Forever

by Lewis, Linda Cassidy

  The moon was almost full, the warm night air soft and fragrant. The serenity of the night mocked him as he sat there with his life like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle dumped from the box. Two thoughts carouseled in his head—Julie didn’t think their marriage was worth saving, and to save his marriage he’d ended his fling with Annie. The irony of that could make you want to kill someone. Tom visualized himself beating Dear Old Eddie to death.

  After a while, Max grew tired of making the rounds of the yard and stretched out on the bricks at his feet. When Lindsay came home, Tom was still sitting in the dark, four empty bottles and a full ashtray beside him.

  Suddenly, light spilled from the kitchen and Max jumped up, barking. Lindsay called out, “Daddy?”

  “Out here. Goodnight.” He prayed she would go on up to bed.

  She opened the door and stepped out. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

  He caught her glance at the empty bottles on the table beside him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong, baby girl.” Thinking he’d managed to make his reply sound convincing, he topped it off with a smile.

  She stared at him for a moment before pulling a chair close to his and plopping into it.

  He leaned forward to crush out his cigarette and sat back with a sigh of exhaustion. He’d thought a lot of things tonight. Curiously, how Lindsay would be told her parents were divorcing was not one of them.

  “You talked to Mom, and she asked you for a divorce, right?”

  Most of his alcohol-induced fog vanished. “Why would you ask that?”

  “That’s what her little vacation is all about isn’t it?” There was more than a little bitterness in her tone.

  He shrugged. “She didn’t say that.”

  “She’s chicken shit. She hasn’t told you why she wants a divorce, has she?

  “Not exactly,” he rose, carefully. “Look, I’m not really comfortable talking to you about this tonight. I mean … your mom and I might work things out. We’re going to discuss that when she comes home.” He opened the door and stood aside, motioning Lindsay ahead of him. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  She stood, but instead of going in the house, she hugged him. “Dad, this isn’t something that can be worked out.” She stepped back and looked up at him. “And none of it is your fault. People are the way they are, you can’t change them.”

  She headed up to bed, but he didn’t follow her. He closed the door and leaned over the low wall that surrounded the patio. For a moment, he thought he might have the pleasure of tasting beer on the rebound. On top of an abundance of beer, both Lindsay’s blind trust in him and her anger at her mother sickened him. He looked down at Max sitting at his feet, waiting to see whether they were going in the house or staying outside all night. He squatted and gave the dog a brief but hearty rubdown.

  “The whole world’s gone insane, Max. You’re lucky you don’t know it.”

  Tom went back to bed but couldn’t shut off his mind. He kept hearing Lindsay say, “People are the way they are …” and for some reason it made him think of his mother. All these years he’d seen his mother as a bad person. At times, he even thought of her as evil. She’d made her husband miserable. She’d kept her sons at arm’s length. But was it because she was bad, or was it because she was shallow and selfish? Did shallow and selfish equal evil? Was it possible she’d just gotten into circumstances that were all wrong for her?

  For the first time in his life, Tom considered that she might not have been a bad person—just the wrong person to be his mother. It couldn’t repair the damage she’d done, but he felt a freedom in that thought. His daughter had taught him something he’d lived forty-eight years without learning. Finally, just as the sky began to lighten toward dawn, he drifted off.

  23

  June 23-24

  Tom launched himself from the recliner and stomped to the front door. “Quit leaning on the goddam bell.” He jerked the door open and he nearly dropped the bottle of beer he held. His brother stood on the porch.

  “Hey there, T. J.,” Dave said.

  No one else ever called Tom by his initials, because he hated it, but this time he was too shocked to react to Dave’s teasing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Dave’s smile faded. “Gee, little brother, I expected a nicer welcome than that.”

  At that, Tom broke into a grin and gave Dave a half-hug, pulling him into the house. “I’m sorry, man, you just took me by surprise.”

  He directed Dave to the family room and then detoured past the refrigerator to grab another beer. “Why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming?” Tom handed the full bottle to Dave and settled back into his recliner.

  “I figured you’d tell me not to.”

