“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be done about it now,” he said. “At least they’re well written, from what I skimmed. Proves to them I did something right.”
“They’ve been nice to me,” Celia said. “Is it okay if I kind of like them?”
“No.” He smiled, to emphasize he was kidding. Half kidding. “They’re your grandparents. Of course it’s okay if you kind of like them.”
“Good.”
“I’ve kept you from them, all these years.” He felt guilty about that, Celia realized. That’s why he hadn’t been so angry with her for tracking her grandparents down, meeting them in secret. “I’ve been selfish. Guess I thought I was enough family for you. And my stories about your other father were supposed to be enough, too. I flattered myself you didn’t need pictures, didn’t need to meet his parents and see the house where he grew up.”
“You are enough,” Celia protested. “The stories, too. It’s just . . . ”
He finished for her. “You need more. I get it. So we’ll go to their house. I’ll be civil—more than civil, if I can manage. But I want you to know, it won’t be easy for me. Some things, I’ve never explained.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. But before I say anything more, I’m going to ask you something. Answer with the truth—not what you think I want to hear. Be honest, okay?”
“I will.”
“The stories.” He pointed a finger in the space between them, traced a slow line back and forth. “Our stories.”
Yes. The stories belonged to both of them, now that she’d put them in writing.
“We know they’re true,” he said. “Don’t we?”
She’d never doubted them. All the strange events, the supernatural link between her fathers. Dad Shawn had a few souvenirs—a shirt with eye holes in the pockets, a photo of him and Dad Jack at the Liberty Baptist Church—but they were mere curiosities, not convincing by themselves. He could never prove what happened during those adventures. But he didn’t need to. Telling Celia, trusting her, sharing that part of his life with the daughter he loved: wasn’t that proof enough?
Her father had never seemed as vulnerable as he did now. It was as if his world depended on her response. If she said no, his past would crumble. His life, his relationship with her other father—it would become ordinary. Tragic.
“They’re true stories.” Celia spoke clearly, leaving no room for interpretation. “I’ve always known that.”
“Good. What I’m going to tell you next wouldn’t make any sense otherwise.”
He took a deep, steadying breath.
“It’s about your other father’s death. What it did to me.”
#
I was a mess while Jack was dying (her father said). But I tried not to show it. Not to him, of course, since he was already under the stress of illness. Doctors ordered me not to upset him—as if I needed convincing. I wouldn’t add any fraction of pain to his final days, if I could help it.
I didn’t act upset in front of you, either. You’ve always been mature for your age, Celia, but at four years and two months you could hardly be expected to understand the random cruelty of illness and death.
I still don’t understand it. None of us do.
But I put on a happy face, as much as I could, smiled for my beautiful little girl and for my beautiful partner Jack, my soul mate—his beauty fading by any objective standard, I guess, but not for me. Not after what we’d been through together.
Think about when you have a sore throat, Celia, or a cold. I feel it, too—every cough or sneeze. Last night was awful for me, driving to the hospital, wondering if you were okay. It’s such a relief now to see you up and around, back to your old self.
That’s what it’s like when someone you love is ill: you want so badly for them to feel better, that it hurts you, too. It hurts even when you know they’ll get better, and soon.
But Jack wasn’t going to get better.
A terminal illness is unimaginably cruel. The other person suffers so much, and you watch. The best you can do is make them comfortable, for as long as you can. Meanwhile, the illness takes its toll.
It takes a toll on the caregiver, too.
Your grandmother—Jack’s mom . . . being a nurse, she knew this as much as anybody. I can’t fault her for offering to help. She’d know, the sicker Jack got, the harder it got for the caregiver: in the physical sense, as the treatments became more complex, with diminishing returns; but the emotional sense was equally draining.
I declined the offer. This was my last time with Jack. I wanted to see it through to the end.
Well, Jack’s parents were some help in the early days, and they came to see us once because Jack wasn’t able to travel. A nice, but emotional visit. Charlotte renewed her offer. Don’t you think it’s time for his parents to take over?—that sort of thing. We can take him off your hands, as if he was some kind of burden.
He wasn’t a burden. He was Jack.
As it played out, stage four was too much for me. I tried. Stayed with him until the last minute, the last second I could stand it—then I had to run away. Take you with me and go.
I see by your expression, Celia: you aren’t surprised to hear this, though maybe you’re shocked to have it confirmed. Your grandmother told you, I’m guessing.
Well, let’s follow her part in this. She and Edward drop everything, drive to find our house in shambles, their son unattended in his sick room. I’d begged for her help, finally, and she was happy about that, but she soon left messages berating me. How dare I abandon her son. Demanding to speak to me. Threatening to call child services, to have you taken from me.
This last message . . . Well, obviously she’d been angry. It’s possible she forgets ever saying it. But I couldn’t forget.
I sent a few postcards, then a new picture of you in perfect health, to calm her down. In return, she left weekly messages with updates about Jack’s health—all bad news, unfortunately, but I was grateful for the information. His health quickly declined.
