by P. D. Cacek
“St. Joseph’s on Nineteenth. Do you need someone to drive for you?”
“No, no. I have to get my daughters. Tell my wife I’ll be right there. Tell her….”
Jess dropped the phone on the passenger seat as he backed the car out of the drive.
Please God, let her be okay. Please let her be okay.
* * *
The spaghetti sauce burned.
* * *
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
“Curtis?” Knock, knock, knock.
“Go away!”
“It’s dinnertime.”
Curtis pushed back his chair and used the momentum he’d built crossing the room to body slam the door. The hinges creaked and another crack appeared in the frame and the mother yelped on the opposite side.
“I told you to leave me alone!” he yelled. “I’m not hungry! I’m busy! Go away!”
“Curtis, you heard your mother.”
It was both of them. The father and the mother. If it had just been the mother (M) Curtis (C) could have made her leave (C>M). The mother was easy, the father (f) wasn’t, he could be stubborn (s) and loud (l2) if Curtis didn’t do what he wanted and Curtis didn’t like noise.
C>M-f but M+f(sl2) =>C.
Curtis opened the door.
The father was standing directly opposite the doorway. Curtis poked his head out just far enough to see the mother. She was standing down the hall near the stairs. She was smiling. The father was not.
“It’s your favorite, Curtis, Taco Thursday!”
Curtis straightened and looked the father in the eyes. They were almost the same height and he could tell it made the father uncomfortable. The father looked away first.
“Go wash up and then come down to dinner,” the father said to a spot slightly to the right of Curtis’s face. “And don’t keep us waiting.”
Curtis watched the father walk away and wondered how many pounds per square inch would be required to push him down the stairs.
* * *
Arvada, Colorado
Two police officers had been waiting for them in the hospital lobby, but Jess only stopped long enough to get his wife’s room number before leading his daughters toward the elevators. The officers didn’t try to stop them.
The girls hadn’t asked any questions on the ride over and Jess had thanked God for that. Abigail had cried when he told them, but Jessica, his brave girl, had squeezed her lips together and put an arm around her sister’s shoulders, pulling her close. And he thanked God for that too.
They weren’t children, they were fourteen, which made them old enough to come into their mother’s room, but the doctor who’d treated his wife had made it clear without actually saying anything that it might be easier if Jess came by himself. He left them sitting side by side in the otherwise empty ICU waiting room.
“I’ll be right back,” he told them. “Pray for her.”
He could still hear them reciting the Lord’s Prayer in harmony as he left the room and followed the doctor to a room halfway down the hall.
“It’s bad,” the doctor told him, but that was an understatement.
The left side of her face was swaddled in bandages and there was a tube down her throat to help her breathe. IVs dripped fluid and plasma into both her arms. The skin on the right side of her face was discolored by bruises. A small bandage, the kind they used to put on the girls’ fingers when they got a boo-boo, covered the point of her chin. The only sounds were from the ventilator and heart monitor; the EEG was silent.
It didn’t look like his wife. “Are you sure it’s her?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Mr. Pathway, but the prognosis isn’t very—”
One of the machines started to chime and the doctor pushed Jess aside.
“Get him out of here.”
Hands grabbed Jess’s arm. “Please come with me, sir.”
Jess pulled away. The doctor was pumping the broken woman’s chest.
“Code Blue. And get the crash cart in here.”
The hands tried to pull him away again, but Jess saw the woman open her eyes and look at him. Jess felt his own heart stop. Just one quick look before:
“Time of death….”
MONICA LEIGH PATHWAY
January 3, 1981 – April 11, 2019
* * *
Jess looked at his wife’s flower-draped casket and took a deep breath. It had all happened so fast he hadn’t had time beyond arranging the funeral and taking care of their daughters to write a sermon. One of the deacons and the lay minister had offered to officiate, but he couldn’t let them do it. He needed to be right where he was.
He needed to be there for his wife and daughters and the rest of the congregation.
He needed.
Jess closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the carnations’ peppery-sweet scent. He smiled as he opened his eyes.
“Monica loved carnations. She carried a bouquet of white carnations at our wedding and made it clear, when I bought her a dozen long-stemmed red roses for our first anniversary, that she preferred carnations. When I asked her why, since roses were supposed to be the flower of choice for special occasions, she told me that was the reason. Everyone got roses because they’re flashy and obvious, but carnations were simple and unpretentious, but you always knew they were there. They filled the room with their scent the same way Monica filled a room with her love and joy of life.”
He felt his eyes tear up as he looked down at his daughters in the first pew. Jessica was dressed in a dove-gray skirt and pale yellow turtleneck. Abigail’s long-sleeved dress was maroon with white lace at the collar and cuffs. He’d asked them not to wear black. Black was for sorrow, he told them, and he didn’t want them or anyone to remember their mother that way.
He wore his navy suit with the garish blue-green and orange paisley designer tie his wife had given him the same year he’d given her roses.
They looked so much like their mother. Auburn hair and green eyes. Bright green eyes, bright, sparkling green eyes, not blue.