  Tom nodded. “I’m glad you’re here, though.” He was glad. He hadn’t known it until now, but he needed to talk to Dave. “I’m really screwed up, man. I’m so confused that I feel dizzy all the time.”

  “Maybe it’s not just confusion.” Dave motioned toward the collection of empty bottles on the table beside Tom’s chair. “And when the hell did you start drinking Scotch?”

  As if he’d never seen such a thing in his life, Tom gaped at the two empty Macallan bottles on the table beside him. When the hell did I start drinking Scotch?

  “Yeah yeah, I know. I’ve been drinking too much, but it’s not that.” Tom rubbed his face roughly with both hands. “I feel like I’ve got two people inside my head battling it out—the good Tom, the bad Tom—and I’m sick of listening to both of them.” Pausing to rethink what he’d just said, he added, “Three people, maybe.”

  “Three?”

  Tom shook his head. “I’ll tell you about that later. You hungry? What time is it?” He glanced around the room like a man coming out of a trance to find himself in a strange place. “I’ve got some steaks I can throw on the grill.” He stood up, motioning for Dave to follow him to the kitchen area.

  “Sounds great,” Dave said. “I hope they’re soaking in that marinade you—” He stopped dead, staring at the fast food containers and empty beer bottles on the counters and table. “Man, when was the last time you ate a decent meal?”

  Tom, wide-eyed and blinking like an owl in sudden light, turned to Dave but said nothing.

  “Where’s Lindsay, Tom?”

  “Oh … uh, she’s out shopping with some friends.” He was only guessing. She’d said something about going to King’s Island, but that was yesterday. Or was it the day before? “She’s hardly ever home nowadays.” He looked around the kitchen, finally seeing it as his brother had. “This place is a mess.”

  “It is that,” Dave said. “Why don’t you take a shower, and we’ll go out to eat. I’m buying.”

  “Hey, if you’re buying, that’s too big an event to pass up. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

  As he waited for the water in the shower to run hot, Tom studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He had a two-day’s growth of beard, and it shook him to realize he couldn’t remember showering since … when? His mind had jumbled all events since Monday. And who could forget Marvelous Monday—the day he almost got fired and his wife asked him for a divorce. No, no, that wasn’t quite right. Julie hadn’t asked, she’d told. It was no wonder he hadn’t done much except smoke, drink and stare off into space for the last forty-eight hours.

  He stepped into the shower and scrubbed as if the power of soap might rid him of the last two miserable days.

  He was steadier on his feet when he descended the stairs.

  “Hey now, there’s the brother I know and love,” Dave said.

  Tom glanced around the kitchen and family room. While he’d been upstairs, Dave had cleared away the trash.

  “You didn’t have to do that, man, but thanks.”

  “No problem,” Dave said. “I fed your old bag of fleas too.”

  Guilt washed over Tom at the thought he might have been neglecting Max. Evidently
, he’d automatically responded to the dog’s prompts to be let into the yard, but had he fed him regularly? Tom frowned at the dim memory of one particular heart-to-heart conversation he’d tried to have with the dog in the early hours of the morning. The words were lost to him, but he recalled Max baring his teeth and retreating to a corner. Poor dog.

  “Thanks again, Davey,” he said, jabbing back at Dave for his “T. J.” greeting earlier. “Okay, the Roadhouse has some twenty-ounce T-bones with our names on them. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  The brothers ordered identical dinners but different brands of beer and took their time savoring it all. Tom deliberately kept the dinner hour unspoiled by any discussion of his problems.

  “You going back to work tomorrow?” Dave asked.

  “What? Oh. No, I … uh … took a week of vacation.”

  “Yeah?” Dave didn’t look up from his plate. “Then why don’t we spend the rest of my visit out at your cabin? We can get an early start and be on the lake before the fish wake up.”

  “Shit, yeah.” Tom grinned. “We can swing by the grocery for supplies on the way home tonight.”

  The prospect of a couple of days’ fishing made Tom feel almost good again. Almost normal. Safe. Being with Dave made him feel safe.

