by Amy Cross
“How are you doing this morning?” I ask, smiling at his reaction. “How's the pain?”
“I got up in the night and had a joint,” he replies, making his way over to me. “I know that sounds sad, but having a smoke at three in the morning means I'm feeling pretty good four hours later, and that's some good stuff you brought this time, it really knocked out a lot of the pain.” He leans close and seems poised to kiss me, before changing his mind with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Old habits.”
I watch as he picks at some of the scars on his neck. They're from the needles that are used every time he goes to the hospital for more chemotherapy.
“You shouldn't do that,” I say eventually.
“And you should shut the back door.”
“Can't.”
“Well I can't stop scratching these things. They itch.” He turns to me. “Haven't you got any scars?”
I shake my head.
“Seriously? Well, then you're lucky. Trust me, these ones itch like crazy. Doesn't help that my immune system's shot to pieces.”
“I have to go soon,” I reply, worried that the conversation is veering into the kind of personal territory that always make me feel uncomfortable. “There's -”
“Can't you stay for Christmas?”
I shake my head.
“In all the years I've known you,” he continues, “why have you never, ever stayed two nights in a row?”
“I just can't.”
“But if -”
“I can't,” I tell him, hoping that he'll just accept my word. “I'm...” My voice trails off as I realize that I still can't tell him the truth.
“I know, I know, you're running from something.” He makes his way to the sink and starts filling the kettle. “Why don't you tell me what you're running from, Clay? I might be able to help. I still have contacts in the police -”
“It's not something the police can help with,” I reply. “Don't you remember that discussion we had last time? The more questions you ask -”
“Yeah, I remember.” He puts the kettle on to boil before turning to me. “The more questions I ask, the less likely you are to keep dropping in. Can you at least promise that one day you'll tell me the truth? When it's all over, I mean.”
I shake my head.
“You can't even promise me that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it'll never be over.”
“Never?”
I shake my head.
“Never never?”
I sigh. “Never never.”
“So you prefer the life of a drifter, huh? What do you do out there, anyway? Are you off riding the rails with all the other hobos?”
“Actually,” I reply, “I don't like trains much, but...”
He pauses for a moment, eying me with suspicion. “You do realize that one day you'll come here and I'll be gone, right?” he asks finally. “I know you can see the deterioration, just like I can every time I look in the mirror. We're talking weeks or months now, Clay, not years.”
“I know.”
“If you wanted to move in,” he continues, “I might even be able to get money for you as a carer. They give grants sometimes if there are -”
“I can't do that.”
“Because of this thing you're running from?”
I nod.
“So what happens when I die?” he asks. “You're the only person who ever comes to the door, so in all likelihood you'll be the one who...” He pauses, and I can see the fear in his eyes. “I'd like someone to be with me when it happens.”
I shake my head.
“I know I probably seem needy, but please...” He pauses again. “I'm scared, Clay. I don't want to die, but if it has to happen then I at least want someone to hold my hand when the moment comes. I'm forty-eight years old and it's a pretty sad indictment of a man's life if he has to die alone. I've got no family, no other friends, so it's you or no-one.” He waits, as if he's hoping against hope that I might change my mind. “Please...”
“I should go,” I reply, heading to the door as I feel myself coming close to tears again. “It was a mistake to come. Happy Christmas, Aaron.”
“I love you,” he says suddenly.
I stop by the door, barely able to believe what I just heard. Slowly, I turn to him.
“Not really,” he adds, “but... If it would make you feel better, I could say it, I could pretend. Is love what you're after, Clay? I told you a long time ago that I could never give love to anyone, but I'm willing to try if it helps keep you here. You're all I've got.”
I stare at him, and finally I realize that I was wrong a moment ago: it's not fear in his eyes, it's absolute terror. He's facing death and he can't do it alone, but I'm the only person who can help him. In a normal world, in another life, I'd stay and nurse him to the end, and I wish I could do that, but it's not an option. All I can do is drop by occasionally and try to bring him weed to help him deal with the pain. It's not much, I know, but it's the best I can manage.
“I'm scared,” he says finally. “No-one should die alone.”
“Are you worried you'll see her again?” I ask.
He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out and I can see from the look in his eyes that I'm right. He's always been haunted by that one moment that happened all those years ago, and he thinks she's waiting for him when he dies. I don't blame him; after all, everyone believes in ghosts one way or another.
“I don't think it works like that,” I tell him. “Ghosts... That's not how it works at all.”
“It's what I deserve,” he replies.
I shake my head.
“You know what happened,” he continues. “How can someone like me deserve any better? Sometimes I think this illness is God's way of punishing me.”
Sighing, I make my way back over to him. I want to tell him everything I know, to let him in on all my secrets and to ask him all my unanswered questions, to tell him I'll stay here with him and nurse him to the bitter end, but I know it wouldn't help. Finally, at a loss for words, I put my hands on the side of his face, lean closer and kiss him gently on the forehead. It has been so long since I let my lips touch his skin, and for a moment I'm reminded of the old days. For a fraction of a second, I feel like I want to burst into tears.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers.
