Yesterday's Gone | Novel | October's Gone

by Platt, Sean

  “And you’re still refusing to get him help!”

  “Ha,” Anderson smirked. “Who’s yelling now?”

  “I’m telling you this story to help you see that something is seriously wrong with our son.”

  “I’ve been saying the same thing for years, and you get mad at me every time.”

  “No. I get upset with you for calling him inappropriate and insensitive names.”

  “E.T. made more than half a billion at the box office. I don’t see why—”

  “Just. Stop.”

  Her expression must have prompted his compliance.

  In a much softer voice, he said, “What kind of a twelve-year-old pisses the bed?”

  “One with emotional problems that his parents are refusing to address.”

  “I’ve got it!” Anderson smirked and pointed a Eureka! finger at the ceiling. “One whose mommy won’t stop coddling him … am I right, Liz? Treat him like a baby; you get baby behavior! Did circle get the square?”

  “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to say anything to him.”

  “What happened to us ‘always needing to maintain a united front?’ Are we over that now?”

  Liz didn’t argue — this could be going a lot worse. “I shouldn’t have promised Junior that I would keep a secret from you, but he was really scared—”

  “Well, at least you had a good reason.”

  “—and I needed to calm the situation. Besides, I don’t disagree with Junior. You don’t always take things well … and it’s not like we agree on how to handle—”

  “You’re right, Liz. I finally see your side of this. Sorry, it took me so goddamned long to understand why it makes sense for us to spend two hundred bucks an hour—”

  “I don’t want to fight about this, Anderson. I said I shouldn’t have kept the secret from you.”

  “Right before you made an excuse as to why you didn’t want to tell me.”

  She sighed. “What do you want from me?”

  “Getting on the same page about you coddling him, and seeing how that’s the number one thing keeping our boy from becoming a man.”

  “I don’t agree that I’m coddling him. If anything, I feel like a single parent when it comes to—”

  “A single parent?” Anderson scoffed.

  “—dealing with this issue. I’ve been asking for years now, and we haven’t even tried therapy.”

  “You can’t just ‘try’ therapy, Liz. That’s not how the scam works. They get you in once, and you never fucking stop going!”

  “It’s not a scam! Jesus, why are you such an unrelenting asshole sometimes?”

  His lip curled in a snarl. “Better watch what you say to me.”

  “Or what, Anderson?”

  Silence between them.

  He finally licked his lips and cleared his throat. “How do we end this, so I don’t have to spend the next three days in Antarctica?”

  “Just promise you won’t say anything to him.”

  “I won’t say anything to him.”

  You didn’t say promise.

  But that would only look petty. So instead, she said, “Thank you.”

  But Liz really should have made him promise.

  * * *

  Two days later, at around the same time of night but much deeper into his drink, Anderson appeared to be picking a fight with his son. “What do you mean, you don’t think you should have to go to school?”

  “The school doesn’t want me. And you don’t want me here. So I shouldn’t have to go to school.”

  Anderson polished off the last of his beer, then cracked open the next one. Liz didn’t know how many that had been, but she was sure she’d seen him swallowing pills as well.

  “Two-thirds of your logic is sound, son. The school doesn’t want you, and neither do we. But your slower-than-a-koala ass still has to go.”

  “Anderson!” Then to Junior, “He doesn’t mean that.”

  “Your mom might not care if you’re here,” Anderson said. “At least it means she doesn’t have to go to work anymore. And it means she can keep petting you like a goddamned little dog. Or a puppy, I suppose.” A bark of laughter. “She won’t even let you be a dog.”

  Junior didn’t respond.

  “I know you can hear me, boy.”

  “Anderson, leave him alone.”

  He turned and glared at her. “Did you think I was talking to you?”

  She shrank back; then, he returned his attention to Junior.

  “You better say something, boy.”

  Junior blinked, and his brown eyes changed. “You treat me like I am unintelligent. But I am not unintelligent. In some ways, I am more intelligent than you.”

  At first, Anderson looked like someone had slapped him. Then he guffawed until he finally settled down enough to take several long swallows of beer.

  Liz watched them, trying not to tremble as she imagined what might happen next.

  Junior was sprawled on the floor, kicking distance from Anderson’s agitated heel.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me, E.T. — how are you smarter than me?”

  “I didn’t say I was smarter than you.”

  “That’s exactly what you said, boy.” Anderson was clearly getting angrier.

  “No. It is not. I said that in some ways, I am more intelligent than you.”

  Anderson turned to her. “He making any fucking sense to you?”

  He was, but Liz didn’t have to explain it.

  Junior said, “Smart means having the right answer. Intelligent means solving the problem. In some ways, I am more intelligent than you.”

  “So which one of us is pissing the bed, then?” Anderson sneered again, spittle flying from his lips.

  Junior blinked several times.

  Then he turned to his mother and stared at her without blinking at all.

  The moment yawned, each second excruciating, mercifully ending with a slow shake of her son’s crestfallen head, followed by his awkward flight from the room.

