Winter Wake

by Rick Hautala

  “It’s okay, Dad,” John whispered, knowing now — as he had always dreaded — that the things they should have said to each other would never be said now.

  Frank’s mouth made loud smacking sounds as he tried to form words. The pink foam kept bubbling out, running down his face and onto the sheets.

  “She was …” he rasped. “She was … here!”

  “Who was?” John practically shouted.

  Frank’s face contorted as he struggled to speak.

  “Her!”

  “Who are you talking about?” John said, wondering if his father might have hallucinated seeing his dead wife.

  Frank tried to speak, but his back suddenly arched as his chest heaved with a roaring intake of breath. He seemed to rise above the bed, suspended in the air, but then he let out a long, watery sigh and settled back down onto the bed, melting onto the mattress.

  At that precise moment, from far off, came the banshee wail of an approaching ambulance.

  NINETEEN

  DOA

  I

  When the ambulance and police arrived, Bri was sitting on the couch, sobbing with her face in her hands. Julia was sitting next to her, patting her on the back. She was also teary-eyed, but she tried to be strong for Bri, saying whatever comforting words came to mind. She knew from personal experience when her parents died that it didn’t matter what anyone said so long as they were there to comfort you.

  John, stunned from having his father practically die in his arms, stood in the kitchen, looking out at the driveway as the cruiser and ambulance pulled into the driveway. Their flashing blue lights strobing across the freshly fallen snow for some reason made him think about the sudden flash of Julia’s camera earlier that evening.

  Christmas Eve …

  He shook his head sadly as four men — dark silhouettes against the snow — hurried up the walkway to the kitchen door. John went to meet them and inform them that they didn’t need to hurry any more. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see that one of the men was Randy Chadwick. He didn’t recognize the other three, but one of them introduced himself as Officer Pelkey.

  “Your dad?” Randy asked, looking at him with a twisted, worried expression.

  Eyeing Randy darkly, John nodded.

  “Uh-huh,” he said even as his mind filled with angry thoughts about Randy and what he had been doing to him. “He’s in his bedroom.” John’s throat was raw from yelling earlier, and his arms and shoulders ached from the wild axe swings he’d taken to get the door down. “I think it was his heart.”

  Randy nodded and then followed silently as John led them down the hallway to his father’s bedroom. Julia stood in the living room doorway, nodding a silent greeting to Randy as he passed. Doing his best to fight any dark suspicions at a time like this, John tried not to read any deeper meaning into the glance.

  “What in th’ hell happened to the door?” Pelkey stared in amazement at the splintered remains hanging from one hinge.

  “It was locked,” John said, shaking his head as though dazed. “I — ah, had to get in there.”

  “Did he lock his door every night?” Pelkey asked, running his fingers along a particularly deep gash in the wood.

  John shrugged. “Can’t say as I ever checked.”

  “I’ll get the stretcher,” Randy said, his voice low. Turning to John, he added, “If you want to wait in the living room, we can take care of it from here.”

  “Might’s well wait until Chuck gets here,” Pelkey said as he studied at the body. “You plan to use Lang for the funeral?”

  “I guess so,” John said with a shrug. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  He was feeling hollow inside as though nothing he could say or do would make a bit of difference, anyway. But he decided to stay as Randy and the policemen went over to the bed and did a brief examination to confirm that Frank was dead.

  Pelkey picked up the containers of medicine on the bedstand and inspected each label.

  “Had a stroke a while back, as I recall” he said. “We’ll have to take these to the lab and have ‘em checked. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all,” John said weakly.

  Pelkey shook the containers, making them rattle. The sound reminded John of the rattling noise of his father’s breathing moments before the end. He stared blankly as Randy opened up a medical bag, took out a stethoscope, and reached under Frank’s pajama shirt. He listened for a moment, then took the stethoscope off and shook his head.

  “Could you stand back, please, while we get some shots?” Pelkey said.

  One of the other policemen raised a camera and started snapping pictures from different angels. Each glaring blast of light made John think, Jesus, more Christmas photos!

  “So,” John said, turning to Randy while the policemen did their work, “I didn’t know you were a medical man.” He was leaning back against the bedroom wall, mostly because the backs of his legs felt like rubber, and he was afraid he would fall down if he didn’t have some support.

  Randy shook his head.

  “I’m not. I’ve had a minimal amount of training and work as a volunteer EMT.”

  John nodded, but all the while as he watched the policemen examine and photograph his father, he couldn’t stop thinking, He’s got to be the one who’s doing leaving those notes around … and worse … I’ll bet he’s messing around with Julia.

  The more he thought about it, the more made sense. When Randy had passed Julia in the hallway, they had looked at each other in a weirdly intense way, like they shared a secret.

  ‘‘I’d hazard to guess it was his heart,” Randy said, looking at John. ‘‘I’m sorry.”

  “Appears you’re right, Randy,” Pelkey said. “I’ve got to contact the medical examiner. Can I use this phone?” He indicated the telephone on the bedstand, and John nodded that it was all right. Pelkey dialed a number and stared up at the ceiling while he waited for an answer.