“So am I.”
“Where are you going after you leave here today?”
“Somewhere.”
“But you'll be safe, won't you?”
“Of course.”
“And you'll come back?”
“Don't I always?”
“But you'll come back soon, won't you? I mean, I don't know how much time I have left but -”
“You'll see me again,” I tell him, letting go of his face and taking a step back. “That's the only promise I can make, Aaron. I swear to God, you'll definitely see me again, no matter what.”
There are tears in his eyes now, and in mine too. I want to tell him more, but I feel as if I'll break down sobbing if I say another word, so I simply turn and head to the door, grabbing my coat on the way. I've already got an idea about where I'm headed today, and it's going to be a long walk that'll take me well into the night. Stopping outside the house, I zip my coat closed and put up the hood, before turning and hurrying away. I don't look back, of course, but I know Aaron's watching me from his window. I always know when I'm being watched.
Ten years ago
“Why are they parked there?” I ask as Mom drives us through the hospital's main gate. Climbing up onto the back of my seat, I peer at the three black vans parked on the road, each of them bearing the S.I.U. logo. “What do they want?”
“Do you have ask so many goddamn questions all the time?” she replies, clearly worried as she speeds across the yard and hits the brakes, bringing our van to a sudden stop. “Jesus Christ, Clay, can't you just accept that if you need to know something, I'll tell you? That's how it work
s.”
“Why didn't you want to talk to them at the store?” I ask, turning to her. “Are you scared of them?”
“Clay...”
“Are they bad men? Do they want to hurt us or -”
“Shut up!” she shouts suddenly, turning to me with anger and fear and tears in her eyes. “Just shut the fuck up for one goddamn fucking second, okay? Jesus fucking Christ!” Slamming her fists against the steering wheel, she lets out a cry of frustration before leaning back in her seat for a moment and closing her eyes.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...”
I want to cry but I force myself not to. Watching her, I feel as if all of time has frozen.
“I'm sorry,” she says after a moment, with her eyes still closed. “I'm just stressed, that's all, and it really doesn't help to have to answer questions every ten seconds, so could you try to remember that, Clay?” She opens her eyes and turns to me, still a little breathless after her outburst. “Good girls don't keep asking all the time,” she continues. “Good girls know that their mother will tell them when there's something they need to know, and that otherwise they should just get on with other things. Do you understand? You trust me, don't you?”
I nod, even though I don't really see why it's so bad to ask.
“We wouldn't be here if it wasn't the right thing for both of us,” she continues earnestly. “I'm a good Mom, I really am.”
I nod again.
“Now why don't you help me get the bags inside, huh?” She pretends to smile and then she reaches over, ruffling my hair. “I'm sure Mr. Kenseth is going to be very happy with us for fetching all these things for him.”
Opening the door, I climb out of the van and glance toward the gate. Those S.I.U. vans are still there, and I can see several more men standing around, watching us with binoculars. I don't know what they want, but it seems like there are more and more of them, and they're definitely interested in the hospital. Some of them are taking photos and videos, while others are talking into their phones. In the distance, I can see a black dot moving across the sky, and I can just about hear the sound of a helicopter.
“Fucking assholes,” Mom mutters as she comes around to the back of the van. “Goddamn stinking pieces of shit, sticking their noses into everyone else's business.”
“Can I go to the bottom of the garden?” I ask, turning to her.
“Are you insane?” She thrusts a bag of groceries into my arms. “It's going to have to be an inside day until dinner, Clay. Don't ask why, just accept it.”
“But Beatrice -”
“Clay!”
Sighing, I turn and head toward the front door. I know there's no point arguing with Mom, and besides, Beatrice won't be down at the bottom of the garden anymore. They always disappear after the flames. Sometimes I wish I could ask someone else about what happens, but I think I'm the only one who knows. Stopping at the top of the steps, I look back and see that Mom is struggling with more bags. In the distance, the helicopter has come closer and finally it swoops low over the hospital, close enough for me to see several men sitting in the back and looking down at us.
“In!” Mom shouts. “Clay, get inside! They're coming!”
Today
Just as I expected, the house on Mason Drive turns out to be empty and abandoned. I've had my eyes on the place for a while, keeping it in the back of my mind as a back-up location for when I need somewhere to sleep on a cold night, and that night has finally arrived. Climbing the fence in the back garden, I make my way across the unlit lawn until I reach the gaping black square of the patio window.
It's late.
It's cold.
I need somewhere to sleep for the night.
The house next door is lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, with lights everywhere and a flashing Santa on the side. My initial instinct is to feel nauseous, although a part of me wonders what it's like to be a kid in a place like that.
