Okay?
Some things I found out about afterward, by asking questions. I asked Cathy, for example, and she was truthful with me. I don’t think she’d have a real problem with anything I wrote about her. I hope not.
Some things are me describing how I personally remember feeling or what I remember thinking. Even though I’m filtering the memories of a younger me through the mind of an older me, the spirit of those memories, the good and the bad, is true. I’m able now, at nearly sixteen, to give a voice to things I thought when I was six and nine and so on.
Some parts are things the monster told me.
Who knows what the truth is there?
Okay, okay. I’m stalling, I know.
How should I begin it? Once Upon A Time?
Why not? No reason you can’t begin a horror story the same way you begin a fairy tale. We’re going to end up at the same place no matter how it begins: down at the watering hole, next to the dark things with too-big eyes and the water that sounds like a giant smacking his lips as it beats against the shore.
It’ll help, as you read it, to think of it as a dream. That’s what I do. A black flower. A book of dreams. A midnight trip to the watering hole. Come and dream with me, have a nightmare with your eyes open and the lights all on.
Once Upon A Time, there was a younger Sarah, a Sarah who didn’t watch the white line of light and hadn’t yet met The Crazy.
No, no. That’s true, but that’s not where I want to start.
So: Once Upon A Time, there was an angel, and she was known as my mom.
The first thing I remember about my mom is that she loved life. The second thing I remember is her smile. Mom never stopped smiling.
The last thing I remember is that she wasn’t smiling when he killed her.
I remember that most of all.
Sarah’s Story
Part One
18
SAM LANGSTROM SHOOK HIS HEAD AT HIS WIFE, BEMUSED.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, forcing back a smile. “I ask you when we should leave for Sarah’s dental appointment. In order to answer, you want to know what time it is now?”
Linda frowned at him. “Yeah, so?”
“Well, babe, see—the appointment? It’s already at a set time. Since we know how long it takes to get from here to the dentist’s office—how does what time it is right now have anything to do with when we should leave?”
Linda was beginning to get annoyed. She looked into her husband’s eyes. She saw the twinkle there that never failed to make her smile. Eyes that said, I’m amused, but not at your expense. I’m just loving some character quirk of yours right now.
He loved her eccentric parts, and she knew that she had them, no doubt about that. She was a terrible housekeeper; he was a bit neat. She was a social butterfly; he preferred to stay at home. She was quick to anger; he was more patient. They were opposites in so many ways, but not in the ways that mattered. Their differences complemented each other, as differences in couples had been doing since time began.
In those parts of life where the rubber met the road, they were one person, they had one mind. Love each other until they died. Loyalty to each other, no matter what. Love Sarah, always, forever, unending.
Their daughter was a representation of their most unifying principle: love and be loved.
Their souls fit together in all the right places, but in other ways, they were worlds apart. As in this moment, where Sam’s organized mind met her more Bohemian one and bounced off it with a smile.
“It has to do with checks and balances,” she said, grinning back at him. “If we should leave at twelve-thirty to get there on time, but it’s already twelve-fifteen, and I know it’s going to take me twenty minutes to get ready, then…” She shrugged. “We’ll leave at twelve thirty-five, but we’ll have to drive a little faster.”
He shook his head at her in mock amazement. “There’s something very wrong with you.”
She stepped into him, kissing him on the nose. “The very thing you love about me, my perfect flaws. So, again? What time is it now?”
He looked at his watch. “It’s twelve-ten.”
“Well, see then, silly? We leave at twelve-thirty. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
He laughed, he couldn’t help himself.
“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll let the beasts out and get the munchkin ready.”
The “beasts” were their two black Labrador retrievers, known affectionately as the “Black Forces of Destruction,” or, as Sarah often referred to them: “Puppyheads!” They were two sixty-pound bundles of largely untrained love and loyalty, savages, unfit for civilized company.
Sam opened up the baby-gate that he’d erected as a barrier to keep the beasts out of the rest of the house, and was rewarded with an immediate nose in his butt.
“Thanks, Buster,” he said to the smaller male.
No problem, Buster replied, wagging his tail and smiling an open-mouthed dog-smile.
The larger female, Doreen, was circling him like a mentally disturbed person, or maybe a shark, asking the same silent but obvious question, over and over and over.
Is it time yet? Is it time yet? Is it time yet?
“Sorry, Doreen,” he said as she continued to circle him. “It’s going to be a late lunch today. But…” He paused, giving her an exaggerated, expectant look. “If you guys go outside, I might give you a treat!”
At the word treat, Doreen launched herself into the air like a pogo stick, all four legs off the ground, a spontaneous and full-body expression of ultimate joy.
Hooray! she seemed to be saying. Hooray, Hooray, Hooray!
“I know,” Sam said, grinning. “Dad is good, Dad is great.”
He walked over to the cupboard and fished out a couple of Milk-Bones. Doreen continued to launch herself into the air, now truly overjoyed. Buster was not a jumper, he preferred to comport himself with a little more dignity, but he was looking pretty happy.
“Come on, guys and gals,” Sam said and headed toward the sliding glass door that led into the backyard.
