by J. R. Tate
“Rusty thinks what?” She flips her hair off of her shoulder and leans forward.
“Nothing. Just that he’s gonna have a hard time getting used to it all.”
Dr. Carson nods and writes something down. She knows I’m full of shit. “I think you wanted to tell me more, Nathan. Does your son think it’s haunted? There’s always this preconceived notion that older houses and buildings have ghosts. Does he worry that you’ll go through stuff again?”
Damn, she’s good, but I can’t let her know that. Letting out a deep breath, I stare at her wall full of diplomas near her desk. What an over-achiever. “No, and frankly, I don’t want to talk about it. There’s other stuff going on, you know.”
“Like your wife’s death?”
This is where I get mad, even if I don’t want to. Scoffing, I look toward the door and down at my watch. Still too early to leave, and if I do, she’ll report it to my chief. “You know damn well that’s what I’m talking about. That’s why I’m here, right? Seeing the ghosts was nothing. I guess my boss figures her dying is really going to send me to the nut house.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Nathan.” Her voice stays calm and her expression neutral. All of those diplomas and time in school has done her well. “What’s bothering you the most about it?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, fighting back flashbacks of the night it happened. At least they are quick right now, not like at night when I dream about it. When that happens, it’s like I’m reliving it. “That’s a stupid question, Doc. I can’t pinpoint one thing.” I hold my finger up, making a one with my index finger.
“You responded to the call, right? You were working that night?”
“You’ve got it all right there in that file, why don’t you tell me?” I point to the folder on the table. She’s right, I was there, and I close my eyes at the mention of it. I see the red and blue lights of the cop cars, and the paramedic running toward me, pushing me away. The cars were so torn up that I didn’t even recognize ours. Of course, this is all stuff I should be saying out loud to Dr. Carson, but to hell with her. It’s stuff I’m not ready to share yet.
“How did you feel when you realized what was happening?”
“I was…” I rake my hand through my hair and lean my head against the wall. “I was devastated. It’s all a blur. The last thing I remember is collapsing as they took me back to the truck.”
“What’s helped you move forward? You’ve bought a house. You’ve moved forward. What’s been your driving force?”
I stare at her for a second. Sometimes I can’t believe what comes out of her mouth, but I see where she’s going with this. She wants me to remember what I’ve done to keep treading water. “Plain and simple – My son. I have to stay levelheaded for him. He can’t lose both of us.”
Dr. Carson shakes her head and writes something else down. “That’s the best motivation there is. It’s good that you have each other.”
“Yeah, without him and my job, there’s no telling where I’d be. Or if I’d even be alive.”
My own words hit me hard – would I really be capable of ending my own life? It makes me shiver and I want to get my mind on something else… anything else, and thankfully, my hour is up and she releases me.
I walk out to my truck and take in the fresh air. Dr. Carson gives me perspective, even if she gets me riled up in the process. The therapy is helping – but despite that, I can’t wait to be finished with it. It’s so taboo, so secretive, and I never thought I’d be one that would have to go vent to a perfect stranger.
I nod to an old lady across the street from me. It’s like she’s seeing right through me, and I figure she’s lost in thought, or she thinks I’m a weirdo. Her gaze on me sends a chill down my spine. She resembles the razor-toothed woman who visited me first, but I shrug the thought away. It’s just my mind going a thousand miles a minute. I look away and get in the pickup. No more distractions – I have too much to get done, and if there’s one thing I’m doing today, it’s getting our beds set up. I can’t take another night on the air mattress. Sleep deprivation makes people see and do crazy things.
Chapter Two
Nathan
My father’s house is on the way home from Dr. Carson’s office, and I hesitate. We are still estranged, but there’s a nagging feeling that I need to visit him more often, and I’m not sure why. He’ll never change – he continues to blame me for my brother Sammy’s death and the fact that my mother left after it all transpired. Despite the hatred he harbors deep in his heart for me, I still turn the truck down the access road and head in the direction of his house, my heart telling me to go, but my head screaming to make a U-turn and get the hell away.
I park the truck next to the curb and grip the steering wheel. My father did show up to Rose’s funeral, but he stayed toward the back and never spoke a word to me. I’m not sure why he even bothered to show up – he’s never been close to Rusty and never spoke to Rose. Maybe he was there to see me suffer. Maybe I don’t want to know why he came. Or maybe, deep down, he does care for me, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Nah, I don’t think that’s the case, but I still give him the benefit of the doubt.
I finally make myself get out of the truck and slowly walk up the sidewalk to the front porch, standing in the middle of the yard like a moron. My legs feel heavy, but I continue to move forward, taking the steps up to the door. Lightly knocking, I know for a fact he can’t hear it. Balling my fists, I feel the moisture on my palms and knock again, the screen door rattling under the force of my hand. Taking a step back, I immediately question my motive for being here. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
I hear footsteps and the wooden door swings open. My dad stands on the other side, his expression blank as he looks at me through the screen. Neither of us speaks at first and I know if I am not the one to break the silence, we could stand there all day.
“Dad.” Okay, not the best start, but I’m blank.
