by Jason Mott
“It was okay this time,” Bellamy said.
“Hmph,” Harold grunted.
“How are things at the church?” Bellamy walked around the debris.
“Good enough,” Harold said. He squatted again and went back to sifting the ashes.
“I hear the pastor’s back.”
“I reckon. Him and the wife are talking about adopting some kids. Finally getting in on a tried and true family,” Harold replied. His legs were sore. He quit squatting and kneeled, dirtying his knees just as he’d done yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
Bellamy looked over at Jacob—still sitting at his mother’s grave. “I’m sorry about all this,” Bellamy said.
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry.”
“In that case I guess I’ll have to say I’m sorry, too.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For whatever.”
Bellamy nodded. “He’ll leave soon.”
“I know,” Harold said.
“They get distant like that. At least, that’s what the Bureau has been seeing. It’s not always the case. Sometimes they just up and disappear, but usually they become withdrawn, silent, in the days before they vanish.”
“That’s what the television’s been saying.”
Harold was up to his elbows in the remains of the house. His forearms were black and gray with soot. “If it’s any consolation,” Bellamy began, “they’re usually found in their graves. They’re put back…whatever that means.” Harold did not reply. His hands moved of their own accord, as if they were getting closer to the thing he was desperately seeking. His fingers were cut from loose nails and splinters of wood, but still he did not stop. Bellamy watched him dig.
It went on this way for what seemed like a very long time.
Finally, Bellamy removed his suit jacket and kneeled in the ashes and dug his hands in. The two men said nothing. They only dug for some unknown thing.
* * *
When Harold found it, he immediately knew why he had been looking for it. It was a small, metal box, burned to black by the heat of the flames and the soot of the destroyed house. His hands trembled.
The sun was setting in the west. It was growing cool. Winter would come early this year.
Harold opened the box, reached in, and removed Lucille’s letter. A small, silver cross fell out into the ashes. Harold sighed and tried to keep his hands still. The letter was half-burned by the fire, but most of the words were still there, written in Lucille’s long, elegant hand.
…world in madness? How’s a mother supposed to react? How’s a father supposed to deal with it? I know it seems like too much for you, Harold. There are times when I think it’s too much for me. Times when I want to run him off, back to that river where our boy died.
A long time ago, I was afraid I’d forget everything. And then I hoped I could forget everything. Neither seemed much better than the other, but both of them seemed better than the loneliness, God forgive me. I know He’s got a plan. He’s always got a plan. And I know it’s too big for me. I know it’s too big for you, Harold.
It’s worse for you. I know that. This cross, it winds up all over the place. This time I found it out on the porch by your chair. You probably fell asleep with it in your hand the way you always do. You probably never even knew it. I think you’re afraid of it. You shouldn’t be.
It wasn’t your fault, Harold.
Whatever it is in you that makes your head go all screwy around the cross, it’s not your fault. Ever since Jacob went on to Glory, you’ve carried this cross, the same way Jesus carried His. But even He was released from it.
Let it go, Harold. Let him go.
He’s not our son. I know that. Our son died in that river, hunting for little trinkets like this here cross. He died playing a game his father had taught him to play, and you can’t let that go. I remember how happy he was when you and he went down to the river and came back with this. It was like something magical. You sat there on the porch with him and told him that the world was full of secret things like this. You told him all a soul had to do was search for them and they would always be there.
You were still in your twenties then, Harold. He was your first child. You couldn’t have known he would believe you. You couldn’t have known he’d go back down there on his own and drown.
I don’t know how this child, this second Jacob, came to be. But honestly, I don’t care. He’s given us something we never thought we could have again: a chance to remember what love is. A chance to forgive ourselves. A chance to find out if we are still the people we were when we were a pair of young parents hoping and praying that nothing bad would ever happen to our child. A chance to love without fear. A chance to forgive ourselves.
Let it go, Harold.
Love him. Then let him go.
* * *
Everything was blurry. Harold squeezed the small, silver cross in the palm of his hand and laughed.
“Are you okay?” Bellamy asked.
Harold answered only with more laughter. He crumpled the letter and held it to his chest. When he turned to look on Lucille’s grave, Jacob was gone. Harold stood and looked out over the yard, but the boy was not there. Neither was he by the frame of the house. Nor was he at the truck.
Harold wiped his eyes and turned to the south, in the direction of the forest that led to the river. Perhaps it was only chance, or perhaps it was the way things were meant to be. Either way, for an instant, he caught a glimpse of the boy below the glare of the setting sun.
Months ago, when the Returned began being confined to their homes, Harold had told his wife how things would begin to hurt after that. He had been right. He knew that this would hurt, as well. All the while, Lucille had never believed Jacob to be her son. But, all the while, Harold knew that he was. Maybe that’s the way it was for everyone. Some folks locked the doors of their hearts when they lost someone. Others kept the doors and the windows open, letting memory and love pass through freely. And maybe that was the way it was supposed to be, Harold thought.
Things were happening like this all over.
* * * * *
Author’s Note
TWELVE YEARS AFTER my mother passed away, I can hardly remember the sound of her voice. Six years after my father’s death, the only visions of him I am able to recall are those last few months leading up to his final breath. These memories I wish I could forget.
Those are the rules with memory, with losing someone. Certain parts remain while others eventually disappear completely.
But fiction is something else.
