by Abe Moss
“I’m happy I have my friend.”
“But you’re not happy about being here.”
He nodded.
“Do you think we treat the children badly? Aside from providing you with good meals, clean beds, outdoor recreation, books to read, and taking special interest in your physical and mental well-being?”
She was looking intensely at him now, the air of judgment in her question unmistakable.
“There was a boy dying on the grass outside,” he said. “He was cooking in the sun and he didn’t care.”
Surprisingly—disturbingly—Dr. Marks’ expression changed little at this news.
“Mental illness can make people behave in abnormal ways. This facility, being what it is, you’re bound to see plenty of abnormal behavior like this. It’s unfortunate, I agree—”
“You gave Zachary medicine and he’s been throwing up for a long time now. He can’t eat anything—”
“Zachary is not well, either. I’m sorry you’ve had to witness—”
“He said it was the medicine you gave him—”
“We were forced to give him medication due to the harmful behaviors he was exhibiting during our meetings together—”
“We can’t eat any food unless we drink that blue stuff that makes everyone act like zombies!”
Dr. Marks remained calm and quiet, waiting. Emmett sat straight in his chair, brow furrowed, nostrils whistling with his fervor.
“Are you finished?” she asked. “Have you gotten that out of your system now?”
Emmett sat back, picking and rubbing at the chair’s arms with both hands now. He wished he could leave, that he could return to his room and hide inside his cubby for the rest of the day.
“I know it all seems very scary and cruel because it’s so different than what you’re used to. You might be a perfectly healthy, sane little boy, Emmett. But not everyone here is so lucky. You think the things you witness are signs of mistreatment, but they’re not. They’re signs that the facility works. If not for the medications we administer to those children, those children might be dangers to themselves and others. Trust me when I tell you… the alternative to the behaviors you describe is much worse. I wish things were different, too. Believe me.”
“Zachary isn’t dangerous.”
“Zachary is going through more than you know. He and I are still figuring things out. But he’ll be okay.”
They took a moment between them to say nothing. The room hummed with the quiet. It was only when Emmett had his breath back, when his heart had slowed to its regular pace, that Dr. Marks continued.
“How did you feel when you were left with Irene Holmes?”
It took him a short while longer to feel ready to talk, and Dr. Marks waited patiently, perhaps sensing his need to collect himself, to get his train of thought back.
“I was scared I wouldn’t get along with anyone, or that they’d be mean to me.”
“What about your mother? Did you believe you’d see her again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she tell you that you would see her again?”
“I think so.”
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
“Did you end up enjoying your time at the Holmes residence? Before the last few days, of course?”
Emmett had to think about that. The last few days were definitely awful, but there had been so many other good days as well…
“I made friends,” he said. “And Mrs. Holmes was really nice.”
“What about Mr. Holmes? Lionel?”
He supposed it might not matter if he told the truth, seeing as they were all dead. But just the same, he couldn’t be sure Clark or Tobie or Jackie had said anything yet. If anything was meant to be kept a secret, he didn’t want to be the one to spill it.
“He was nice, too.”
Dr. Marks smiled as she wrote—that knowing, satisfied smile.
“We found Lionel Holmes buried outside the house. It was discovered he hadn’t been dead for long. He must have passed away sometime during the months you were there. Do you remember?”
Emmett fidgeted nervously.
“Do you know what caused his passing?”
“No.”
“Do you remember his passing?”
He swung his dangling legs back and forth against the chair, clawing his fingers against the arms.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what caused it? What he died of?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where most people bury their loved ones, Emmett?” She waited, but he didn’t indulge her. “Do you know why Mrs. Holmes chose to bury him in the yard, in the woods, rather than in a cemetery like most people? No funeral?”
He was breathing quickly again, his nostrils whining, his heart pounding, his lungs failing to take full breaths. And at the same time, somehow, he was starting to feel very tired.
“Did you ever meet their daughter? Eileen Holmes, was her name. Do you remember?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“Did she live there?”
“No.”
“Yes, that’s right. But she stayed there sometimes, didn’t she? Maybe a night or two, here and there?” She paused barely long enough to hear his confirmation before continuing with the next question. “Do you know where she really lives? When she isn’t visiting her parents?”
She wanted this answer, he could tell. To hear it from him. Because it was likely she hadn’t heard it before.
“I don’t know.”
She stopped jotting down her notes. She lifted her face to him, smiling that patient-yet-stern smile of hers.
“You don’t have any idea where she lives? Where she might be now?” She leaned forward. “Remember, Emmett, that we already have all these answers. I just want to hear it from you. Do you understand? It’s important we prove our honesty, so that we can learn to trust one another. Don’t you agree?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Her eyes didn’t falter, but her smile did.
“All right, then.”
Emmett thought it was about time for their appointment to be over. There wasn’t a clock in sight to judge how long it’d been, but he felt it’d been ages already.