  *

  Someone shook him roughly by the shoulder. Out of reflex, Tom took a swing at the person.

  “Whoa, little brother,” Dave said. “Don’t take my head off. It’s time to hit the road.”

  Tom sat up, swung his legs out of bed, and sat on the edge while he got his bearings. “Give me five minutes in the shower. Did you put the coffee on?”

  Dave gave him a thumbs up. “Ready when you are. See you downstairs.”

  Tom stepped into the shower before turning it on, knowing the blast of cold water would shock him fully awake before it ran hot. As he worked up lather with the bar of soap, he tried to remember what he’d been dreaming. He knew who had been in the dream, but he couldn’t recall the details. Not that he couldn’t guess. Jacob was a one-track ghost. His goal was to be with Maggie, but in that, Tom couldn’t help him. He had enough problems of his own. Evidently, Jacob was not a sympathetic spirit.

  By the time Tom entered the kitchen, Dave was sitting on the patio in the silver light that precedes dawn, chuckling at Max who was making a game of flushing sleepy sparrows from the lilac bush. Cigarette and mug in hand, Tom joined him.

  “Food and gear’s already in the bed of the truck,” Dave said. “Are we stopping at the pancake house on the way out to the lake?”

  “Might as well … for old times’ sake.”

  Dave rocked in his chair, silent for a moment. “Remember the houseboat trip Dad always dreamed of taking?”

  “I was thinking about that just the other day.”

  “We ought to take that trip someday. You know? You and me and the girls too … if they want.”

  At the mention of the houseboat, a lump had risen in Tom’s throat. He stubbed his cigarette, then stood, stretched, and whistled for his dog. “We’d better hit the road,” he said. “You’re getting uglier by the minute, and you already had a face that would scare the bass away.”

  Dave swung lightly at him, but he was expecting it and ducked. Their mingled laughter set off a nostalgic ache in Tom. He wished he could talk Dave into moving back to Indiana. No chance of that. Dave had a well-established medical practice in Alabama.

  Dave and Max went straight out to the truck. Tom lingered in the kitchen to make sure the coffeemaker was turned off and to scrawl a message for Lindsay on the dry-erase board.

  Uncle Dave’s in town. We’re at the lake for the rest of the week. Join us. Bring only ONE friend. And NO parties in the house if you stay here!

  She’d call him old school when she saw it. For a moment, he grinned at the thought. Then the feeling he was forgetting something important washed over him. He stood there, wracking his brain for that elusive something until Dave honked the truck’s horn. He shrugged. Whatever it was, he hoped it would come to him before it was too late.

  *

  They arrived at the cabin before the sun had risen high enough to burn off the mist that drifted over the silent lake. As efficiently as though they did it every day, the brothers unloaded the truck. Then Dave readied the boat while Tom stocked the kitchen.

  From the cooler to the refrigerator, Tom transferred salami, cheese, and milk. He was loading beer onto the bottom shelf when he caught the first wave of the odor. The cabin reeked of dank, moldy earth. Like a grave. The thought crept through his skull, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. In one motion, Tom straightened, kicked the empty beer case aside, and shoved the refrigerator door closed.

  With his lips clamped and nostrils pinched against the foul air, he rushed through the cabin, opening all the windows. In the master bedroom he lingered with his face almost pressed against the screen, and filled his lungs with the cool, fresh air. A minute later, when he stepped back into the hall, he couldn’t detect even a ghost of the odor.

  You let your imagination get the best of you, Old Man.

  He returned to the kitchen, unpacked cereal, crackers, chips, and bread, and was shoving a bag of kibble in the bottom cupboard when Dave yelled his name.

  Startled by the shout, Tom shot upright, ramming his head into the corner of the open cupboard door above him. Reacting instinctively to the pain, he slammed the glass-paneled door, knowing a split-second before it happened that it was going to shatter.

  Even when anticipated, the sound of glass breaking had always alarmed Tom. But this time, he remained calm. As if time slowed, he saw the glass disintegrate and hang momentarily in mid-air before sliding down to the counter and floor.

