outside, she felt then and there. The corner of her
lips arched up and a gentle countenance replaced the
strain only seconds before had her in its grip. But she
wouldn’t let the smile grow too wide. Still, she allowed
the moment into her room, letting it caress her tender lip.
***
Scampering away from the cabin made excitement
bloom in her chest. She wanted to laugh but she was also
scared.
She tripped and saw her father’s light blink on. She
froze in place and stopped breathing.
Then light in the bathroom blinked on. Meg’s eyes
shifted and remained glued to the bathroom window.
Her room was between her father’s and the
bathroom.
After the bathroom window blinked off, Meg
dragged in another gulp of air and held it. She waited, her
eyes wide, her body paralyzed waiting for her bedroom
light to switch on.
If he found her room empty, he might beat her to
death. How could he ever understand her longing? It
wasn't a question. Not really. It was a statement that
burrowed straight to her father's sensibilities, his
practicalities. His own longings. His own fears.
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But, Pa's days went like this: Ride Minnie all the way
down to the mill, rip a mile of trees through the saw, an
hour-long mule ride back home, take a two-hour nap, get
up, eat, then sleep and repeat.
After his light switched off, Meg defied her jailer.
She was free. Free to leave behind her abuser. To hide in
the forest. To find whatever answers lie in the way of the
wild, wild woods.
Tonight she would see beyond the wall of trees that
hid--she just knew--a myriad of secrets and surprises. She
might even find her lost kittens. Hope galloped in her ribs.
***
The forest buzzed in night sounds with crickets
chirping, tree frogs singing and a thin, almost
imperceptible tinkling of air on the tips of pine needles,
sounding like a million spiders tap-dancing the 8-legged
tango, like rain pattering on a window pane--a most
delicate percussion.
The scent of pine carved a wedge between night and
day in sharp tangs and fireplaces burning. Day smelled
like God’s kitchen with sheets of grass warming, pots of
honey melting and kettles of dew vaporizing.
Meg walked with her flashlight, the shimmering
beam spreading into a Y and shattering into darkness as
she trudged closer to the tree line. The light flicked once
making Meg shake it then give it a bump with the heel of
her hand. Doing the trick, the light reestablished a steady
glow.
Pa warned her never to go into the woods without
him and, if she did go? To always take twine to tie onto
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sturdy shrubs along the path so she could find her way
out.
Maybe that's why the wild cats never returned. They
didn't have twine or the thumbs with which to tie.
Maybe her mother had lost her own twine. Maybe
mother wasn't really dead. Maybe she just got lost
somewhere. Meg held all the maybe’s in her heart as she
wiped an itch from her nose, a twitch from her chin, the
burn away from her eyes.
Hope soared in her chest, hope she might find a
cluster of all her many lost kittens just waiting for her to
come for them, with twine in hand leading them back,
back home with Meg. Hope she'd one day see her mother
again.
Stocked with soda crackers, the twine and her
canteen, the pack strapped to her back felt heavier now
than when she climbed from her room and, as she
approached a long statue of evergreens, a chill ran down
her spine. The row of trees looked like an enormous zigzag of loden cut-out dolls holding each other's feathery
hands.
She trembled at the way they peered at her there in
the dark, like guards of a fortress eyeing her and
protecting the dense arboreal portcullis from unwanted
visitors like her.
Or, perhaps they were protecting visitors from what
lurked within the woods.
And, what lurked within?
She'd heard all the tales of dryads, Big Foot and the
Whispering Pines that lured little girls like her into an
oblivion never to be seen or heard from again.
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"No!" Meg shook her thoughts away. Hair tangled
and whipping, she wouldn't allow one negative rumor to
deter her right now. "Stop this nonsense!"
She shifted the backpack down onto a slippery spot
of dewy grass, sighed and chastised herself for conjuring
such hideous fantasies.
She eyed a few shrubs that sat under the tree guards
then pulled out the spool of thin rope and twisted some
around her pudgy finger like her mother did when she
once showed Meg how to tie a ribbon tail onto a kite. She
fumbled with a fern’s frond as it slipped between her
fingers playing cat and mouse with her. The twine felt
slack and knot shimmied off at first but when she rolled
the loop lower down the leaf’s shaft it held and she
accepted the knot as good enough.
