She sniffled. “You wouldn’t believe the changes in him. No more cloudy eyes. No more magnifiers. He still needs glasses, but just regular ones. And he hasn’t had a single event since the storm. Dr. Vogel’s stumped. It’s like Kit never had epilepsy. He still keeps a stone next to the bed, but I haven’t seen him use it. And there’s no more sleepwalking. No more monster thoughts.”
The wind swept rain across her face. “He asks about you. He wants to know if his father’s in Heaven. But I think he knows. He does.”
She smiled anxiously. “He’s a lot like you. He keeps asking to read your books. Says he wants to be a writer. I’m still on the fence about a computer for him. I don’t want to risk it. Maybe I’ll find him an Underwood.”
A golden tear slid down her cheek. “Why did you do this, Jared? Why did you leave us? God, I ask myself every day. But when I look at our son, I know why. I just wish there could have been another way.”
She read the epitaph. So few words, for a man of so many.
A good man.
She knelt in the wet grass and started to weep. She kissed the orange daisy in her hand, and set it against the stone.
~
The clouds began to break as the rain stopped. A big blue sky and a warm pumpkin sun hovered beyond the trees. Marisa walked back to the car, and she frowned when the shiny pearl paint on the hood took a shit-hit from a passing black-capped chickadee. Despite her melancholy, she found a chuckle. Even like this, her second-hand Kia still looked a whole lot better than her beat-up hatchback.
Her hatchback—
She hadn’t thought about it in months. She’d had it towed for scrap four days before the police had discovered Horn’s body, and while she had fully expected them to come knocking and was quite prepared to answer their questions, not a single cop had come to her door. Not ever.
She placed her umbrella in the back, then buckled up behind the wheel. Kit set his book on his lap. One of the Goosebumps series. He looked up at her with those beautiful chestnut eyes, looking more like his father every day. He handed her a tissue from the glove box.
“Thank you,” she said, sniffling. “I hope I wasn’t too long.”
“It’s okay.”
She had asked him to walk with her, and she hadn’t pressed him when he decided to stay behind this time. She had seen it in his eyes. The sadness. The worry. She had half-expected him to start tapping his thigh.
“You all right, kiddo?”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “What about you?”
She nodded. “It’s good.”
Kit took her hand. “He’s watching over us, you know.”
“God?”
“Jared.”
She smiled. “Yes. Yes he is.”
~
She drove through town, avoiding the main routes. Five minutes later, she turned onto the highway that led west. As the town grew smaller in her rear-view mirror, she glanced back at the new sign that workers had erected three weeks ago. It had replaced the old billboard, trading The Home Of Jared Cole for Welcome To Torch Falls—Good Town, Good People.
She was silent as they drove home. She had sold the house on Elm under market value, but it had been just enough to get them a smaller home in the country. It had a full half-acre of backyard, cocooned by fir and larch. Kit bused it to school, and that was okay; he spent his ride time reading. Just as he was now.
She wondered what he was thinking, wondered what precious secret held sway in his heart. Wondered if Jared had been able to breach that great barrier between them. There were times when she had wanted to ask, but of course the point was moot. The gateway was a one-way street.
Still, Kit was different now. Whatever had transpired during their connection had changed him. He seemed every bit the healthy child he had once been. But she had to admit, his transformation had been nothing short of a miracle.
Was it possible? Could he and Jared have crossed souls in that dark abyss?
She didn’t know. And if they had, it was Kit’s privilege to keep what they shared to himself. If he wanted to tell her, he would. In his own time.
“It’s clearing up,” she said.
Kit looked up from his book. He took one look at the sky and smiled excitedly. “How about the wind?”
They passed some colorful aspen as they rounded a curve. The trees swayed steadily, the leaves alive in the bright sunshine.
Marisa tousled his hair with a grin. “I think it’s just right.”
~
Twenty minutes later, she parked in the driveway and they went inside. Marisa started dinner while Kit scrambled up to his room. He came down into the kitchen, his small face beaming behind the long box in his arms.
“You coming, Mom?”
“I’ll be out in a few minutes. Go ahead, though.”
She finished mashing potatoes and stuffed a tray of seasoned chicken into the oven. Out on the back deck, she sat with her tea on the top step, basking in the glorious afternoon. Kit had the kite high in the sky.