  “Al ... sorry to ring you so late, ‘specially on Christmas Eve, but we got a —” He cut himself off and, looking at John, said, “Would you mind waiting out in the hallway?”

  John shook his head and muttered, “I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

  Pelkey shrugged and spoke into the phone again.

  “We have a possible DOA at oh one-fifteen.” He paused, then added, “Mr. Frank Carlson at Thirty-three Shore Drive … on Glooscap.”

  Possible? John thought. Christ, he’s as dead as a stump!

  Pelkey paused while the man at the other end of the line said something, then grunted agreement.

  “Uh — huh. Appears to be heart. Had a history of heart trouble.”

  “He had a stroke last spring,” Randy whispered, and Pelkey nodded and repeated the information. He read the labels of Frank’s prescription drugs and then, after a pause, nodded again and said, “Okey-dokey. Thanks … And have a good holiday. Catch yah later.” After hanging up the phone, he turned to John and said, “We have permission to move the body. You want me to call Lang’s and have him come over?”

  A deep shudder ran through John’s body as the reality of what was happening sank home.

  His father was dead … stone cold dead at one-thirty on Christmas morning.

  Instead of opening the rest of their presents and enjoying a turkey dinner tomorrow, he would be going to Charles Lang’s Funeral Home to make burial arrangements.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding strangled. “We’ve used Lang’s when my … my mother died.”

  “Let me give Chuck a call.” Pelkey took a notebook from his shirt pocket, looked up a number, and dialed.

  The other cop, meanwhile, had finished taking pictures. Now that they had permission to move the body, he and Randy were busy straightening Frank out so they could move him onto the stretcher when the funeral director showed up. Frank’s limbs were already stiffening, but certainly rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. Without the spark of life, his father looked diminished, somehow … s
mall and frail. The icy pit in John’s stomach got worse as the men shifted his father’s body around as if it were a piece of useless meat.

  But that’s all it is now, he thought as blades of ice cut through him. That’s what I used to think he was, and now that’s all he is.

  The stinging in his eyes grew worse, and his vision blurred.

  He barely noticed the buzzing of Pelkey’s voice as he spoke into the phone with the funeral director.

  After Pelkey finished his call, and while they waited for Lang to arrive, John went out into the living room to be with Julia and Bri. Bri’s tear-streaked face all but broke his heart. He came over to them, and the three of them stood in the middle of the living room, hugging each other and seeking the reassurance of warm, living bodies in the numbing presence of death. To John’s knowledge, this was the first time Bri had ever seen a dead person.

  For himself … well, besides his mother’s funeral, there was that other time.

  As soon as he thought that, he thought about Abby —

  I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU DID TO ME!

  He remembered the gray shape reflected in the living room window ... that person hanging from the living room ceiling with gray, frayed rope twisted deep into the fold of her swollen neck, the body slowly turning ... turning …

  John finally realized who he had seen, and the realization hit him so hard he almost cried out loud.

  In his memory, he saw the body spinning slowly around until the face was visible.

  It was swollen and bloated, the skin gray … The tongue was hanging out between clenched teeth, bitten almost clear through …

  It was Abby Snow …

  “Why ... why did this have to happen?” Bri asked, her voice strained as she looked back and forth between her mother and John.

  Julia shrugged, knowing there were no rational, reasonable answers. John did nothing but shake his head. They remained where they were, hugging and sobbing, until another car — the funeral director, no doubt — pulled into the driveway. Pelkey went into the kitchen and let the man to the bedroom. John left Bri and Julia and walked back to his father’s bedroom. Lang was followed by his assistant, who was pushing a collapsible stretcher. While Lang’s assistant and the policemen shifted Frank’s body onto the stretcher, Lang spoke kindly and sympathetically with John in the corner of the room.

  Back in the living room, Julia stayed with Bri, hugging her daughter and racked by deep sobs.

  “No, don’t,” Julia shouted, her own voice breaking with emotion when Bri started toward the bedroom. “You don’t want to see.”

  Her face pale, her eyes and nose running, Bri sniffed and shook her head.

  “Can’t I see him … and say good-bye to him?” she asked.

  Julia shook her head.

  “No. I want you to remember him the way he was … when he was alive. It’s best.”

  Bri put her hand to her mouth and started gnawing on the knuckles as they listened to the sounds coming from down the hallway. There was a loud clanking of metal and then the soft rasp of fresh sheets shifting. A moment later, Bri’s eyes widened when the men wheeled the sheet-draped figure by. The sound of the stretcher wheels reminded her of the sound her grandfather’s wheelchair used to make, and she burst into tears again.

  “Take care of her,” John said tightly when he came back into the living room. He rubbed his hand on Julia’s shoulder. ‘‘I’m going to the funeral home.”

  Standing in the doorway, Randy said, “I can come with you if you’d like.”

  The offer seemed genuine, but John shook his head.

  “I can go alone,” he said. “Thanks, though.”

  A corner of his mind asked how he could ever have suspected Randy of leaving those notes and cheating with Julia. He must have been crazy to be so paranoid about his old friend.