“I know this is going to be a difficult subject for you, Emmett, so I apologize.” The tone of her voice sounded anything but sympathetic now. “But I need us to go over your final days at the Holmes house. It’s crucial I get a better understanding of your place in the events that unfolded, so I can better understand the ways it might have affected you.”
“I don’t think—”
“But before we start…” She pushed her chair out from her desk and pulled open a drawer. Emmett, his mouth open in her interruption, watched with growing dread as she lifted something out with both hands. Something dressed in wires and flat bulbs and dangling cords. “Have you seen one of these before?”
It was a helmet of some kind, covered in little lightbulbs and wires sprouting from each side.
“This device records your response to different kinds of stimuli. Internal and external. Your perception of the things you experience, or remember. It records how you react to questions I ask, or the way your brain activity changes in response to those questions. It can detect things like memories—not the memories themselves, but the activity in the brain responsible for them. And it can then also track how the brain reacts to itself, to the recollection of those memories.” Dr. Marks, now standing out of her chair with the device held loosely in her hands, gave a gentle laugh. “I’m sure this is all very complicated to you. All you really need to know is that this is completely safe. You’re safe. Everything in this room is safe.” She rounded the desk, standing next to him. His eyes swung back and forth with the swinging of the dangling cords. “This is going to help the both of us.”
Carefully, tenderly, she placed the helmet upon his head. It was unexpectedly lightweight. She moved around him, behind him, and he felt her finge
rs moving under the helmet, between the helmet and his head, and she worked at something, twisting her fingers, until he felt the helmet tighten around his crown. Then he felt something down the back of his neck, another cord of some kind, only she brought it around his throat and snapped it together like a collar.
“How is that?” she asked. “Is the helmet too tight?”
She removed something else from her desk drawer. A small, metallic object, about the length and width of her finger. Black. She brought it to him, and he listened as she fiddled with the helmet again, and clicked the small device into place.
“The helmet will also record our conversation and the time, so that all the information it gathers from inside your complicated little head can be matched up with everything said.” She sat down across from him, scooted her chair into place. She appeared truly excited, while he felt anything but. “Oh, I should have shown you what it looks like powered on before I put it on your head. You’d probably get a kick out of it. All the different lights going off. It’s already responding to you. Cool, huh? I’ll show you next time, how about that?”
Emmett didn’t say anything. He didn’t care to see it for himself. He didn’t care much for wearing it, either. He didn’t dare move while it was on. To move would be a mistake. He remembered a couple times at the Holmes house when Tobie had thought it was hilarious to throw a blanket over one of the dogs and watch as they tried to free themselves. Sometimes it was as though they surrendered to it the moment it covered them. As though the world had vanished altogether. That’s how Emmett felt with the helmet on now. Lost. Clueless. Helpless.
Because of this overwhelming feeling he had, he was surprised at what Dr. Marks said next.
“According to the lights on the helmet now, you’re thinking of a fond memory.” She cocked her head, curious. “And at the very same time, you’re incredibly uncomfortable. Why is that?”
“I don’t like it,” he said. “I want to take it off.”
“We’ll remove it soon enough.” She took up her pen again, flipped the page in her notebook. She wrote something and underlined it aggressively. “The sooner we get through this, the sooner it’ll be over. Okay?”
He clutched both arms of the chair in either of his hands to brace himself. To steady himself. Though the helmet had felt light as a bonnet at first, he now felt its weight upon him, pressing him down like a hydraulic press, soon to squash him into nothing.
“Just answer truthfully and thoroughly. Can you do that?”
He let it out the breath he was holding, shuddering—took it back in, gulping.
“Breathe, Emmett. Everything is all right. Nothing has changed. Sit back in your chair and relax.” She waited, but he struggled to do as she said. He’d heard her fine, but the meaning of her words were lost on him as he fought to think of anything but the helmet, to think of nothing lest she know the secrets of his thoughts. “Do as I say. Sit back in your chair.”
Hands still clasped to the arms, he slid himself back against the chair, as deep as he could sit in it.
“Breathe. Deep breaths. Slow, deep, relaxing breaths. Just breathe.”
He filled his lungs as deeply, as completely, as he could. He let it out. Again, she said. So he did it again.
“Good. That’s good.”
He rested the back of his head against the chair and closed his eyes.
“Are you ready?” she asked. She cleared her throat. Already her pen scratched and dotted at her notebook, the loudest noise—the only noise besides his deep, heavy breathing—in the whole office. “I’m going to ask you questions, and all you need to do is answer them as you remember. There’s very little thought behind it. Just relax, and answer as the answers come to you. All right?”
“Okay,” he said.
“A few simple questions to start…” Even with his eyes closed, he sensed her eyes on him. “During your time at the Holmes residence, did Irene Holmes ever leave the house? Perhaps for groceries, or to run other errands, for instance?”
“Yes,” Emmett said. With his eyes closed, he imagined quite vividly the truck she drove, and the many times he’d watched out the window with the others as she came or went.
“Good…” Dr. Marks said in a low voice, apparently pleased by whatever she saw on the helmet. “Did her daughter ever run errands for her? Bringing groceries, perhaps, when her mother was too busy?”