Then when I didn’t attend Jack’s funeral, the messages grew bitter again. Edward and I can’t help but wonder, did you really love our son? That kind of thing. Again, they were angry and disappointed. Their son had died. I guess I shouldn’t have blamed them so much, all these years, but I vowed never to speak to them again.
I’ve broken that vow, obviously. Maybe we can mend things, with your help. I’ll go to their house. I don’t want you to go there alone, after your trouble last night.
But here’s the part I’m struggling with now: Charlotte still wants me to thank her. I’m sure of it. I pleaded with her to take care of Jack, during the worst weeks of his illness, and she did. In her eyes, I’ve been ungrateful. To this day, she thinks I ran when things got tough.
God, I wanted to stay with him. I swear to you, Celia. But I couldn’t tell her the real reason why I couldn’t.
It’s in the stories. What you and I believe—and they’ll never understand, even though they read the stories last night.
Jack’s power.
When he got sick, the power changed.
Or, he changed, from the pain and the medication. He couldn’t control it the way he used to.
I told you how it worked—sending me images, changing the world in front of me. It was our bond, but a curse as well, because instead of making things look better, he could only make them worse. More frightening.
And what could be worse than constant, chronic pain?
What’s more frightening than full awareness of your own rapidly approaching death?
I could tell you, because Jack shared these awful images with me. He didn’t mean to, but he shared them. So horrible. Flashes at first, out of nowhere. Then more constant.
I’d wear an eye mask to keep from seeing. I kept bumping into furniture, breaking things. A part-time nurse came in each day, but I still took care of Jack as much as I could.
We were always so close. It’s
awful when you’re losing someone you love—but Jack and I were close in ways other people wouldn’t understand. I’m sure people don’t think they’re exaggerating when they say they’d go through hell for someone they love. Well, I was literally in hell. The worst circles of Dante’s Inferno, the tortures in the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch.
These awful images appeared as I looked at my hands, saw myself in the mirror. When I looked at you, my beautiful daughter; when I entered Jack’s room, where his distorting glamours were strongest, and I saw him suffering worse agonies than any disease ravaged body could bear.
I had to get away from those images. I didn’t have a choice. That’s when I ran through the house, practically blindfolded, knocking over more furniture as I packed suitcases for our trip.
I called Jack’s parents as I drove away. Come get him. I can’t take any more.
They’ll never have any idea what I went through. What I really went through.
And now his mother wants me to thank her. To admit I was weak, that I’d fallen apart—and thank God they were there to pick up the pieces. They lost a son, and I can’t deny the grief they suffered—then, and even continuing today. But they’ll never understand what I lost. They have no idea what I went through. I can’t speak to them about it.
#
You’re wondering where we went, Celia? I see you’re still shocked I didn’t attend Jack’s funeral.
Well, I’d taken you on a little road trip, revisiting the scenes of mine and Jack’s adventures. You were too young to appreciate the trip, which is why you don’t remember, but I pointed things out to you anyway: the town of Blemmyae; the church with the Conversion ministry—still going strong at that point, under different leadership; the movie theater in New York where we saw Grant Sullivan in The Manikin’s Revenge.
That second road trip was my tribute to Jack. It wasn’t a church funeral, but it was my private way of celebrating our life together. And also reminding myself to stay strong, looking forward to the life ahead with my daughter.
Chapter VII
Celia tried to hide her nervousness as they approached her grandparents’ home.
She was taking a terrible risk. God, she hoped she was right.
Their Kia SUV was already in the driveway, and her father pulled up behind in the Prius.
She still reeled from what he’d told her at the hospital. The tears in his eyes toward the end. Afterward, he apologized again and again. I knew what they’d told you about me, and that’s why I had to explain myself. Otherwise, I never wanted you to know. Jack was suffering at the end, I can’t sugarcoat that. But remember: his visions always made things worse. Maybe it was an illusion just for me, and he wasn’t suffering much at all.
And he’d attempted a few generous words about Jack’s parents, especially his mother. They’re better than I’ve made them out to be, I’m sure. Those were tough times. We all said things we wish we could take back. You probably like Edward a little more, don’t you? Everybody does.
The house was brighter in the daylight. Normal, just as it had looked last night.
Not haunted.
They walked to the porch, and Pop Pop greeted them at the door. He hugged both of them.
Nothing struck her when she walked inside, other than fuzzy memories from last night. They walked through a familiar den, then to the kitchen at the back of the house. Grandmother Pruett was already making sandwiches. She had different bins and containers open, her long arms retrieving plates from a high cabinet. She minced fresh spices on a cutting board, arranged sliced meat and cheeses on rolls. Just cheese for you, right Celia? You do eat cheese, don’t you? Celia said yes, and was grateful she’d remembered a vegetarian option.
Pop Pop filled drink glasses, and Celia sipped water with no strange aftertaste, no ill effects.
He tried to take the plates into the dining room, but his wife stopped him with another chore. “Oh Edward, get some scissors. Cut that silly bracelet off your granddaughter’s wrist.”
She hadn’t realized she was still wearing it.
