The Remembered

by Michael J Sanford

  He was sitting in front of the counter now, back pressed against it, next to Lucy. She was talking to herself. Or the stuffed bear she had dancing about. Or to no one in particular. Lucy had that way about her. It drove Wyatt mad. He scowled at her, received no response, and so turned his attention to his parents and the young woman with the M and G Toys vest on. They stood in a tight group a few paces away. A police officer stood among them, a small notepad in his hand and a deep scowl painted on his square face.

  Wyatt couldn't make out the conversation the four were having, but he couldn't help but think he was at the center of it. Maybe he had messed up. No way would Mom and Dad call the police because of cookies, he thought. But then he remembered the strange girl and wondered if she had done something even worse. No, it was the giant man-mountain, he reminded himself. He also remembered his father saying someone had been shot, as well, but he couldn't piece together how that fit with the other facts of the day.

  "This is your fault," he said to Lucy.

  "Is not," Lucy quickly retorted. She was always quick to spar with her older brother.

  "We better still get to go to the comic book store," he said.

  Lucy shrugged. "Comics are stupid."

  Wyatt grabbed for her stuffed bear, but Lucy jerked it out of his reach and stuck her tongue out at him. Wyatt bared his teeth and shouted, "Mom, Lucy's being a jerk!"

  Their mother came at once and crouched before Wyatt. "Wy, Luce," she said sternly. "I know this is hard, but I need you two to be nice and quiet. It's very important."

  "When can we go to the comic book store?" Wyatt asked.

  His mother fixed him with a look he seldom saw. It made him feel funny. "I don't know," she said.

  "Maybe?" Wyatt asked.

  "Maybe. But no promises."

  Wyatt scowled at that and crossed his arms. "How much longer?"

  "I don't know," his mother said. She ran her fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry, Wy."

  She stood and turned to head back to the police officer. "Mom?" Wyatt asked. She looked back. "Is that girl's nose okay? It was an accident. I didn't mean to hit her with the door. I hope I didn't get her in trouble."

  His mother stared at him a moment and bunched up her face in a peculiar manner. Then she smiled and continued to the other adults.

  "I still think it's your fault," Wyatt said to Lucy.

  "No, it's yours," she quipped. "And Bearsy thinks so too."

  "That's a dumb name."

  "You have a dumb name," Lucy said.

  "Well, so do you."

  "Lucy is a pretty name. Mommy said so. Daddy, too."

  "They lied," Wyatt said.

  Lucy shrugged and turned back to her stuffed bear.

  Wyatt growled but said nothing more. His tongue was in a knot. Despite her youth, Lucy always seemed to get in the last word. He watched her mutter to her new toy, envious that she had something to occupy the time with. The more Wyatt thought about obtaining a new comic, the less appeal his old comic held.

  The police officer shut his notepad, stuffed it into his breast pocket, and quickly left the store. Maybe we can go now, Wyatt thought, jumping to his feet. But his parents didn't come back to collect him and Lucy. Instead, they crowded around the young store employee. She was sobbing like Lucy often did, but not as loud, and with less kicking.

  Wyatt watched his parents try to comfort her, but it didn't seem to be working. It was clear that they wouldn't leave until the woman was settled. Just like Wyatt never got his bedtime story until Lucy stopped crying. And if they didn't leave the toy store, that meant Wyatt would never get to the comic book store. And that just wouldn't do.

  He glanced back at Lucy. She was giggling to herself as she made her stuffed bear spin on the floor. Maybe the toy store woman would like a toy, too. He was surrounded by them, so the options were limitless. Wyatt darted down the nearest aisle and after some quick reconnaissance, ran to his parents and the woman, prize in hand.

  Wyatt held out a foam sword to the woman, but she didn't even look his way. Her face was buried in her hands. Her parents had a hand on each of her shoulders.

  "You don't understand," the woman was saying. "He will actually kill me if I get home late."

  "Oh, honey," Wyatt's mother said softly, ignoring Wyatt's offer as well. "It won't be that bad. He'll understand."

  "Don't worry about that right now," Wyatt's father added. "It will work itself out."

  The woman shook her head. "I can't go home. I just...can't. Shit, he's going to..."

  "Shh, shh," Wyatt's mother said.