  “I could stay here,” Randy said, “with Julia and Bri until you get back.”

  Ah, there it is, he thought, his fragments of doubt instantly disintegrating. Before Julia could respond, John said, “That won’t be necessary.”

  Julia looked at him, dumbfounded, but before she could speak, John followed his father’s body out to Lang’s station wagon. The cold night air grabbed the back of his throat and made his eyes sting as he watched the men slide the stretcher into the back of the hearse and secure it.

  “Let me grab my coat. I want to come along,” he said after Lang had closed the hearse doors.

  “Fine,” Lang said. “You can ride with me or follow in your car.”

  “I’ll follow,” John said.

  He went back into the house and came back moments later, wearing a heavy coat, woolen hat, and gloves. He got into his own car and started it up, waiting as Lang backed out of the driveway onto Oak Street.

  II

  John got home from the funeral home about two hours later. Julia was still up, waiting for him in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the couch and staring blankly at the winking Christmas tree lights. She had a cup of tea in hand, but it had long since gone cold. Bri was upstairs in bed, but Julia doubted she was asleep. She and John sat on the couch in silence for a while, looking at the bright tree and the dark night outside. Both of them were thinking … remembering … trying to make any kind of sense out of what had happened.

  Neither of them succeeded, and eventually they went upstairs to bed.

  No one slept well in the house where death had so recently brushed his cold hand, and as the light of dawn brightened the bedroom window, they both stopped pretending to be asleep and went downstairs. Even the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and the butterscotch bars of sunlight spilling across the kitchen floor didn’t dispel the gloom wrapped around the house,

  “Every time I look down there,” John said, glancing down the hallway, “I expect to hear him thumping around.” Several splintered boards littered the hallway floor where he’d broken the door down last night. The memory was as distant as a bad dream, but the emotions were raw and on the surface.

  Julia, who had had to deal with the loss of her parents when she was twelve years old, nodded silently. Sometime during the long night, her stomach had started churning and, although at first she thought it was from the tension and grief, she still felt like she was going to be sick to her stomach. She was already worried that she had another touch of the flu they had all suffered recently.

  “When I think of all the times I … I —” John’s voice choked off, and he lowered his gaze so his wife wouldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes. He couldn’t stop thinking about growing up in this house … especially after his mother had died —

  After my father let her drink herself to death!

  — he had wished … he had closed his eyes, folded his hands, and fervently prayed for his father to die.

  And now — after all this time — he got his wish.

  And with it came guilt, sharp and stinging.

  When he looked at Julia and saw the grief in her eyes, his heart constricted into something black and cold because all he could think was, Tell the truth … Are you screwing Randy?

  They both looked up when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Bri entered the kitchen, her face drawn and pale. Without a word, she plopped herself down into her usual chair, propped her chin in her hands, and sat staring down at the tabletop.

  “Didn’t sleep, huh?” Julia said, coming over behind her and gently massaging her shoulders.

  Bri shook her head and sighed, a deep, shuddering breath. She tried to look around at her mother, but the singing in her eyes was too strong. When she shifted her gaze and found herself looking down the hallway toward her grandfather’s bedroom door, she burst into tears and let her head drop forward onto the table. Her shoulders heaved as she cried.

  Julia looked at John helplessly, both of them silently acknowledging that this was what they would all need in order to get over it — tears … tears and time.

  After a light breakfast of toast and coffee, Julia cleaned up the kitchen whil
e John went to his father’s bedroom to clean up the mess from the night before. The door couldn’t be repaired. Its shattered remains, along with pieces of the doorframe, were strewn on the floor. It took several trips to carry all of the debris out to the garage. On his way back from the last trip, he peeked into the living room and saw Julia and Bri side by side on the couch, contemplating the array of presents under the tree.

  Cleaning up the broken door, he found, was the easiest part.

  Looking at the tangled mess of his father’s bed, the pile of church clothes he had worn last night and had kept on for Christmas Eve while they sat around the tree, distributing gifts, the pair of slippers he had gotten from Bri … everything about the room filled him with aching melancholy. The finality of death hit him. He didn’t feel as though his father was out of the room for a moment … that he was still alive and would be back shortly. His room was saturated with loneliness and a cold sense of his being gone … forever.

  Moving mechanically, and trying — but not succeeding very well — not to think about it, John stripped the soiled sheets and blankets from the bed, rolled them into a ball, and stuffed them into a plastic trash bag. He assumed Mr. Lang at the funeral home would want to dress his father for burial in his church clothes, so he folded them as best he could and placed them on the top of the bureau. Other things, such as dirty underwear and socks, John tossed into the bag along with the sheets and blankets.

  He didn’t take the time to sort through his father’s valuables or to tidy up the room. His only regret, after he had taken the trash bag out to the garage, was that the bedroom door couldn’t be closed. The memories and regrets that had died with his father should stay locked in that dingy, dark room.

  But once all this was done, and the room was straightened up, one thing continued to weigh on John’s mind. It had been sitting there in the back of his mind ever since last night, but no matter how much he mulled it over, he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.