"It will suffice." She murmured, her hands pressed in
fists on her hips, mimicking her mother, her mother’s
word and not really understanding what suffice meant at
all.
For a toy's tail, one with nothing pulling against its
knot, suffice was all anyone would ever need but for a
knot that would help you find your way in and out of a
puzzle of trees--a knot, a good one, meant either survival
or death.
Meg lowered her hands and combed a straggle of
hair from her eyes. She scooted her right foot a smidge
closer to the line of tree trunks. Then she dragged her left
foot up to meet her right. She took a deep breath in, waited
for a sec and duplicated her action by stepping closer yet
again. The bank of trees hadn’t attacked her. They hadn’t
done anything, said a word to dissuade her.
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Then, finally, after three repetitions—one foot after
the next—Meg vanished behind that first array of dark
trees.
CHAPTER TWO
The crunch of decaying leaves and broken twigs
under her shoes distorted a strange and newer sound. Yet
as she walked closer, the new sound overtook the
crunching under her soles and halted her.
Upon hearing the noise, like strains from one
hundred violin strings, she stopped fast in order to listen
closer. And as fast as she stopped, her breathing stopped.
Then, the strain of odd music stopped too. Odd noises for
a forest, anyway.
She waited a handful of heartbeats when she decided
to walk again. And, as if toying with Meg, the noise
started up again upon her very first step.
When again she heard its music, as before, she
stopped only to hear the sound stop too.
Meg squinted. "I hear you, darn it!" She yelled out a
distant dare. "You cain't scare me!” Her voice pitched up
in the lie. “I know yer foolin'!" She looked around and
placed both hands onto her hips in shaky bravura.
Meg then proceeded with a single, terribly, terribly
slow lift of the knee forward hoping to trick the sound into
beginning again. And, stopping mid-step with her leg still
slung in the air, the odd sound bought into her trick. The
violins soared up to her ears in a symphony so loud she
couldn't mistake identifying the actual noise.
Not ever.
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The violins were not violins at all. They were the
sound of hundreds of kittens mewing in unison!
Meg's eyes widened. Her chinned dropped but not
her knee and she instinctively called out, "Kitty! Here
kitty, kitty, kitty!"
All at once the forest went deathly silent. Only then
did Meg lower her knee. She pulled in a deep breath of air
and waited, watching, listening, spinning in one slow
circle around and around, her twine wrapping around her
ankles with each turn.
Then she spun again in the same direction. Then once
more and as she turned she looked up into the treetops
trying to spot even one iota of movement. When she did,
a huge set of eyes, face-forward glowed at Meg. A chill
snaked down her back and prickled her skin, lifting each
hair follicle on edge.
"Hoo hoo hooooo!" The glowing eyes blinked.
"Oh! Yer just a silly ol' ow-wel." Meg dropped the
end of her twine and rubbed her arms.
The owl called once more and then must have turned
its head because the eyes disappeared. But just as the she
figured the bird had turned away from her, she felt a
feathery breeze flutter against her left cheek that's how
close the owl had flown toward her.
Meg gasped and jumped back, tripped and fell on her
rear. She looked toward her feet and saw that her way
back home, the twine, had tangled up her legs.
"You crum, you." She cursed the owl. But it didn't
matter because no one, except of course the animals of the
forest could hear her.
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As she sat there, she peered deep into the trees which
looked as if they had folded their arms across their chests
in defiance against this girl, this, this anomaly in their
land. Meg thought she noticed one grimace at her.
"Kittens!" Her face full of worry and hope if one's
face can appear with both, she loosened the twine from
around her feet, stood and put her hands on her hips again.
Tricksters! Owls and cats, they were. Full of tricks these
animals of the woods.
She blew out her breath. Looked over one shoulder
turning in a semi-circle then looked over the other, her
turn following the direction of her head.
"I know you're here." She called. "I'll lead you back
to safety." Her voice tipped up as she offered the deal to
the invisible creatures.
But the forest deafened again. All sounds stopped.
No chitting bugs. No chirping crickets. No singing frogs.
Nothing. She'd once heard this phenomenon called Dead
Air.
The stillness crept into her mind, into her heart and
she felt scared and so alone just then. A complete absence
of sound screamed at her to the point her ears thumped. It
was only when a gentle breeze coursed through the trees
rustling the branches that the hollow void was silenced.