Jess wiped the image and the tears away before nodding.
“Her physical presence may be gone, but she is still with us. She will always be with us in our hearts and memories. Unassuming and gentle as she was, Monica never turned away from things that were important, from things that mattered. Something happened on the night she left us that will stay forever in my mind.”
A new sound in the front pew turned his attention back to his daughters. Jessica’s reserve finally failed her and she clung to her sister, shoulders trembling with each sob. Seated directly behind them, Laura Wingate, Monica’s avowed sister-from-another-mother, reached over the back of the pew and began stroking Jessica’s hair, whispering softly. Richard, her husband and Jess’s friend as well as one of the church board members, whispered something to their daughter, Carly, who immediately got up and went to sit next to his weeping child.
Jess nodded his thanks.
“I know how much it hurts, Jessica, Abigail, but just know that her last thoughts were undoubtedly of you.” Jessica’s sobs deepened. “Your mother loved you both so much and would have done anything to protect you…so I feel it’s my duty here and now as we celebrate her memory before this congregation to tell you her greatest fear.”
Jess watched as his namesake nodded to her sister and sat up, taking the tissue Carly offered and wiping her eyes. She looked so lost. They both did.
“On the night she left us we’d spoken about these so-called Travelers. What are they? Do any of us know? There are guesses, we’ve all heard them on the news, but the truth is they are profane souls…no, I won’t use so holy a term for these things that have been cast adrift from the glories of Heaven to prey upon the bodies of the sanctified. We spoke of it…before she left and…the thought of something invading her body when she couldn’t defend it…
frightened her.” Forgive me. “She…fell to her knees and begged me that if anything happened to her to make sure her body wasn’t stolen by one of these…imposters. It was almost as if she knew what was going to happen.”
Jess closed his eyes and let the tears course down his cheeks. He didn’t care. This was his penance for the lie he told and the pain he felt because of it. If she were alive, he wouldn’t have said it…couldn’t have, but he would explain it to her tonight, in prayer, and knew her soul would forgive him.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “Her soul is safe with the Lord and her body…” He reached down and let his hand rest on the casket. It was cold against his palm. “…is safe from the impostors, the imps. And imps is exactly what they are, demons wearing costumes of human flesh. Imps and abominations. But she’s safe in our hearts and memories. Thank you all for coming to this celebration of Monica’s life. Now, you’re all invited to go downstairs where, I’ve been told, our wonderful ladies have laid out quite a spread. But please, in Monica’s memory, no tears. She loved life and she loved all of you too much to want you to be sad on her account.”
Jess wiped his eyes and stepped off the dais to accept handshakes and condolences.
“Carly and I will take the girls down,” Laura Wingate said as she hugged him. “Would the three of you like to stay with us tonight? You know, just to get out of the house for a bit?”
Jess held her hands as he stepped back. “Monica always said you were one of the good’uns. Thank you, Laura. You can ask the girls if they’d like to spend the night, but I have too much to do.”
“Okay. I can come over tomorrow and help pack up Monica’s things if you like.”
Jess squeezed her hands gently and let go. “I may take you up on that, thanks. See if you can get the girls to eat, especially Jessica. I don’t think she’s had anything except cornflakes since Thursday.”
The woman nodded and walked away. Jess was watching her thread her way back to where Jessica and Abigail were standing with her daughter when a hand closed over his shoulder and turned him around.
It was Richard.
“How you holding up?”
Jess shrugged. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and all of this will just be a bad dream.”
“That would be nice, but it’s not. None of it is, Jess.”
There was something else in the man’s voice besides sympathy. “You’re not talking about Monica, are you?”
“No, I’m sorry about Monica, but what you said, about Monica being frightened…there’s a lot of that going around. What did you call them? Imposters? Imps. Yeah, that’s exactly what they are.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out a small business card and handed it to Jess. “When you’re ready, give me a call and I’ll introduce you.”
Jess looked at the raised black letters on the center of the ivory card: U.C.U.A. There was a website address and phone number in the lower right-hand corner but nothing else.
“U.C.U.A?”
“Unum corpus, una anima,” Richard said. “One Body, One Soul. It’s an organization I belong to that shares your feelings about these…Imps. We have monthly meetings. If you’d like to know more give me a call. I think you’ll like what you hear.” He offered his hand and Jess took it. “All of us are so sorry about Monica, Jess, but like you said, her soul’s in Heaven and her body’s unspoiled. One body, one soul. Amen.”
Jess responded out of habit. “Amen.”
* * *
He knows.
Jessie sat in the chair someone had put her in, holding the plate of food someone else had given her, untouched, and watched the conversation her father was having with Mrs. Betancourt. Or really the conversation her principal was having with her father.
Mrs. Betancourt was doing most of the talking and her father was doing all of the nodding. It’d been going on like that for maybe five minutes. Mrs. Betancourt had cornered him almost the moment he came downstairs and every couple of words her father’s gaze would drift away from the woman and settle on her…or, more precisely, on the plate of uneaten food in her lap.