He opened it and stepped through. The beasts followed. He closed the door and stood, a treat in each hand.
“Sit,” he said.
They sat. Their eyes had achieved missile-lock on the treats. “Sit” was one of the few things they were trained to do. They would only do it if a promise of food was involved.
He lowered his hands so that they were level with the dogs’ heads. “Wait,” he cautioned. If they tried to take the treats before “wait” was done, he’d make them “wait” even longer, something that was pretty unpopular. “Wait,” he said, again. Doreen was quivering and starting to look a little bit crazy-eyed. Sam took mercy on her and issued the word they were waiting for: “Okay.”
Two muzzles full of teeth leapt toward the treats in his hands, somehow grabbing the Milk-Bones without taking fingers along with them. Sam used this distraction to open the sliding glass door and step back into the house, closing it behind him.
Buster figured it out first. He stopped mid-crunch and looked at Sam through the glass, betrayal in his eyes.
You’re abandoning us? he seemed to be asking.
“See you soon, buddy,” Sam murmured, smiling.
Time to look for the other beast that lived in this house. He was pretty sure she was hiding. Sarah wasn’t too keen on the dentist. Sam secretly agreed with her on this. He always felt just a little bit guilty when they took her to one of her medical appointments, knowing that it would invariably end in tears. He admired Linda’s cool head and practicality in these matters. Pain for the child’s greater good, the province of Mom. Not a strength for most fathers.
“Munchkin?” he called out. “You ready?”
No answer.
Sam moved toward Sarah’s room. The door was open. He peeked his head in and saw his daughter sitting on her bed. She was clutching Mr. Huggles in her arms.
“Sweetheart?” he asked.
<
br /> The little girl turned her eyes to him and stole away his heart. Woe, woe, those eyes said, expressive as a baby seal’s. Woe to have parents that make you go to the dentist…
Mr. Huggles, a monkey made from socks, stared at Sam with accusing eyes.
“I don’t want to go to the dennist, Daddy,” Sarah said, mournful.
“Den-tist, honey,” he replied. “And no one likes going.”
“Well then why do they?”
The perfect logic of a child, he thought.
“Because if you don’t take care of your teeth, you might lose them. Not having any teeth is no fun.”
He watched his child mull this over, really think about it.
“Can Mr. Huggles come?” she asked.
“Of course he can.”
Sarah sighed, still not happy, but resigned to her fate. “Okay, Daddy,” she said.
“Thanks, babe.” He glanced at his watch. Perfect timing to the end of these negotiations. “Let’s you, me, and Mr. Huggles go find Mommy.”
In contrast to the drama that preceded it, the visit to the “dennist’s” office had been short and uneventful. Sarah’s guarded suspicion had finally given way to smiles under the onslaught of Dr. Hamilton’s unending joviality. He’d even examined Mr. Huggles.
This had led to a celebratory mood for the family, which had led to ice cream and a trip to the beach. It was nearly three in the afternoon by the time they returned home. The beasts forgot to be unhappy about being fed so late because they were just so darn happy about being fed now.
There was some obligatory petting, the getting of the mail, the technical brilliance of setting up the shows to record for the evening. Sam called it “the arrival dance.” It was the checklist you went through each time you left for more than a few hours and came back. The details of living. Some men, he knew, complained about it. He loved it. It was comforting, it was right, it was his.
“You ready for tomorrow, Sarah?” he heard his wife ask.
Tomorrow was Sarah’s birthday. The question was rhetorical.
He winced at the squeal that came from his daughter’s mouth. An earsplitting, semi-alien screech.
“Presents, party, cake!” she cried, jumping up and down in excitement. It was very reminiscent of Doreen earlier, Sam mused. The dog and his daughter had disturbing similarities at times.
“Don’t jump on the couch, munchkin,” he murmured as he looked through the mail.
“Sorry, Daddy.”
A certain poised feel to the silence that followed made him glance over at his daughter. He braced himself when he saw the look in her eyes. Exuberant mischief. The promise that a mildly destructive act was about to happen.
“But,” she giggled, a psychotic leprechaun, “can I jump on you?”
She let out a squeal that was the sound of a pig being murdered and launched herself into the air, coming down on him like a pillow filled with goose down and rocks.
He “ooofed” a little. More than I did a year ago, he thought to himself. Someday soon his days as a human trampoline would be over for good. He’d miss it.
Sarah was still small enough for now. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her.
“Zo…” he said, faking an exaggerated German accent and a sinister voice, “you know vat zis means…yes?”
He felt her freeze, quivering and giggling in delight and terror. She knew what was coming.
“It means zat ve will haf to resort to…tickle torture!”
The torture began, and there was more squealing, and Doreen started barking and leaping around while the long-suffering Buster looked on.
Silly humans and a stupid dog, he seemed to be saying.
“Not so loud,” Linda Langstrom warned with a smile, watching as her husband and daughter dissolved into playful chaos. It was halfhearted. Don’t blow, wind, she might as well be saying.