  Silence, a slamming door, then Liz exploded on Anderson.

  “What the hell is your problem? I can’t believe you did that to me!”

  “To you?” Anderson took a noisy sip. “He’s the one who’s probably already fetal in his bed.”

  “You promised me.” Liz glared at him with all of her fury, then stormed out of the room to go after her son.

  But two minutes later, in his room, Junior was still refusing to look at her.

  “Please … honey … Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was only trying to help.”

  Silence, same as every time before.

  That was fine. She needed to think of something more intelligent to say.

  Smart means having the right answer. Intelligent means solving the problem. In some ways, I am more intelligent than you.

  “I’m proud of you. For what you said to your father. About the difference between smart and intelligent. I really think—”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m sorry …” She swallowed a lump, then collected her breath.

  Junior had sounded so … commanding. So much like his father. It startled her more every time. And right now, his eyes were even scarier than his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Liz repeated, still taken aback and mostly buying time.

  “No, you’re not! You’re a lying bitch! Just like your mother!”

  Words were stuck in her throat, thoughts lodged in her head, and her body might as well have been bolted to the floor.

  “What did you say?” she finally managed.

  “You heard me. You always hear me. You just choose to do what you want to.”

  His eyes darkened, then instantly dimmed. It looked like something had died.

  “Junior …”

  Nothing.

  “Junior?”

  Still nothing.

  “Junior!”

  At least twenty seconds had passed. She wanted to call for her husband — scream
for Anderson, no matter how angry she was at him — but her paralysis was back, worse than before. She had to force the words; they came in a bellow. “JUNIOR!”

  “Hi, Mommy!”

  Liz swallowed and licked her parched lips. Suddenly Junior looked like a little boy again. “What happened to you?”

  “What happened when Mommy?”

  “Just now?”

  He frowned, thinking. Then he brightened with the answer. “I opened my eyes and saw you. Then I said, ‘Hi, Mommy.’ Now, are we going to play?”

  “Something the matter?” Anderson slurred as he appeared in the doorway.

  “No.” She shook her head and gave him a thin smile. Then she lied. “Everything is better now.”

  Liz didn’t care what Anderson had to say about it — Junior needed to see someone immediately.

  * * *

  Liz spent the next two days following every possible lead while looking for a therapist that fit their particular situation, even though she didn’t really know what their situation actually was. After finding Dr. Philipe, she had to beg for an earlier appointment. She explained that after waiting seven years and feeling like everything in her life was very quickly spiraling down the drain, another two months might mean the end of everything. Dr. Philipe explained that things were usually worse in a person’s head than they were in real life, but agreed to an evening appointment, anyway.

  Liz told Anderson that she was gifting him with an evening alone, knowing that Junior had been especially taxing lately. He didn’t look up from his beer.

  The initial appointment ran for three hours. One with all three of them, followed by an hour between just Junior and Dr. Philipe. Then finally, a one-on-one between the therapist and herself.

  Philipe got right to the point. “I’ll want to talk to him more, of course, but I believe that your son might have DID.”

  “Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Liz might not have ever said those three words out loud to Anderson, but she had done her homework.

  “That’s correct. It’s rare and not quite like what you’ve seen in the movies, but the condition is real, and there are ways you can learn to cope.”

  “Us or him?” Liz gave her a nervous little laugh.

  The doctor offered her a patient smile. “Both.”

  “DID is the same as multiple personality disorder, right?” Liz asked.

  “That’s what the disorder used to be called. The name was changed, thanks to a better understanding of the condition.”

  “Can you explain it to me in non-WebMD terms?”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “It essentially means that Junior might have created a separate personality to give him more control over his everyday life. And if that’s the case, there’s an excellent chance that he has no idea this other ‘alter’ even exists.”

  “So, it’s like possession?”

  The doctor gave her a knowing look. “Where do you think stories about possession came from?”

  “Any idea what this other identity might be like?”

  “Again, I’ll want to talk with him more, but I think I might be seeing evidence of more than one other alter. Often there’s more than one, and they fulfill different roles.”

  “Oh?” Liz swallowed something thick and acidic.

  “All of this is very early guessing, you under—”

  “I just need to hear it. Please … tell me.”

  “I believe Junior might have internalized his father’s archetype as a protector. But I also see a childlike side, much younger than his twelve-year-old self.”

  “Is that it?”

  The doctor looked down at her notebook, then back up at Liz. “There’s something else that I can only define as … dark. Again, I think we would all benefit from some deeper exploration. I’d also like to write him a pre—”

  “No drugs.”

  “Mrs. Coombs, we can’t—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. And yes, I agree. But not yet.” A frail smile. “My husband doesn’t know we’re here. That will change, but like I told you earlier, even though this is long overdue and it might feel like a baby step to you, it’s a big deal for us.”

  “I understand,” the doctor said.

  Liz could tell from her smile that she did.

  * * *

  Junior spoke a few minutes into their drive. “What did she say about me?”