“Nathan. What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by.” I wonder if he’s going to let me in. Why not? It’d be another chance for him to rub in what a horrible person I am.
He pushes the door open and nods – his non-verbal invite to allow me over the threshold. I follow him inside, ducking the pictures of Sammy on the walls. Again, I’m reminded that he has none of me up, making the bitter taste in my mouth heighten.
He still doesn’t say much, but we go down the narrow hallway to the kitchen where he reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels and two tumblers. It’s one thing we have in common – we like our whiskey, and we like it strong. He pours each glass three fingers deep and scoots one across the surface to me. It’s still morning, but if I’m ever going to bond with him, this is how it happens. Besides, it might take the sting off of a rather drastic session.
The clock ticks above the stove and I look up at it. It’s almost ten AM and I feel guilty for not being home with Rusty unpacking, but chances are, he’s probably not even doing it either. The kid probably went back to sleep after he ate.
“You back to work?” My dad asks, gulping the liquor down.
“Yeah. Took a few days off to move. I have another tour in a few days. Chief is letting me get settled in at the new place.”
“New place?” He arches his eyebrow and refills his tumbler.
“Yeah. Guess you didn’t know.”
“Why would I? We don’t talk.” His tone is harsh and his glare is even worse. He acts like it’s my fault we don’t speak. The things I could say to him, but I bite my tongue.
“I put the old place on the market. It sold pretty fast, and the timing was perfect. Found an old farmhouse out on Six-Thirteen. Came with several acres.”
He sloshes the liquid around and drinks it faster than the first drink. “Why’d you do that? Not man enough to live in the house you got with Rose? Can’t handle it?”
There was a time shortly after my hospital stay where I tried to work it o
ut with my father. Obviously, it didn’t go over well and our relationship is regressing. He did come and see me and for a bit, I thought things were salvageable, but we both fell back into old habits and he went back to resenting me. I tried to rekindle all of the years we lost together, but it’s a two way street, and he can’t get over Sammy’s death.
“It wasn’t a healthy environment for Rusty and me, Dad. Opportunity knocked and I took it.”
“Highway Six-Thirteen,” he says, more like a statement than a question. “Lots of shit happens on that road. You sure your mental state is okay to live out there.” He motions his index finger around his ear – the universal hand gesture for a crazy person and I feel my blood begin to boil. He’s a real asshole, and again I question why I bothered coming here.
“I realize what road it is. And I’m not going to talk to you about my mental state.”
He leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his chest. The whiskey starts to go down smoother for me, and I don’t ask for a refill. I just grab the bottle and pour the glass completely full.
“You know, Nathan, it’s funny.” Pausing, he scrubs his palm down his cheek and it sounds like sandpaper against his whiskers. “There’s this thing called karma. Ever heard of it?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it.”
“It’s happening to you. Do you realize it?” He points his index finger down into the table, thumping it against the wood.
Dare I ask? Again, as I stated, I’m a glutton for punishment. Hell, maybe I’m craving a good fight. But rather than get up and leave like a normal person would do, I stay and add fuel to the fire.
“How’s that? How’s karma getting me?”
My father laughs. “What’s sad is you don’t even realize it. All those years ago. Sammy’s death because you neglected to watch him. He’s dead and gone and your mother might as well be too since she left with no sign of where she could possibly be. And what do you know – you lose your wife around the same age I was when all of that happened. Now that’s karma. I knew it’d eventually happen – I just had to be patient.”
Am I hearing him right? Is this another one of my very vivid dreams? I finish my own glass of whiskey and the burn is a reminder that this is reality. I’m very much awake. “So you’re saying that Rose died because Sammy died? Because mom left?”
“You’re not as stupid as you look, Nathan.” He wags his finger at me and stands up, glancing out of the window above the kitchen sink.
“You’ve got a very distorted view of how the world works.”
Looking at me over his shoulder, he laughs again, his eyes squinted from his bone-chilling smile. “Says the man who sees ghosts. Who talks to them. Who has just made a move to Highway Six-Thirteen.”
The son of a bitch still doesn’t believe that really happened to me, but that’s fine. I don’t feel the need to justify it to him. “Go to hell.” Standing up, I grab the empty tumbler and grip it in my hand. If I squeeze much tighter, the damn thing is going to shatter.
“Yeah, get mad, Nathan! You know I’m right! Your reaction proves that you know I speak the truth. Karma got you. It’s finally paying you back for all these years. You still belong in that loony bin!”
I’ll be the first to admit I have a bad temper, and now is no different. I throw the glass hard, shattering it against the wall near where my dad is standing. The glass shards crash to the floor, and it gets his attention.
“What happened to us trying to get along?” My voice shakes, but the emotion is so strong that I can’t hide it.
“You tell me. Sammy is dead. Your mother is gone. I can’t ever forgive you for that, and one day I realized it.”
“So in reality, you lost both your sons that day.”
Nodding, he looks down at the mess I made. “You just said a mouthful, Nathan.”
“All of it true. You’re dead to me.”