Then his eyes would drift back to her principal and he’d nod.
Because Mrs. Betancourt was probably telling him about his trans twins.
Abbie would flip out.
“Eat something.”
Jessie continued to watch their dad and principal as her sister sat down next to her.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not either,” Abbie said but still tooth-picked a cube of cheese into her mouth. If you don’t eat anything every mother in the room will be over here trying to force-feed you.
Jessie picked up a mini-bagel smeared with strawberry cream cheese but didn’t move it anywhere near her mouth. Maybe if the mothers saw her holding it they’d think she was eating.
Her sister nodded her head toward their father. What do you think they’re talking about?
Three guesses.
It could be about Mom. Their father looked over at them and tried to smile. No, you’re probably right.
Even though the basement’s assembly room was big and filled to capacity, Jessie heard Mrs. Betancourt’s words as he shook her hand – “If there’s anything I can do to help…” – and turned to walk toward them.
You want me to stay?
Yes.
“How you two doing?” their dad asked and they both shrugged at the same time and said okay. It made him laugh. A little. “Yeah, me too. Abigail, do you mind if I borrow your sister for a minute?”
Abbie!
“Yeah, sure, Dad.” Sorry.
Jessie put the bagel back on the plate and stood up, following their father through the crowd to one of the small classroom/workshops along the back wall. It was the room where her mother had taught Sunday School, but Jessie wasn’t sure if her father knew that.
Or maybe he did and that’s why he picked it.
“Sit down, Jessica,” he said, touching the chair next to the felt board, her mother’s chair.
It felt harder and colder than any chair Jessie had ever sat in.
“You saw me talking to your principal.” Jessie nodded. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
She looked up. “I’m….” Then shook her head.
Her father kneeled down and took the plate from her, setting it on the floor in front of the felt board before cupping both her hands in his.
“It’s okay, baby. I know.”
Jessie felt something inside her break free. “You do?”
“Yes, Mrs. Betancourt told me about the…altercation you had with that boy.” Jessie felt her heart start beating and never noticed it had stopped. That’s what they were talking about. “That’s why your mom was coming to pick you up, wasn’t it?”
The tears started before Jessie could stop them. “Yeah.”
“Now, I want you to listen, okay? What happened to your mom was not your fault. It just happened, it wasn’t because of anything you did. It was a stupid, senseless accident, and I need you to understand you are not to blame. Please, baby, you have to believe that.”
“Bu-but I was. I am.”
“No, no, you’re not. It…. It was just her time, that’s all. Okay? But you have to promise me one more thing. No more fights. I know boys can say stupid things sometimes, but you have to rise above that. You’re growing up and that means you need to start acting more mature, even if others don’t. I also think you might want to give up softball and find something a bit more…. I don’t know. Maybe cheer squad like Abigail?”
Jessie sniffed. Mrs. Betancourt had only told him about the fight; she hadn’t been outed.
“Maybe something else,” she said. “Chess team or something.”
“Or something. So –” he handed the plate of food back to her as she stood up, “– are we good?”
Jessi
e nodded.
“Okay. I know it’s going to be hard, but try to be the woman your mother would want you to be,” their father said as he put his hand on her shoulder and led her out of the room, “and her soul will rest easy. Make her proud of you, Jessica. And please try to eat something. Okay?”
“Okay.”
What happened? What did he say?
Jessie looked across the room. Abbie was still sitting in the chair where she’d left her.
Jessie?
Jessie picked up the mini-bagel and took a bite. This Old Man…sure got around…
February 2021
Chapter Four
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
Curtis swallowed as he closed the cabinet and slipped the small pill bottle into his pocket when he heard her come into the kitchen. It was fortunate the cabinet was above the stove, an easy reach for him while she probably had to use a stepstool, so his standing there wouldn’t cause suspicion.
“Curtis!”
There was surprise in her voice, as he knew there would be. He seldom left his room; dealing with her and the father taxed his nerves, but since he needed physical verification to prove his hypothesis about her correct he had no choice.
The fact that this thankfully brief encounter would be the final interaction he’d ever need to have with the mother was the only thing that made it tolerable. The father was at work and thus would be no hindrance to his objective.
Which was to make sure his parents suffered the consequences of their actions.
The mother said something.
Sighing, he turned to face her.
She was standing in the doorway and Curtis surmised – given the established evidence that she kept the temperature inside the house at a near-constant 70°F (21.1111°C) during the winter/early spring and was wearing a bright yellow long-sleeved sweater, deep blue fleece leggings and shiny black knee-high boots – that she was going out.
He also surmised that the outfit, which might have worked on a younger woman, looked foolish on the fifty-six-year-old mother and wondered if she even realized that. But, having overheard certain comments about her voiced by his father’s colleagues on those rare occasions when the parents invited others into the house, taking into consideration the amount of alcohol (CH3CH2OH) consumed, of course, Curtis wondered if anyone had an accurate perception of what the mother actually looked like.