  I’ll probably cut myself when I clean that up. The shards had edges so keen there would be a second’s delay before the brain registered the severing of skin and nerve. Before the throbbing began. Before the hot rush of blood bathed the gaping wound.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Tom swung around to see a white-faced man staring at him. A second later he realized he was looking at his brother. Tom tried to laugh, but he was shaking so hard it came out sounding like a bad imitation of the machine-gun sound they’d made as boys when war was only a game.

  “I broke the glass in the door.”

  “I can see that,” Dave said. He looked pointedly at Tom’s right hand. “It’s what you were doing with that I’m asking about.”

  He followed Dave’s gaze. Grasped in his hand was a large, dagger-shaped piece of glass. In a reflex born of horror, his hand flew open. The shard fell point down, stabbing the plank flooring an inch from the toe of his shoe. He had no recollection of reaching out to select it from the pile on the counter. He examined his hand, finding not a single cut on palm or fingers. Whatever mental state he’d been in, he’d had enough awareness to hold the glass with extreme care. But why had he picked it up? What had he been going to do with it?

  “Jeezus,” he said, “what a mess. Hand me the broom.”

  Dave kept him under scrutiny a moment longer and then opened the closet door. He grabbed the whisk and dustpan for himself and passed the broom to Tom. After they’d swept up the glass on the floor, Dave held the wastebasket under the counter edge and Tom whisked the glass from the countertop directly into it. They worked without speaking, accompanied, finally, by the whine of the vacuum as it sucked up the minuscule slivers of glass the broom had left behind to lie in wait for an unsuspecting bare foot.

  Tom returned the vacuum to the closet and rubbed his palms together. “All right, man, let’s get that boat on the lake.”

  Five minutes later, he steered the Stratos into his favorite cove, and ten minutes after that Dave hooked his first large-mouth bass of the day. Sibling rivalry spurred them on. As they fished, they exchanged light-hearted jabs at each other’s angling skill. Tom thought Dave had forgotten the earlier scene in the kitchen. He was wrong.

  After an hour of small talk,
Dave launched directly into the heart of the matter. “Are you sick, Tom?”

  He started to laugh it off, but Dave’s dead serious face stopped him. “You talking about the broken glass? Just reflex, man. I got mad when I hit my head, slammed the damned cupboard door, and the glass broke.”

  “No. I’m wondering what you were doing when I walked into the cabin. You were standing in the kitchen, but you weren’t really there! The look in your eyes …”

  Tom’s shifted his gaze from Dave’s and ran a hand through his hair while he tried to think of a way to reply. He opted for a half-truth.

  “I was lost in thought, I guess. Thinking how easy it is to cut yourself cleaning up broken glass.”

  “It was more than that.”

  Tom sighed, deciding to go for broke.

  “Okay. I don’t exactly remember picking up the piece of glass. I sort of blacked out for a second.”

  “But that wasn’t the first time you’ve blacked out, was it?”

  “No.” How many times had he blacked out? He didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

  “Have you been to a doctor?”

  “I don’t need a psychiatrist, Dave!”

  Dave’s right eyebrow shot upward. “I didn’t mean that kind of doctor,” he said. “I’m concerned you’re having absence seizures.”

  Seizures? Epilepsy, maybe? He’d never even considered that a misfiring in the brain synapses could be the explanation for the visions and the blackouts—and his personality changes. Dare he hope he could blame his crazy behavior on something physical?

  “Tom?” Dave cocked his head to peer directly into his face.

  “I don’t think I’m sick.” A part of him hoped he was wrong, but he couldn’t ignore that Annie had visions too. He met Dave’s eyes. “I’m just stressed.”

  “Well, little brother, who knows better than us that stress can kill?”

  He exchanged a look with Dave and knew they both were recalling the day their father died. “Dad probably had high-blood pressure and didn’t know it,” he said. “Mine is fine.”

  “Maybe so, bu—” Dave jerked up on his pole and reeled in another bass. “Look at this,” he said, practically rubbing it against Tom’s nose. “Give it up, T. J., you’re not going to top this one today.”