When I reach the dark house, I check over my shoulder one more time to make sure that no-one has spotted me, and then I hurry up onto the porch. Cupping my hands against the glass, I peer inside: there are still some items of furniture dotted around, but it's clear that someone locked the house up a long time ago and just left it like this. No-one ever abandons a house unless they've got a good reason, so as I grope around in my pockets for my pen-knife, I can't help wondering what it is about this place that means no-one wants to live here. From what I can tell, number nine Mason Drive has been empty for the best part of a year.
Still, beggars can't be choosers.
It takes longer than I'd expected to get the door unlocked, and at one point I almost give up. My lock-picking skills aren't exactly refined, but I've picked up enough knowledge over the years to be able to get most doors open provided I wiggle the knife around for a while. As long as you understand exactly how the tumblers work in each type of lock, you can usually get the damn thing to open, and finally I hear the first tell-tale click, followed by the second.
I'm in.
There's no electricity, which is unsurprising, and the water has also been disconnected. The whole place is freezing cold and dark, like the empty bones of a house. Without any kind of torch or flashlight, I wander across the kitchen and then into the hallway, and that's when it hits me: something bad happened in this house, something really, really bad. If I had the time and resources to go online, I bet I'd find some kind of news story about the place. I've always resisted the idea that I've got any kind of second sense about these things, but as I make my way to the door that leads into the pitch-black front room, I can't deny the constant, worrying tremor in my spine, a sign that I'm picking up something that I can't quite quantify.
There are going to be ghosts here. I'm being watched.
“Merry Christmas,” I mutter, looking over at the sofa where, I assume, people once sat.
I spot an old blanket on one of the chairs. Picking it up, I give it a quick inspection before wrapping it around my shoulders, hoping that maybe I'll stop shivering. Spotting a framed photo flat on its back on the mantlepiece, I make my way over and take a look. I have to tilt it a couple of different ways before I can work out what it shows, but finally I catch just enough light: the picture reveals a little boy sitting on the grass with a black Labrador, and both the glass and the frame are broken. The boy looks happy, grinning at the camera, and I can't shake this vibe that he had really good parents who looked after him.
At that moment, I look up as I hear a creaking sound from the room above. It's not enough to be an actual person, and besides, I'm already certain that the house has been abandoned. If someone else had broken in, I'd have found some trace of them by now. My best guess is that there are definitely ghosts here, and they're just lightly informing me of their presence, or perhaps they're curious about me. I've often wondered if they see me differently to how they see other people, if maybe they know I'm not like the rest. Staring up at the ceiling, I can't help but imagine something up there, listening to me as I listen to it.
Glancing over at the window, I feel a momentary flash of something cold nearby, but it passes soon enough.
Still...
I've seen enough ghosts over the years to know when there's one nearby.
Setting the broken photo-frame on the mantlepiece, I look at the little boy's smiling face and realize with a wave of sadness that he's the one I can sense nearby.
Heading through to the hallway, I finish opening all the doors and then I start making my way up the stairs, listening for any hint of movement in the house. I have no doubt that I'm being watched, and as I walk along the landing and peer through into the master bedroom, I swear I can almost sense someone standing right behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I can barely even see the top of the stairs in the darkness, but I know I'm right. This house is haunted. I take a look out the upstairs window and see the full glare of the neighbor's Christmas lights; they burn so bright, but they don't give off any warmth at all. It's almost as if the as
shole is taunting the rest of us.
Fine.
I'm not scared of ghosts. I'm more scared of living people, and I'd rather be in here than over in that goddamn place. Not that I've ever been in a really Christmassy house, but I've seen them in movies and I can guess what they're like.
Exhausted, I finish opening the doors up here and then I return to the main bedroom. I head over to the king-size bed and press down to check the mattress. Figuring that I'll be cold without sheets or a duvet, I sit down and start untying my shoes, finally gasping as I ease them off. I've spent the whole day walking, and even though I'm used to moving about, my feet ache like hell. Peeling my dirty socks off, I find a nasty-looking blister on the heel, and I know that it's going to hurt like crazy when I set off again tomorrow. Sometimes I wish I could just stop somewhere for a while, but that's impossible.
When I check my heel, I find that my old shoes have worn a bloody patch just below the ankle. I take a moment to peel away some of the loose skin before realizing that there's no point. At least these shoes aren't leaking yet.
Keeping most of my clothes on, despite the slightly fusty smell I'm giving off, I climb onto the bed and stretch out. My whole body is sore and aching, but I think I might actually be able to sleep for once. Staring at the curtain-less window, I try to imagine what Aaron is doing right now, although none of the possibilities are particularly cheering. I'd give anything to have been able to stay for him just one more night, to keep him company and give him some kind of Christmas, but I know what would have happened. The days of me doing normal things are long gone, if they ever really existed at all, and I can only hope that some kind of miracle might happen and my only friend's final months will somehow be happier. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if I could stay and nurse him during his final weeks. I swear to God, there's nothing I wouldn't do for him. Hell, maybe I'd even put up Christmas lights for us.