The truth was that she shared in their delight. Sam was always so peaceful and practical, the calm to her storm. It’s not that he was stiff—Sam had a dry humor that never failed to make her laugh, a way of seeing the comedy of life—but he had a certain…quietness. A tendency, not to take himself seriously, but to get serious. And yet he was always willing to toss that aside for his family.
He sure tossed it aside when he proposed to her.
They were both in college. He was getting a degree in computer science, she in the arts. Some days their schedules conflicted. She’d have a night class that started an hour after his last day class ended, he had a night job—they really had to work to find time together on those days.
Sam had decided he was going to ask her to marry him and that he was going to be wearing a tuxedo when he did. It was one of his quirks: Once he decided to do something at a particular time, in a particular way, that was how it was going to be. It was a quality that could be either endearing or annoying, depending on the circumstances.
It had been one of those “one-hour-window” days. There was no way he’d be able to get to their apartment (they’d been living together for a year), put on the tuxedo, and get back in time to propose to her before his night job started.
Sam’s solution? He’d worn the tuxedo all day long, through all of his classes, through the heat of the day and the jibes of his fellow students.
The one-hour window arrived, and there he was, and he took her breath away. More than a boy, but not fully a man, silly and handsome and down on one knee, and she said yes, of course, and he skipped his job and she skipped her classes and they smoked grass and made love all night while the music played loud. They never managed to get all their clothes off; when she woke up in the morning, the bow tie from the tuxedo was still circling Sam’s neck.
They were married a year later. Two years after that they had both graduated from college. Sam got a job right away with a software company, where he excelled. She painted and sculpted and took pictures, waiting with patient certainty to be “discovered.”
Two years later and still unknown, Linda began to have serious doubts. The total certainty from her early twenties was beginning to wane as she hit twenty-five.
Sam had dismissed her doubts, in an absolute kind of way that she still loved him for.
“You’re a great artist, babe,” he’d said, holding her eyes with his. “It’ll work out.”
Three weeks later, he’d come home from work, and had tangoed into her studio—literally tangoed, stepping and twirling toward her with an over-serious look on his face and a phantom rose between his teeth.
“Let’s go,” he’d said, holding out a hand.
“Hang on a minute,” she’d said, concentrating on her brushstroke. It was a painting of a baby, alone in a forest, and she liked it.
He’d waited, tangoing with himself.
Linda had finished and folded her arms, smiling at Sam as he danced. “What’s up, silly man?”
“I have a surprise,” he’d said. “Let’s go.”
She’d raised an eyebrow. “A surprise?”
“Yep.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“The kind that surprises you, of course.” He’d tapped his foot, had motioned with his hands toward the door. “Giddyap. Get a move on. Take the lead out.”
“Hey,” she’d said, feigning indignation. “I’m not a horse. And I need to change.”
“Nope. Tarzan say Jane go, now.”
She’d giggled (nobody could get her giggling like Sam), and had ended up letting him drag her out of the house and to the car. He’d driven them down the local highway, taking the exit that led to the new mall that had just opened. He’d pulled into the parking lot.
“The surprise is at the mall?”
He’d waggled his eyebrows at her. More giggling ensued.
It was an indoor mall, and Sam had led her inside, through the milling crowds of shoppers, walking, walking, walking—until he stopped.
They were standing in front of a medium-sized empty store.
She frowned. “I don’t understa
nd.”
Sam had indicated the empty space with a sweep of his hand.
“It’s yours, babe. This is the space for your store. You can figure out a name, haul in your art and photos, and make the public discover you.” He’d reached out a hand, had touched her face. “You just need to get seen, Linda. Once they see you, they’ll know what I know.”
She’d felt like the air had been sucked from her lungs. “But…but…isn’t this expensive, Sam?”
His smile had been somewhat rueful. “It’s not cheap. I took money from the house, from our home equity line. You can survive for about a year without turning a profit. After that, it’ll get a little dicey.”
“Is…” She’d turned to him. “Is this smart?” she’d asked in a whisper. Wanting what he was offering her, but doubting her ability to keep it from hurting them.
Sam had grinned. It was a beautiful grin, filled with happiness and strength. All man, now, no boy at all. “It’s not about smart. It’s about us.” The smile had been replaced by seriousness. “It’s a gamble on you, babe, and win or lose, it’s something we have to do.”
They’d gambled, and they’d won. The location had been a perfect choice, and while she didn’t make them rich, she made a good profit. More important, she was doing what she loved, and her husband had helped make sure of that. It didn’t make her love him more, that was impossible. What it did was add a new layer of permanence and certainty. This was the secret to their love: its priority. They kept their love important, above money, pride, or the approval of others.
They continued to love each other, in life and in the bedroom. Two years later, Sarah was born.
Sam liked to joke that Sarah was a “red-faced, cone-headed beauty.” Linda had watched in wonder as that tiny mouth found her nipple with single-minded certainty. Life had thrilled through Linda, something undefinable but huge, new and ancient at the same time. She’d tried to get that feeling onto canvas with paint. She’d failed each time. Even the failures were magnificent.
The Face of Death Page 17