Meg’s arms felt heavy. She wanted to give up and go
home. She tugged at the twine, the twine she'd, only
seconds ago, loosened from her legs but it was at this
point she realized that the length wasn't coming from new
twine on the spool and instead from twine she'd used to
find her way home if she decided to quit, like now, and
double back.
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However, it seemed that quitting was no option. She
had turned around so many times in one place that she
couldn't even remember from which point she'd entered
this spot. Was it there? Or was it from over there?
And, because of this dark, moonless night, Meg
wasn't able to locate the twine's end.
As she gazed at the ground, she knew much of the
cord now laid on the ground in that smashed pile next to
her thick hiking boots and that the end of the cord was still
somewhere...
CHAPTER THREE
When Pa awoke, the stillness hobbled him. He’d not
yet come to terms with the loss of his wife or her body no
longer lying there next to his in bed. Even though the
pastor told him what to expect it still didn't help.
“The physical pain, ya know, pastor. I can’t stand it.
My gut aches day ‘n night. It’s all I can do to fight back
my tears. When will it all end, pastor? When? ’Cause I
don’t know how long I can hold up.” Pa leaned back into
his chair—a losing boxer into his corner sitting, the wind
sucked out of him.
“Russell. And here’s the thing. It’s different for
everyone.” Pastor Ted leaned forward and placed his
elbows on top of his desk, then clasped his hands.
“A ballpark idea would be nice.” The rims of Pa's
eyes moistened and plumped as he fought the tears, his
nose blushed and his chin quivered.
“Look, Russ. The experts say it usually takes about a
year to a year and a half.”
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Pa let out a sigh. He wasn’t certain but figured he
could handle another eight months then Pastor Ted went
on. “I don’t want you to think you’ll magically feel great
after this time, Russell. That’s not what happens.
Sometimes people recover a lot sooner, some a lot longer.
It just depends.”
“On what?”
“Everything. Anything, really. Nothing.”
"What kind of answer is that?" Russell flamed quick
and slammed a hand on the chair’s wooden arm. “Jesus
Christ!” He rolled his eyes understanding his immediate
sin. “Sorry Ted.”
The Pastor sat back in his chair. He frowned but
continued. “This is the deal, Russell. It just takes time.”
He checked Russell’s expression for signs of another
outburst but this time saw none. “I know that answer is
holds one hundred percent zero comfort at this point in
time but someday,” and he repeated it for emphasis,
“someday, you won’t feel like you want to die yourself.”
“Can’t die, Ted. What’d Meg do, both parents dead
like that?”
“Yeah. Well, don’t even think that way. You just
keep coming in here. Come and as often as you need. I’m
here. My door’s always open.”
Pa shifted in his chair and acted like he wanted to
rise, to leave but Pastor Ted stopped him in a half stance.
“And, Russ?”
“Yep.”
“If Church is closed. Call me. Please. That isn’t me
just being nice, it’s what I want you to do. What I need
you to do. K?” The pastor pulled a business card out of
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the holder on top of the crowd of papers on his desk and
handed it to him. Pa looked at it as if inspecting a longawaited dollar bill. Then the pastor repeated. “Anytime.”
“Yep.” Pa rose, straightening his back, shook the
pastor’s hand and left.
That meeting was three months ago when Meg
waited for her father on a bench between the sanctuary
and the offices and closer yet to the large open window of
the church's kitchen.
Russell remembered that day back then when back
then made his skull ache.
Now? Meg had gone missing. He hadn’t minded at
first, yesterday, during the day like always. She'd leave
and sit in the field for hours. But when she didn’t show up
last night and well past midnight, then two and now at
three in the morning in its pitch and chill. Now it was he
who felt a new kind of pain.
An agony seared inside his chest. He felt a new kind
of desperation that sliced up his heart.
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THANK YOU FOR READING Susan Wingate’s
soulful novel “The Deer Effect” and the excerpt of her
Christian fantasy “Way of the Wild Wood!”
And, please remember, to leave a review and tell all
of your friends about Susan Wingate’s books. As you
know ‘word of mouth’ is not only the best way to sell, it’s
also the highest compliment you can give.
You can sign up for Susan’s occasional email at her
website www.susanwingate.com. Simply, click on the
page labeled Newsletter and you’ll not only receive great
writing tips and information about the publishing industry
but you will also get a few freebies too!
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