In July 2010, a couple of weeks after the anniversary of my mother’s death, I dreamed of her. The dream was a simple one: I came home from work and she was there, at the dinner table, waiting for me. For the course of the entire dream, we simply talked. I told her about grad school and life in general since her death. She asked me why I still hadn’t settled down and started a family. Even after death, my mother was trying to marry me off.
We shared something that, for me, is only possible within the dreamscape: a conversation between a mother and son.
That dream stayed with me for months. Some nights, as I fell asleep, I hoped to recreate it—but I never did. Not long after that, I cornered a friend over lunch and told him about my emotional unease. The conversation went the way it does with old friends: meandering, mocking at times but, ultimately, restorative. Sometime later in our lunch, as conversation was running low, my friend asked: “Can you imagine if she actually did come back, just for one night? And what if it wasn’t just her? What if it happened to other people, too?”
The Returned was born that day.
What The Returned became for me is difficult to explain. Each day that I worked on the manuscript, I struggled to resolve certain questions. Questions of general physics, questions of minute details and final outcomes. I grappled with even the most basic fundamentals: Where did the Returned come from? W
hat are they? Are they even real? Some of these questions were easily answered, but others were paralyzingly elusive, and there reached a point in the process where I very nearly gave up and stopped writing.
But what kept me going was the character of Agent Bellamy. I began to see myself in him. His tale of his mother’s death—her stroke, the illness that followed—is the tale of my mother’s death. His constant desire to distance himself from her is my own attempt to flee from some of the more painful memories of my mother’s final days. And, ultimately, his reconciliation became my reconciliation.
The Returned became more than just a manuscript for me; it was also an opportunity. An opportunity for me to sit with my mother again. An opportunity to see her smile, to hear her voice, a chance to stay with her in those last days of her life, rather than hide from her the way I did in the real world.
I eventually realized what I wanted this novel to be—what it could be. I wanted The Returned to be an opportunity for my readers to feel what I felt in that dream back in 2010, to find their own stories here. I wanted it to be a place where—through methods and magic unknown even to me—the hard, uncaring rules of life and death do not exist and people can be with those they loved once more. A place where a parent can once again hold their children. A place where lovers can find one another after being lost. A place where a boy can, finally, tell his mother goodbye.
A good friend once described The Returned as “time out of sync.” I think that fits. My hope is that the reader can enter this world and find the unsaid words and unreconciled emotions of their own lives played out within these pages. Perhaps even find their own debts forgiven. Burdens, finally, left behind.
Acknowledgments
NO MAN IS an island, and no writer writes alone. “Thank you” feels insufficient, but until I can raise a glass with each of you, here goes:
To my agent, Michelle Brower (and to Charlotte Knott), who took a clumsy, knock-kneed, cow-eyed writer and his manuscript, cleaned them both off, whipped them into shape and made them believe in one another.
To my editor, Erika Imranyi, who steered me past the pitfalls, and cheered me on the entire way. I didn’t know what having my first editor would be like, but I couldn’t have imagined it being as wonderful as it has been.
To Maurice Benson and Zach Stowell, the best pair of Rybacks a Ryback could ask for. Thanks for all the steaks, video games, cream sodas, ’80s action movies and, more importantly, for keeping my feet grounded and keeping me about the business of staying busy. For freedom!
To Randy Skidmore and Jeff Carney, who took time out of their lives and endured the Dune-like wasteland that was the original draft of this novel. Your bravery and courage have undoubtedly secured your places in Valhalla.
To my brother-in-writing, Justin Edge, for all the planning sessions that were the foundation for this novel. Without those long hours spent vetting plot, characters and all manner of other ideas, none of this would have been possible.
To my other sister, Angela Chapman Jeter, for giving me “the talk” that day in the parking lot at work. I’ve got many, many moments to thank you for, but I was on the edge that particular day. You talked me down, and then all the wonderful things began happening.
To Cara Williams, for years of cheering me on and believing that this was possible. There aren’t enough ways in the English language for me to thank you for your support. You’re too wonderful for the likes of me.
To the many other friends, supporters and fellow writers who have helped make this possible: Michelle White, Daniel Nathan Terry, Lavonne Adams, Philip Gerard, the Creative Writing department of UNC Wilmington, Bill Shipman, Chris Moreland, Dan Bonne and his wonderful ILY troupe (imleavingyoutheshow.com), Mama & Papa Skidmore (Brenda and Nolan aka “Mr. Skid” ) for making me feel like family, Mama & Papa Edge (Cecelia & Paul) for adopting me as well, Samantha, Haydn and Marcus Edge, William Coppage, Ashley Shivar, Anna Lee, Jacqueline Bort, Ashleigh Kenyon, Ben Billingsley, Kate Sweeney, Andy Wiles, Dave Rappaport, Margo Williams, Clem Doniere and William Crawford.
To everyone at MIRA and Harlequin for making this all feel like some wonderful dream. Your support, excitement and encouragement have been overwhelming and I will be forever grateful. I hope to make you all proud.
To my family: Sweetie, Sonya, Justin, Jeremy, Diamond, Aja and Zion, for a lifetime of love and support.
Most of all, to my mother and father: Vaniece Daniels Mott and Nathaniel Mott Jr. Even though you are gone, you are always with me.
If you loved The Returned, download your copies of “The First,” “The Sparrow” and “The Choice” by acclaimed author Jason Mott.
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ISBN: 9781459236639
THE RETURNED
Copyright © 2013 by Jason Mott
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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