“I’ll use this,” Pop Pop said. He took a steak knife from the drawer and walked slowly toward Celia. She didn’t wince, didn’t imagine him trying to stab her. The bracelet came off easily.
They all sat around the table, like a normal family. Her cheese sandwich was delicious. Her grandparents talked about Dad Jack, when he was a boy. There was a picture of him on the wall, another of him and Dad Shawn together.
Her father saw the pictures, and they seemed to put him in a better mood. Jack’s parents respected him, gave their relationship a place of honor in their home. He let Celia ask most of the questions, but he added a few anecdotes and memories.
The conversations were nice. Maybe they were enough.
“What about that thumb drive thing?” her grandfather asked. “You’ll need it when we get out the photo album, and that box of postcards your dads sent over the years. Charlotte saved every one—didn’t you, dear?”
Celia’s face flushed. She’d finished most of her sandwich. Could she ask to be excused from the table?
She already had the thumb drive in her backpack. Did she dare visit the other side of the house, where she’d fainted last night?
Face your demons. That’s the real reason she’d wanted to come back here.
“I’ll take your plate,” her grandmother said.
Celia pushed her chair back from the table, giving a quick nod to Dad Shawn. “Be right back.”
#
The patterns in the wallpaper are motionless. The hallway carpet doesn’t sway or breathe beneath her feet.
She steps toward the office at the end of the hall. She loses her balance for a second, but it’s nothing. Nerves.
The world is safe. Predictable.
A few more steps, getting closer to the office. She’s scared, but she can’t back away. This is for her father.
She braces herself. The hallway will distort again. A strange elongated figure will emerge at the end of the hall, a sinister grimace on its face. It will reach toward her.
Celia had seen it again and again in her dreams last night. A terrible unnatural thing.
She dreamed of it so often, she’d grown used to it. Her memory had tamed it.
If she sees it now, she promises herself, she won’t be afraid.
She steps to the doorway of the darkened office. She walks inside.
Chapter VIII
“Dad!”
Celia called for him. It was the same kind of shout she’d make after a nightmare.
She was still in the nightmare, Charlotte had said last night.
Why did he let them manipulate him? Why did he let his daughter come back to this house?
Shawn jumped from the table, leaving Edward and Charlotte with stunned, concerned expressions.
His daughter had called from the opposite end of the house. He ran past the front door, turned the corner into a carpeted hallway.
And stopped short. A gunshot exploded in his head. His vision shattered in a migraine flash.
Oh God. Sickness clung to the walls, dripped down in a thick jelly. The carpet was like diseased skin, flecked with bed sores and red, cancerous pustules. It was awful. He hadn’t seen anything like this since the time when Jack was dying.
This is the house where his partner spent his final moments. There was some memory of the illness here, a lingering residue of his sickroom. Bruises spread along the wall in rotten apple patterns. Sores oozed open, like mouths shaping words.
He knew what they were saying.
During Shawn’s last days with his partner, Jack could barely speak. His silence gave more strength to the projected images, twisted those horrors into something more tangible and suffocating. They pulsed like a diseased heartbeat, some agonized travesty of Morse code; they smeared incomprehensible spirit letters along every surface.
And then Shawn had understood. As his illness deteriorated into agony, Jack attempted to convey a final message—one
his conscious mind wouldn’t allow him to voice.
Kill me. That was the message Jack sent. He wanted Shawn to end his suffering.
If you love me, Shawn, kill me.
There was nothing worse—to receive this plea from the person you love the most, the person you have always and will always love. To know that the wish behind the message was heartfelt and real.
For Shawn to know he didn’t have the strength to grant it.
#
Being here was too much for him to endure. Too much. He had to run away, as he had ten years earlier.
But Celia had called for him. She needed him.
He would go through hell for his daughter. He would.
Shawn stepped on flayed bodies. His feet dragged through open wounds as he slogged forward.
The hallway lurched. He steadied his hand against the wall, and his fingers slid under a stitched wound. Shawn pulled away, catgut threads stretching then tearing through pips of disease-rotted skin.
He couldn’t let these images slow his progress. Celia needed him. Her cry had come from the room at the end of the hall. He was sure of it.
He reached the door, averting his eyes before he could register any slick wet texture in the wood, before the image of rusty nails or razorblades could dissuade his grip over the door knob as he twisted it. Shawn stepped inside the room.
He thought perhaps his eyes were still closed. It was midday, but the room was as dark as a movie theater. A sudden light flashed white onto the facing wall, followed by a projected image. It depicted an older man who waited at the end of a hallway—the same hall Shawn had just walked through.
The image began to flicker. It was Jack’s father, facing the viewer. He was almost a parody of an elderly man: balding, with a stocky, stooped posture. His arms lifted to offer a generous hug.
The black-and-white image shifted, as if someone shook ripples into the movie screen. Jack’s father began to change, his smile making him appear more youthful. His shoulders flexed, pulling him out of the old man’s stoop. He grew taller and thinner. His arms stretched longer, reaching forward. He smiled again.
Odd Adventures with your Other Father Page 21