  “That you’re very intelligent.” Liz gave him an honest little laugh.

  He laughed too. “What else did she say?”

  It broke her heart, how scared he sounded when asking.

  “A lot of stuff I’m still thinking about. I promise we’ll talk about it later, but in the meantime, I need you to do me a big favor, okay?”

  “What is it, Mommy?”

  “I need you to not tell Daddy about this for right now, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Liz was asking each of them to make promises that neither was likely to keep.

  She couldn’t hide it forever, nor did she want to.

  If Anderson had a problem with Junior getting therapy after she decided to tell him, then Liz would have to take her best friend’s long overdue advice and finally leave him.

  Eleven

  October 17, 2011 …

  Liz was back in front of the shed.

  The door was ajar. Her timid hand hovered over the handle.

  She heard a sound inside and scrambled back to avoid discovery.

  Just like last time, Junior — Andy now — emerged from the shed and slowly approached her.

  There was comfort in knowing this was a dream. But also, the terror of having no control in a plane of existence where nightmares were like stars in the sky.

  Just like in the last dream, Andy mumbled as he passed. Alien sounds that made no sense.

  Mishven ictbienavioven abeeaberen estee ieempo derededie.

  She followed him as a tornado swirled behind her.

  He disappeared inside the cabin.

  Liz heard the cracking rattle of something impossible, laughing. This time she had more courage and forced herself step-by-step toward the door.

  She entered the shed again.

  But this time, she knew the monsters would feast on her flesh.

  She refused to scream as they fed.

  * * *

  Liz didn’t whimper when she woke.

  It was a new day and another chance to wrestle control. It was also the day Colette was coming to get them. But with the phone not working, there was no telling when, or if, she’d show. Even if she did, they couldn’t just leave without knowing what had happened to Anderson. If he was dead, it would seem like they’d run because they were guilty.

  Who knew what the authorities would do to them? She and her son might go to prison. Or maybe she’d find herself behind bars, and he’d end up in a mental facility. Not one of the good ones, the kind where they stuck monsters who murdered their officer fathers.

  She shook the thoughts from her mind. Liz had a few more pressing realities to face and would have to stare them down all at once.

  Starting with the first three: Anderson was missing; freak weather had apparently managed to somehow rearrange the forest, and something was very wrong with her son.

  She limped to the kitchen, her leg hurting worse, but not as bad as she’d feared. Maybe she’d only worsened the sprain, not finished a tear.

  Same as yesterday, Andy had eggs, toast, and coffee waiting for her. Today, the eggs were substantially better, a scramble with tomatoes, onions, and mushrooms — Anderson style. The coffee was stronger and more flavorful. Her toast, warm and crispy with a neat smear of strawberry jam.

  “Good morning, Mommy.”

  Andy set her breakfast on the counter, then plopped on an adjacent stool where he started to color, for once making no effort to hide his work while adding to an in-progress drawing.

  She chewed on her eggs, stealing glances as if sensing that he wanted her to.

  Ther
e were no tornadoes or wolves or bodies or monsters. Liz saw a rainbow, sketched in purple, and then filled in with only the brightest colors. There was a house next to the arches, about the same size and drawn with a toddler’s perspective instead of the spatially intelligent sweep of his usual work. Three gargantuan figures stood in front of the house. Flowers bloomed at their feet, mostly pink, but quite a few were lavender.

  He was making his sun more yellow, but Liz knew it was all a facade.

  “Can you do me a favor today?”

  Andy looked up from his drawing. “What do you need, Mommy?”

  “Can you go back to the store and see if anyone is there?”

  “Everybody is gone.”

  “I know. You told me. But I was thinking they might be back by now.”

  “Everybody is gone.”

  “Is there even a teeny-tiny chance that someone might be at the store?”

  “There was a car parked outside. The keys were inside the car, but the car wasn’t working. Its door was wide open, too.”

  “Right. And the trees told you to stop asking.” She sighed, wanting to cry and really needing him to leave. “You can still do me a favor.”

  “What do you need, Mommy?”

  “My phone isn’t working, and your father must have his. The landline is also down or was never turned on. Either way, the store will have a phone, and it will really help me if you go there.”

  “I’m not allowed to use other people’s things without permission.”

  “You can do special things in an emergency. This is an emergency. So please, Andy, can you help me?”

  Something gleamed in his eyes. “Okay, Mommy.”

  He stood from his stool and went into the living room.

  She watched him pull his hoodie off the hook, put it on, then leave without saying goodbye. The door closed, and Liz was off of her stool. A dozen long limps later, she was back in the living room, sweeping her hand along the high mantle above the fireplace.

  But after four passes, her fingers were still missing the key.

  She dragged a stool over, stood on top of it, and saw the truth for herself: the key was missing.

  She cursed herself. She’d had no excuse for not going last night.

  Except that Liz had every reason. If Andy was onto her enough to have reclaimed his key, there was no way she could get away with—