  Wyatt waved the sword between them. "Here," he said.

  The woman didn't look up from her hands. Wyatt's father gave him a parting glance and said, "Not now, Wyatt. Go and watch your sister for us, bud."

  Wyatt slammed the foam sword to the ground and stormed back to the sales counter. He plopped down next to Lucy and slapped at her stuffed bear. Once again, she yanked it out of harm's reach just in time.

  "Don't touch Bearsy," she said. Then, with a wicked smile, added, "Dumb-name."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WYATT BOLTED UPRIGHT with a start and vomited all over himself. He fell forward onto his hands and knees and screamed into the stone floor.

  "Oh my God," Ms. Abagail said from nearby.

  Wyatt felt her hand on his back, and the gesture gave him enough courage to lean back onto his heels and look at her. A single torch flickered in a distant corner of the unknown room they were in. The stone beneath Wyatt's knees and the scent in the air told him they were back in Sanctuary—though exactly where was unknown.

  "We need to go back," Wyatt said, searching the vicinity for Lucy.

  "I saw your memory," Ms. Abagail said, turning his head to catch his gaze. "I mean, I lived it. Like I was you. Holy shit. I remember that day, but I don't remember you, or Lucy, or Athena. You were all so young. But we were all there..."

  "We need to go back," Wyatt repeated. "Where's Lucy?"

  Ms. Abagail turned at that, and they scoured the small room. Lucy wasn't there. In fact, there was nothing in the room save the lone torch. Wyatt moved to the door and pulled on it. Then he pushed on it. Then he kicked it and yelled.

  "It won't open," he said, turning back to Ms. Abagail.

  "I don't understand," she said.

  "It's locked or something," Wyatt answered.

  "No, not that..."

  Wyatt crossed the room and stood before her. "We need to get back. It wasn't enough." He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  "So I was there that day," she continued. "So what? What does that matter? It was a shitty day, sure, but definitely not my worst. And I didn't forget anything about it. Not like you and Lucy. And I get how Athena might be involved."

  "What happened to her?" Wyatt asked, unable to resist her strange thread of ideas.

  "Athena?" Ms. Abagail asked. "I...I don't know..."

  "You're keeping something from me, whether you mean to or not," Wyatt said sharply. "We need to go back."

  "But I'm not. I remember that day. Shit, how could I forget it? I just didn't know it was you back then. You looked so different. And I can't even begin to wrap my head around how we ended up at the Crook together—the toy store is on the other side of the state. It's bizarre, but—"

  Wyatt stomped his foot on the floor and grunted. "You just lived one of my memories," he said, fighting to keep from shouting. "Well, I've lived one of yours. And you're a liar."

  Ms. Abagail stepped forward in challenge, forcing Wyatt to take a step back. When he did, his feet caught each other and he fell. "How dare you?" she demanded. "I've done nothing but look out for you since we met. Here, the Crook, back at Greenwood. Lord knows you don't have anyone else to go to bat for you, but I'm not going to have you speak to me like that. I think all this magic nonsense has made you forget who the adult is here."

  Wyatt bit back hot tears and forced himself to his feet, never looking away from Ms. Abagail's eyes. Whether
she liked it or not, she was just as much a part of the Realms as he was.

  "You lied about your father," Wyatt said coldly, wielding his words like a blade. They all had to bleed at some point. "That story you told me. That picture you carry around. All lies. I lived what he did to you. You're the one living a fantasy. Your precious father was a monster."

  "You selfish little prick," Ms. Abagail shouted. The torchlight caught the tears on her cheeks, but her eyes burned even brighter than the flame.

  Wyatt held his ground. Ms. Abagail stepped toward him again, stopping when they were face to face. Wyatt could hear her body tremble. But he wasn't going to back down. There was too much at stake.

  A sharp knock on the door fractured the tension. Wyatt and Ms. Abagail jolted with a start and looked at the stout wood that Wyatt had found no purchase with before.

  The door opened slowly at first, then swung wide to admit a slight boy with straw-colored hair, carrying a tray laden with all manner of food. He stepped briskly into the room, kicking the door shut with his heel, and marched past Wyatt and Ms. Abagail. He set the tray down on a table that hadn't existed before and crossed to the far side of the room to throw open curtains that also hadn't been there before his arrival.

