Ashley crumbled and fell to the tunnel floor. Chris ran over to his daughter and scooped her up, frightened. “Ashley!” he yelled. “Ashley—are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay!”
Her eyes opened, looking up into his own calmly—too calmly considering what the little girl had just experienced. A faint smile crossed her lips as she whispered, “I made them go away, Daddy.”
Chris returned his daughter’s smile, and with a sense of wonder and pride for the little girl he was holding, he said, “You certainly did, sweetheart. I have no idea how you did it, but you did.”
“It was me, Daddy. The dewts knew I could get rid of them, so they were trying to let more of themselves in so they could get rid of me.”
Chris blinked hard several times as he looked at his daughter. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, honey?”
Ashley continued her explanation, an incriminating look falling over her face. “I was the one who brought them here. I was angry that Mommy was gone, and I prayed to God to get rid of all the bad people in the world—but instead, God wanted to get rid of me.”
As a father, her words tugged at his heart. “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s it at all. I think you were given a very special power—a gift of sorts—one to put to good use.”
Hesitating, she said, “I guess…”
The look on Ashley’s face told her father she was considering this possibility, but the slack little girl in his arms was so tired that her eyelids were drooping. She was fighting sleep but pressed on. “They won’t be back again, Daddy. They’re scared of me.” Ashley took both pride and relief in this certain knowledge. Then she offered up a weak but triumphant smile as her eyes closed, and she fell asleep in her father’s arms.
Chris looked down at his daughter in affection and admiration. “I would imagine they are afraid of you, little girl. I love you,” he said, planting a light kiss on her forehead. He hugged his daughter deeply just as the sirens from the emergency vehicles began to approach.
Howard shouted to his five-year-old without looking back at him. “Come on, Frankie. We’re gonna be late!” His son was taking forever to get out the door. “Look, this is your friend’s party, but you certainly don’t seem like you want to go. If you continue to dawdle, we’re going to miss it—and we might as well just stay home.”
In frustration, Frankie yelled back, “I do want to go, Daddy—I just can’t get my shoe tied!”
Howard looked over at his son and saw him struggling with the laces. He leaned down to help his boy loop the shoelace bunny ears over each other. “I’m sorry, kiddo,” he said apologetically. “I just really hate being late.”
Frankie offered his father a wide smile of appreciation. “Thanks, Daddy,” he said, making Howard’s agitation dissipate instantly.
Howard helped Frankie slip on his jacket and handed him his umbrella. He then donned his own jacket, opening the front door to a pounding rain. Howard sighed at the thought of dealing with the downpour in addition to everything else. Then putting a positive spin on it for his son, he said, “Well, I guess it’s a good day to play indoors at a birthday party, hmm?”
“Yep!” Frankie agreed happily, bounding out the door into the rain. Both of them jumped in the car and fastened their seat belts.
“Daddy—wait. I left Tyler’s present on the table,” Frankie said in obvious distress.
Howard glanced at Frankie in the rearview mirror and sighed again. “Really?” he asked, his patience waning. He grabbed his son’s umbrella and jumped out of the front seat to retrieve the gift. Several moments later, Howard was back in the car strapping on his seat belt for a second time. He glanced back at Frankie, checking to make sure his son’s seat belt was still fastened, reaching back to tighten the tension for him.
“Ready?” Howard asked, hoping this would be the final delay.
“Ready.” Frankie nodded emphatically.
Howard backed the car down the driveway and set off on the dreary Sunday as torrents of rain assaulted the Volkswagen Passat. He headed out of Swampscott, making his way to Route 128 and the birthday party in Reading.
En route, the two passed through Salem and Peabody, enjoying their favorite game of I Spy, and connected with the four-lane highway, southbound. They sang all of Frankie’s favorite songs, and by the time they reached 128, they were belting out one of their favorite repeating rounds:
“Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream.”
Following Frankie’s “boat,” Howard chimed in, singing the same verse, and the two continued singing the round for three more verses. As Howard continued along the winding route, the rain increased in intensity. Visibility dropped to less than half a mile, and he slowed the car down from fifty-five miles an hour to forty-five miles an hour.
Feeling a little on edge, Howard glanced down again at his speedometer to confirm he was only driving forty-five. He looked back up a split second later to see a black sports car—perhaps a Mazda—hydroplaning into a spin and heading straight for his car.
Howard maneuvered successfully around the spinning car, his heart racing, but then his car lost traction. The Passat spun around, doing a full one-eighty, and came to an abrupt halt facing the opposite direction. The black sports car slammed into the concrete pillar of the underpass ahead of him and exploded into flames.
Adrenaline raged through his body as Howard stared in horror at the burning car. Erring on the side of caution, he brought his vehicle around and pulled it off to one side. He looked into the rearview mirror. Through the watery windshield behind him he saw the fire burning, undeterred by the deluge all around them, a distorted visual through the rain.
Howard grabbed his mobile phone from his pocket to dial 911 and saw that his phone had no charge; it was completely dead. Frustration rising in his voice, he felt a touch of panic. “I know I charged this thing—I know it.”
“What, Daddy—what’s wrong?”