I don’t even allow him to respond, nor do I figure he has anything to say. He’s getting exactly what he wants – a rise out of me. Hurrying down the hallway, I stop at the small shrine he has set up for Sammy as a chill runs down my spine. It dawns at me that most of the people I’ve known in my life are now dead. And oddly enough, I have a tie to all of them. I just hope my “gift” never comes back.
***
Rusty
I glance at the clock – it’s almost eleven and my dad still isn’t home. I’m not the type to typically worry about him, but after everything he’s been through, I have my reservations about him. He’s not the man he used to be, and frankly, I can’t blame him. No one believes what he’s seen, what he’s been through, and what I’m sure is to come. No one but me, because I was beginning to see and hear the things he was describing. Mere coincidence? Not likely. Not when he describes it exactly how I’m seeing it too. Only difference is, they’re after him. They’re hurting him. And I’m an outsider looking in.
He claims he hasn’t seen anything for months now, but is he completely telling the truth? Is he keeping quiet to protect me? I haven’t seen anything, but that doesn’t hold a lot of value. My mom dying has changed him even more. He’s quieter, more reserved, almost brooding. He tries to put up a front with me, but shit, the guy lost his wife – the woman he loves. I’m upset over her death too – she’s my mother, and the way she died is just plain horrible. A car wreck. Jesus Christ, how can you expect a man to get over actually working the call where she is, dead on scene, in a car he didn’t recognize until someone pulled him back to the fire truck. I don’t blame the guy for losing touch with reality, but truthfully, he’s the most levelheaded, stable man I know, despite everything that has gone wrong.
I walk to a box near the back door and sift through it. My dad’s handwriting is scribbled on the side, labeled decorations, and the framed picture right on top makes my stomach sink. It’s a picture of him, my mom, and me, taken just before he started seeing the ghosts. I trace my finger over my mom’s face, her smile vibrant. It looks like my dad is laughing about something, and I try and remember what it was about, but my memory fails me.
“Hey Russ, what’ya got there?”
My dad’s question pulls me from my daydream and I drop the frame back into the box, jumping. “Hey Dad, didn’t even hear you come in. I was just thinking about unpacking some of this stuff.” I spread my hands, motioning toward the mountains of boxes.
“Yeah. Sure.” Nodding, he grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drinks it down. It’s hard to tell, but his eyes are red and swollen, and if I’m not mistaken, it looks like he’s been crying. He’s always a bit strange after his therapy sessions, making me question if they’re really helping him or not.
Tossing the bottle on the counter, he folds his arms over his chest. “Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. I stopped off and uhh…” he trails off, and I know he’s trying to think up a way to hide what he did.
“It’s fine, Dad. It’s none of my business.”
I worry about the guy. It’s like we have this stigma hovering over us where we can’t tell each other what we’re feeling. It’s like if we open up, we aren’t manly and he’ll look weak in front of his son. And I feel that way with him too. Times when I’m really missing my mom, I don’t want to burden him, so it just bottles up inside me. I’m sure the same thing is going on with him. His body language alone tells me something is really bugging him – something past mom dying. Whatever he went and did this morning didn’t help him.
“It’s just… I went and did something stupid.” He takes a deep sigh and leans back against the wall, his eyes down at the floor. “I went and saw my dad. He doesn’t live far from the clinic and, well, I just thought maybe if I made an effort, you know?” He scoffs and the edges of his eyes crinkle in a half smile. “What an idiot I am for thinking it.”
I feel my pulse quicken. The very mention of my grandfather gets me going. I should love the man, but he’s only said so much as small talk to me. Didn’t even talk to me at my mother’s funeral. And the way he treat
s my dad makes my blood boil.
“I can tell how that went.” I’m not sure what else to say.
“I guess you can say it was productive,” he replies, shifting his weight.
“How so?”
“I’m finally to the point where I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never talk to the son of a bitch again. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead too. He says my past has to do with your mother dying.” His tone is matter of fact, but his face says otherwise. He’s still hurt from it. He didn’t kill his brother Sammy, but his damn father has said enough to convince him just enough to have doubts. I won’t ever get how someone can treat their own flesh and blood that way. I guess I am blessed with the parents I have… or had. I’ve really got to get used to thinking of my mom in past tense, though I’m not sure one ever gets used to something like that.
“Listen to me.” He laughs again and rakes his hand through his hair. “You don’t need to hear this. I shouldn’t put this on you.”
“No, Dad, it’s fine. Seriously. You can’t possibly believe that what you did as a kid can affect your life now. It had nothing to do with the wreck. The jackass in the truck ran the light. We know that for a fact.”
“You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t have to deal with the things you are right now. A psycho for a father and a dead mother. You’re wise beyond your years before you should have to be.” His voice shakes and he ducks his head. Damn it, if I could talk to my grandfather about this, I’d march right over to his house and let him know about the damage he’s done, but that would just make him happy. Since he’s suffering, he wants everyone around him to suffer even worse.
“If you’re psycho, so am I.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What makes you think that?”
“I’ve seen what you have. Lets go live in a padded room together.”
That makes him laugh, and it’s good to see a genuine smile on his face. That’s the way I try to handle things – with comedy. If I can get him laughing and his mind on something else, it’s best for all of us.