  Light lit up the room, momentarily blinding Wyatt. He recoiled and squinted against the offending rays. Wyatt found himself looking at the common area of his suite in Sanctuary, morning light filtering in the open window on a frozen breeze.

  Henrick smiled, gestured to the table, and said, "Breakfast is served, Master, Milady."

  "Dad?" Ms. Abagail asked, her voice cracking on the name like brittle glass.

  Henrick frowned. "Sorry? I don't understand."

  Ms. Abagail covered her mouth and stared at the boy, but Wyatt was tired of merely watching the strangeness of his circumstance pass him by. He charged at Henrick, tossing him weightily into the table with a forearm to the chest. Henrick struck the table and fell into a seated position on the bench.

  "Wyatt!" Ms. Abagail shouted.

  Wyatt glared at her. Despite her outcry, she remained rooted in place, eyes locked on Henrick. "He's a lie," Wyatt shouted, pointing at Henrick. "Whatever he is, he's a lie."

  Henrick stood and dusted himself off. "Did I do something to offend you, Master?" he asked, and then slapping his forehead, said, "Oh, I'm sorry. You don't wish to be called by that title any longer. My apologies, Wyatt."

  Wyatt whirled on Henrick, grabbed him by the collar, and shook him violently. "What are you?"

  Ms. Abagail intervened then, wedging herself between the two boys and throwing them apart. Wyatt staggered, but maintained his balance. Henrick fell back onto the bench. Wyatt clenched his hands into fists.

  "Knock it off, Wyatt," Ms. Abagail commanded.

  "But he's—"

  "Enough!" Ms. Abagail shouted. All of the air seemed to vanish from the room. "For God's sake, Wyatt, just once shut your mouth and listen."

  Wyatt stared at her with rage burning at every inch of his body. How could she speak to him like that? She had yelled plenty of times before—mostly back at the Crook—but not like this. But something in her face confounded Wyatt and stayed his hand.

  Ms. Abagail turned to Henrick. "Henrick?" she asked.

  The young boy surveyed the room, lingering on Wyatt for a moment, and turned back to Ms. Abagail. He smiled. "Yes?"

  Wyatt could see Ms. Abagail chewing on her lip. Her fingers found the strand of pink in her hair. "Do you know me?" she asked.

  Henrick nodded. "I should think so. You are Ms. Abagail, are you not? Is there another name by which I should call you?"

  "Abby is fine," Ms. Abagail said. "But do you know me?"

  Henrick glanced at Wyatt again before answering. "I am a bit confused...Abby... I was just bringing you breakfast."

  Ms. Abagail reached into her pants pocket and withdrew the small photograph she always carried. She thrust it into Henrick's face. "What is this?" she demanded, her voice rising to dangerous levels once more.

  The breeze increased to a gust and wrapped the room in a bitter cold. Wyatt shuddered and looked at the open window. Storm clouds were forming above the snow-capped mountains. He smiled, wrapped his arms around himself, and said nothing.

  Ms. Abagail shook the photograph. "What is this?" she shouted. "Who are you?"

  Henrick adjusted the sleeves of his shirt. "I just try to be helpful, is all," he said.

  "Why?" Ms. Abagail shrieked, her voice cutting through the first low rumble of thunder. "Why are you helping us?"

  Henrick shrugged. "Just how I am."

  "Answer me!" Ms. Abagail shouted. "And how do you do it? Appear whenever, wherever. What are you?"

  Henrick opened his mouth, but was pitched onto the floor before he could answer as a bolt of lightning struck the side of the castle. Ms. Abagail stumbled back into Wyatt as a wash of stone fragments burst into the room. In a matter of moments, the sky had gone from bright morning to storm-filled night.

  "I think I know where Lucy is," Wyatt said.

  Ms. Abagail looked at him and slowly nodded. Then she moved for Henrick. She grabbed him by the arm just as he was picking himself up.

  "I want to know!" Ms. Abagail shouted at the ceiling. Then toward the open window, said far softer, "I want to remember."