She felt some stiffness in her leg. It had never been the same since the bullet, and the hills at the cemetery hadn’t helped. Still, the discomfort was milder this time. It was something. Small steps. Small steps. Like the small steps through the trail that she and Kit had taken to carry themselves to the road, and to that car that had picked them up. Like the small steps they had taken together, mother and child, to live the new life they’d been given.
She sipped her tea. As she watched her son, her heart sank. For all her effort, all her love, she was still just a mom. There would always be that gaping void in his life—and hers. The only saving grace was his remarkable and inexplicable recovery. She only prayed it was permanent. Prayed it the only thing that had changed.
A sharp gust sent the kite into a tailspin. Kit tried to guide it, only to have it spin out of control. It nosedived, and just before it crashed, it clipped a small bird. The bird sputtered in flight and struck the hard ground.
“Mom!” Kit dropped the spool and bolted for the bird.
Marisa set down her cup. As she rose, she still favored that ache in her calf. She took the steps slowly and hobbled across the grass. Kit knelt beside the bird, which she thought was a northern flicker. Its left wing was badly bent. It twitched.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Kit, I’m so sorry—”
But of course he didn’t hear; already he had cupped the dying creature in his hands. His eyes, his father’s eyes, stood utterly still. He trembled as if immersed in emotion, and when that first drop of blood slipped from his nose, he smiled a blissful smile, a smile that could only come from the depth of a heart … from a soul.
~ a final word
Thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed Gateway.
This story was born out of fear. My fear. Fear of everyday (and not so everyday) things that can turn nasty, fast. The truth is, I’m particularly afraid of knives, and I’m not exactly fond of scissors or paper trimmers, either. So when I set out to write this, I knew I was going to face a lot of the Bad People that scare the bejesus out of Kit. Maybe he’s me, in a way. Or you.
Until next time, my friend. Be well.
David
June, 2021
~ dedication
For Tina—who opened a gateway to my soul.
~ acknowledgments
Gateway is the fruit of my labors over many moons. But the story it became could not have come without the help from some very special people.
I‘d like to thank William “Bill” Greenleaf for yet another deep and insightful evaluation of the first draft. Bill's suggestions were instrumental in shaping the flow of the manuscript.
Once again, I owe a huge thanks to Scott Bury. Scott is a talented writer, and simply excels as an editor. As I like to say, he's honest and brutal and pulls no punches—exactly what one needs in an editor. I swear, he has such a keen eye for detail that he could spot a nickel on the moon from his backyard.
Thanks must go to Mom and Dad, God rest your beautiful souls. I feel you
both every day, and just knowing you’re there inspires me.
My greatest thanks is for my soulmate, Tina Forgét, for without her love and encouragement, Gateway would have never come to pass.
~ tidbits
Cover design and Artwork by David C. Cassidy (Illustrator)
eBook prepared by David C. Cassidy
Author photograph courtesy Tina Forgét
Cover, Artwork and Photography
Copyright © 2021
Edited by Scott Bury @ScottTheWriter
Independent Authors International
~ about the author
Award-winning author David C. Cassidy is the twisted mind behind several chilling books of horror and suspense. An author, photographer, and graphic designer—and a half-decent juggler—he spends his writing life creating tales of terror where Bad Things Happen To Good People. Raised by wolves, he grew up with a love of nature, music, science, and history, with thrillers and horror novels feeding the dark side of his seriously disturbed imagination. He talks to his characters, talks often, and most times they listen. But the real fun starts when they tell him to take a hike, and they Open That Door anyway. Idiots.
David lives in Ontario, Canada. From Mozart to Vivaldi, classic jazz to classic rock, he feels naked without his iPod. Suffering from MAD—Multiple Activity Disorder—he divides his time between writing and photography, reading and rollerblading. An avid amateur astronomer, he loves the night sky, chasing the stars with his telescope. Sometimes he eats.
www.davidccassidy.com
~ share the experience
Before you leave, I would be extremely grateful if you would take the time to post a review on the site where you downloaded the book—even if you didn’t like the story. Honest and fair reviews are my lifeblood as an author and help immensely in promoting my work. Thank you so much.
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