“My phone, Frankie—I thought I charged it. We need to call for help.”
“Daddy—just plug it into the charger like you always do.”
Howard attempted to do just that. “Crap! The cord must be shot.” He threw the car into drive as he shot a glance to his son in the back seat, seeking quick assurance that Frankie was doing okay.
Howard drove away faster than he should, anxious to call 911 the second he arrived at the party. Then he looked down at the cord going from his phone into the cigarette lighter and wiggled it. The blue LED lit up, indicating it now had power. He waited for the Apple logo to appear as the phone’s battery climbed above five percent. That would be enough for the phone to boot up. Howard dialed 911, and in seconds he heard the operator answering, “9-1-1. State Police. This call is being recorded. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s been an accident; a car behind me hit a concrete underpass,” he stated. No response.
“Hello? This is 9-1-1.”
Howard looked at his phone to see if he had accidently hit the mute button, but it was not illuminated. He tried again. “Hello—my name is Howard Stark.”
“Hello?” the voice on the other line questioned and then hung up.
Exasperated, Howard slammed the phone into the cradle on the dash with force, and then he looked back at his son again, needing to make certain he was all right. “You okay, Frankie?” he asked his son, gauging his expression.
“Yes, Daddy,” Frankie said, being a big guy.
“That was pretty scary, huh?”
“Yeah, Daddy. Daddy—do you think that that person is okay?” Frankie asked, concerned.
“No, son. I’m afraid he probably isn’t okay. That’s why I’m in such a hurry to call 9-1-1.”
As if brought about by the power of suggestion, two state troopers flew by on the other side of the concrete divider, headed northbound toward the accident.
“Are those policemen going to help that person?”
“I think so, kiddo�
��I hope so.”
Father and son sat in silence for another four exits and then got off the highway at Exit 38. In an effort to purge their minds of the near miss, Howard started up another game of I Spy and drove a little too quickly through the streets of Reading to reach Tyler’s house.
Upon arrival, there were several other cars already parked in the driveway, so Howard parked the Passat on the street. He and Frankie removed their seat belts quickly and opened their car doors. Howard grabbed Frankie’s hand and headed at a near-run to the house, reaching the front door at the same time as Frankie’s friend Isabella. Isabella opened the door and the three stepped inside.
Howard helped Frankie take off his coat. Frankie then removed his tennis shoes, placing them by the front door while Howard draped his son’s coat over a living room chair. Frankie set Tyler’s present on the table of gifts and walked quickly into the living room to play with the other children while Howard joined the adults talking in the kitchen.
The three adults present, along with Tyler’s mom, Susan, were discussing their driving challenges through the torrential storm. “Maybe we should have planned the birthday for another day?” Susan questioned, directing her inquiry to all three parents, who seemed a bit stressed.
Howard smiled reassuringly at her as he joined the group. “No. I think this is perfect. It allows the kids to have fun and burn off some energy on a day when they can’t play outside.”
One of the mothers laughed, saying, “Well, if things get too crazy, we can always take the kids outside and wash some sense into them.”
All four laughed.
Howard excused himself and stepped into the living room, watching his son. Frankie was playing alone in a corner while the other children were building Lego houses together in the middle of the room. Howard walked over to his son and knelt down next to him.
“Frankie, why are you playing here all alone when your friends are over there?”
Frankie bit his lower lip. “They don’t want to play with me,” he said, pouting slightly.
Howard frowned and turned to the other children. “Kids, do you mind if Frankie plays with you?” he asked.
Frankie’s friends didn’t respond. Howard didn’t want to force the issue and make everyone uncomfortable, so he touched Frankie’s arm and said, “Frankie, why don’t you just go over there and start playing with the Legos—they’re your friends. I’m sure they’ll let you play.”
Frankie walked over, scooped up some of the extra Legos and set them on the carpet. Another boy turned and immediately snatched Frankie’s Legos up, adding them to his own design on the floor.
Howard was a bit taken aback. “Hey son, there are plenty of Legos to go around, and those were Frankie’s,” he scolded, defending his boy. “Now please—give them back.”
The other boy acted as if he hadn’t heard a word Howard had said, and there was no response from the other kids.
Howard directed his question to all the children. “Are you listening to me?” he asked. He was clearly annoyed but trying not to seem as if he were giving his own son preferential treatment.
The children again ignored him. Howard headed for the kitchen to get some assistance from the other parents, smiling in an attempt to illicit support. “Susan, I could use your help here. Jake and Tyler aren’t letting Frankie play Legos, and I think it would work better if it came from you.”
“Hey!” one of the boys shouted angrily from the other room.
Susan stepped past Howard into the living room. “What’s going on here?” she asked sternly.
“Tyler keeps taking my Legos,” Jake protested.
“I am not—you keep taking mine!” Tyler replied angrily.
Frankie paused briefly, looking discouraged. Then he stood up and walked sullenly to his father, hugging his leg. “Daddy, can we just go home?”
Howard looked around. Discontent was building quickly in the little play group with tempers beginning to flare. Frankie wasn’t comfortable with the whole bit.
Howard put his best positive spin into his voice. “Sure, Frankie—if that’s really what you want, of course we can leave.”