The very mention of Eileen and he saw her clear as day. It was startling, actually—the vividness with which she suddenly appeared, so that he could see her every detail. Every strand of hair, the blink of her eyes, the sweet, gentle curve of her smile. It was so strange. He continued to hear the scrawling of Dr. Mark’s pen, but his mind was so far away, in another time, another place. In that instant, the memory was more real than the chair on which he sat.
“You were fond of Eileen, weren’t you?” Dr. Marks said. “Did she help take care of you all, as well?”
He was met by the most powerful wave of déjà vu. Another memory. A likeness. He’d felt it before. She was sweet. Caring. Warm. Not just a babysitter. Not just Irene’s daughter. She was young and childlike herself, in ways, and there was a significant resemblance in that. The connection he felt…
“She reminds you of someone else,” Dr. Marks said, and for a brief moment Emmett was pulled back, the memory fading. “Someone else you’re very fond of. Who does she remind you of, Emmett?”
The images bloomed into the darkness again. She appeared to him, emerging as though out of a black pool, except she wasn’t Eileen anymore. She was the likeness, the other.
“My mom,” he said.
Dr. Marks must have found that very interesting, as she didn’t ask him anything else for a time. She simply watched as the device on his head opened his thoughts to her like a book. Meanwhile, he held on to his mother’s visage—more true, more pure, more real than the photo he’d been shown of her during their previous appointment.
“It makes sense,” Dr. Marks finally said. “Your mother was young. Still only a child herself, some would say. Not much older than Eileen.”
His vision of her was in such clarity that he couldn’t help smiling. His heart throbbed—no, his whole body ached with a warm melancholy. On the brink of tears, he waited for Dr. Marks to offer him her box of tissues, but she made no mention of it. And so he cried—fat, hot tears down his face.
“Was Eileen with you that final day? Was she watching you while her mother ran errands?”
“No,” Emmett said, and as her new line of questioning began, the image of his mother fizzled. Blurred. The colors washed. For a while there was nothing else to replace her image, just the fuzzy darkness of his eyelids. The office came back to the foreground. Dr. Marks’ pen grew loud again in the booming silence.
“Did Irene leave you home alone?”
He had to remind himself what it was they were talking about.
The last day.
The day when everything had gone wrong.
“Are you listening, Emmett?” Dr. Marks asked. “Who was watching you that day while Irene ran errands?”
“Nobody,” Emmett said. Mrs. Holmes’ face appeared to him, though not as sharp. “Tyler watched us…”
“Tyler? Was Tyler the oldest boy?”
Now it was Tyler standing in the void of his mind. Hands in his pockets, head bent from poor posture. A look on his face that suggested an attempt at smiling. Tyler as they all knew him… before…
“Tyler was fifteen, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“So it was Tyler… Jackie… Tobie… Clark… you… and Bailey…”
He saw them all, side by side—like posing for a photograph, each of them huddling together to fit in frame. They were blurry, like the shapes of people you might see in the distance of a watercolor painting.
“Yes…”
Emmett imagined all these familiar figures fidgeting patiently as though waiting for him to take their picture. They looked between themselves, ch
ecking that everyone was there. Everyone but him.
“Irene never came home, did she?”
The patiently waiting children shifted. The figure he recognized as Jackie appeared uncomfortable in her wait. She held her arm meekly, head lowered, as the others circled agitatedly around her, beginning to wonder what was happening. What were they waiting for? Why was it taking so long?
“When she left that day, that was the last you saw of her, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Emmett said, disheartened. Not that he’d ever forgotten, but it was coming back to him fully now. Out of his control. The memories were stacking up like a slideshow, and as those final images began to queue behind the others, the dread started creeping in. Suddenly he didn’t want to remember. “No… I saw her again.”
No, no, no.
“You did? Later that night, you mean?”
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
The waiting children were no longer children. Husks of children. The joy ripped out of them. He watched them take their seats—a dining table rising up from the dark pool between them. The scene was set.
“Was it that night? When it all happened…”
Children’s weeping. Not real weeping, in his ears, but faint and withered in the corners of memory, preserved as only horrors could be. Unforgettable.
“What happened, Emmett?”
Just then the office door opened and Emmett, startled out of his trance, opened his eyes. The room snapped into place—the desk, Dr. Marks and her notebook, all of it whole and tangible at his fingertips once more. Dr. Marks, too, turned her attention to their visitor at the door. Emmett turned in his chair to see who it was, the sweet savior come to interrupt his worst nightmare.
A man came through the door with confident, deliberate strides, and the moment Emmett saw him their eyes were already locked, which made sense as it was Emmett he was there for. He’d come to finish what he started. And judging by the shotgun he carried against his hip, he would make quick work of it.
“Your father loves you.”
The man’s pantlegs swished, swished, swished as he advanced. Halfway across the room, he lifted the shotgun from his hip, anchored it in the crook of his shoulder.