  Lightning snaked into the room through the open window like electric-blue snakes. It licked at the surface of the walls, scattered anything not fastened down, and filled the room with magical light. Wyatt rushed to Ms. Abagail's side, partly in a protective motion, partly because he was afraid of being left behind.

  "Well, this is unusual," Henrick said.

  "You sure about this?" Wyatt asked. The magical lightning crackled and popped, arcing from surface to surface.

  Ms. Abagail didn't answer him. Instead, she turned to the raging storm and screamed.

  As the noise left her lips, the lightning struck, spearing them in place, and burning away their reality.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ABBY STALKED THROUGH the thin forest as quietly as she could. It was difficult to see with only the moon and stars to guide her, but luckily the sky was clear. Other than repeatedly snagging her uniform on briars, the trip had been uneventful, not that Abby had enjoyed even a moment of it.

  Her hands were slick with sweat and hadn't stopped shaking since she left M and G Toys. Her heart pounded and her breathing was uneven, but she had yet to slip into a full-blown panic attack. She was going to end up just like that man that had been shot in the parking lot of the shopping plaza. She knew it was cold how little regard she gave toward the slain man. Or for the kidnapped girl. But it would matter little if Abby were killed tonight. Self-preservation always took top priority.

  Her foot snapped a twig at the edge of the forest, sounding like a gunshot. Abby dropped to her stomach. She lay on the mud and leaves for several moments until she got her limbs back under control and came to her hands and knees. She stayed like that a few more moments, staring at the dark windows of the small house a few yards away. Her home.

  Abby came to her feet and tried to brush the dirt from her clothes. No, she thought. Not my home. Never my home. But her feet carried her across the manicured back lawn and up the steps of the polished porch. She kept to the right edge, then carefully skirted in a lazy circle across the rest of the deck. Trial and error had taught her which boards would betray her trespass and which would remain silent. Standing at the sliding glass door, she glanced back at the darkened woods. Something called to her, asking her to flee.

  Don't be a selfish bitch, she said to herself.

  Her hands were still violently shaking, but holding one with the other, she slid open the door just far enough to admit her. She squeezed inside and closed it softly behind her. She stood, pinned in the moonlight streaming over her back as she focused on slowing her breathing enough to train her ears to the interior of the house. Satisfied she hadn't yet been discovered, she crept toward her room. This path, too, she
had long ago mapped out, mindful of squeaky floorboards and likely spots for noisy obstacles.

  Each step magnified her anxiety exponentially. In the middle of the hallway she stopped long enough to peer into the second room. A nightlight shone near the head of a small bed and cast a warm glow on the face of a sleeping toddler. A blanket was clutched in his tiny hands, a thumb firmly shoved in his mouth. Abby smiled but resisted the urge to enter the room. It wasn't safe. Silently, she blew a kiss in his direction and resumed her journey.

  The door to Abby's bedroom was ajar, just as she always left it. Open just enough to step in and out. Even on well-oiled hinges, some chances weren't worth taking. She slid sideways into the room and made her way toward her dresser. It was pitchblack, but she knew the way by heart. She'd have to find a way to clean her uniform in the morning—she only had one—without arousing suspicion, but for now she would settle for hiding the soiled clothing under her bed.

  Carefully, she slipped off her shoes and began unbuttoning her pants when the door to her bedroom slammed shut and the light clicked on. The bang of the door and the blinding glare of the overhead lights gave Abby such a start that she fell into the dresser, failing to keep herself upright with her pants at her ankles. She went down in a heap of twisted clothing and panic. But she was moving again as soon as she could. Even before her eyes adjusted, Abby scrambled away from the door, seeking safety that she knew full well didn't exist.

  She had wiggled half under the bed when thick hands grabbed both ankles and yanked sharply backwards. Abby clawed at the floor, but only succeeded in breaking a pair of fingernails on the carpet.

  "Where the bloody fuck you been?" her father slurred as he violently twisted her legs to flip her onto her back.

  Abby scuttled backward against the bed frame, eyes darting around the room, wishing for a magical escape to appear. Henry Miller loomed over her, swaying slightly. A dozen beer cans were scattered in the corner behind the door. He had been waiting for her, every passing minute fueling his drunken rage, Abby knew.

  "I was at work," Abby protested as she attempted to get her feet beneath her without drawing too much attention to the movement.