They slipped on their coats. Prior to leaving, Howard apologized to Susan and the three other parents in the kitchen, but no one responded, distracted in the moment by the growing chaos in the living room.
FRANKIE SAT STILL and was overly quiet. After they’d been driving a while, he could no longer hold back the tears. He started to cry, his little voice sounding broken. “Daddy, why were they being so mean?”
“I’m not sure, kiddo. Kids can be pretty tough on each other at times, but this time they were especially rude. I’m so sorry.” Howard paused, struggling to find the words to console his son. “Tell you what,” he said encouragingly, “let’s go pick up Mommy and head to dinner. You choose the food—how does that sound?”
Switching gears instantly, Frankie stopped crying. He broke into a wide, toothy smile. “That sounds great! Can we get pizza?” he asked, his hurt replaced instantly with full-blown excitement.
“You bet we can.” Howard unplugged his mobile from its charger, hit speed dial, and handed it to Frankie. “Here you go—call Mommy and ask if she’d like to go with us—oh, and ask her where she’d like to go.”
After four rings, his mother’s voicemail picked up. “Hi, this is Karen. I can’t get to the phone right now. Leave your message after the beep.”
Frankie knew to wait for the appropriate prompt to talk. As soon as he heard the beep, he said, “Hi, Mommy! Daddy and I are on our way home. We’re coming to take you out to dinner—”
Howard interrupted, saying, “Don’t forget to ask her where she wants to go.”
“Oh—and Daddy wants me to ask where you’re going to go.”
Howard chuckled. “No, no—where she wants to go…for pizza.”
Howard could see his son make an “oh” expression through the rearview mirror. Frankie giggled and then quickly added, “Where do you want to go—to eat? Call me! Love you, Mommy,” he said, and waiting not a second longer, the five-year-old pressed “End.”
The mood had lifted in the car. Congruent with the lightness of the moment, Howard and Frankie shared silly jokes and sang together once again. In step with the clearing of their spirits, the rain subsided to a light fall drizzle, much easier to contend with than the downpour from earlier that afternoon.
HOWARD AND FRANKIE pulled into the driveway at 3:42 p.m. to pick up Karen. As they walked through the door, Frankie pushed past his father, eager to find his mother. He ran first to the living room and then to the den—his mother wasn’t in either room. Pausing for only a second, he sprinted upstairs to the couple’s bedroom.
As Howard was taking off his shoes, Frankie called out to his father in a half whisper, his voice edged in concern. “Daddy—Mommy’s crying.”
Howard ran upstairs to the bedroom to find his wife Karen curled up on the bed, sobbing. He walked over to her and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Karen? Sweetheart—what is it? What’s happened?”
Karen didn’t respond. Howard stood staring down at her, perplexed. It was then that he saw something in her hand. He reached for it and gently slipped it from her grasp. It was a picture of Frankie and himself playing basketball at Clarke Elementary School on Paradise Road. Howard didn’t understand.
“Karen? Please, honey—tell me why you’re so upset.” Once again, she did not respond.
A sinking feeling crept over Howard. He looked over at Frankie, who stood frozen, a look of concern for his mother written across his face.
“Daddy—what’s wrong? Why is Mommy crying?” his son asked, nearly pleading for encouragement.
Howard had a sense of…something. He walked to the window, looking out at the driveway. The spot where he had parked their Volkswagen Passat sat empty.
He stood by the window, discovery encroaching on him slowly. “Frankie? Come here, son. Look out the window into the driveway. Do you see our car anywhere?�
�
Frankie walked over to the window and looked outside. “No, Daddy,” he answered. Then he pointed, saying, “It was right there.”
Confused, Frankie simply looked up at Howard, waiting for the surefire explanation that had always been forthcoming from his father whenever he had questions. But his dad said nothing, so Frankie pressed on. “Daddy, where is our car, and why is Mommy crying? I don’t understand.”
Howard was beginning to piece the day’s events together. “I think I’m beginning to understand,” Howard said, kneeling down in front of his son. Then, placing his hands firmly on both of Frankie’s shoulders, he said, “Come on, Frankie. Let’s go downstairs.”
Not saying a word, father and son walked together to the kitchen. Howard glanced around, looking for his shoes and jacket, but they were no longer there. He turned to his son, a conclusion showing in his expression.
“Frankie, I put my jacket on the chair over there and set my shoes near the door—do you see them?”
Frankie looked at the table and then over at the floor by the front door. There was no jacket hanging on the chair; there were no shoes on the floor. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, looking back to his father for an explanation. “I don’t see them.”
Howard heard a beep, beep, beep from upstairs and cocked his head in that direction. He then looked back at Frankie, who was looking up at him, puzzled. He took Frankie’s hand in his own and walked slowly to the couch and sat down, not speaking. There was a lengthy pause during which Howard worked to find the right words to explain what he now believed to be true to his son. When he finally spoke, Howard did so in a tone saved only for fathers comforting their sons.
“Frankie, there’s something I need to tell you, and it’s not going to be easy. Just know that there is nothing to fear, okay? No matter what, you and I are together, and everything is going to be all right…”
Ruins of the Mind Page 19
