April was up in a flash, rushing to him and saying, “Baby, are you okay?” She was at his side, bare feet splashing through the spilled coffee, and Mark turned to her and said, “Can you smell her? Can you smell her? Can you smell her?” His eyes darted around, looking into the corners of the room as if at any moment his mother would materialize from hiding.
His heart was pounding in his chest, and April held him and stroked his hair and said over and over, “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
After he’d calmed down, his mother’s scent having faded away, they cleaned up the kitchen, and he and April spent the rest of the day on the couch watching movies and late-night television and doing all they could to try not to talk about what had happened that morning in the kitchen.
But it didn’t stop. It only got worse.
Mark’s mother was everywhere.
At meals—“The microwave again? A real woman knows how to cook for her man.”
At the barber—“You’re thinning out ’round the top, Mark. Might as well go ahead and tell him to buzz the whole thing for you. Better that way.”
At the advertising and public relations firm where Mark was a junior associate, desperately waiting for his chance to climb the ladder—“Are you just going to sit there and let that old bag of dough talk to you like that, Mark? I didn’t know I raised such a pussy.”
And worse still…
In the shower—“Getting a little soft around the middle there, Mark. Might want to watch your sweets. Oh, and I guess you’re a grower, not a shower.”
Mark’s face had flushed redder than it had been from the steaming water, and he’d exited the shower stall so fast he’d slipped on the tile and nearly cracked his head on the edge of the toilet. He’d expected to hear his mother’s hoarse laughter, but instead he’d only heard April’s footsteps coming quickly down the hall and her asking loudly, “Mark, what was that? Are you okay?”
And then the bomb, the one that had sent Mark over the edge.
In his and April’s bed, just on the heels of their lovemaking—“It must be genetic. Your father used to make that exact same sound when he finished.”
“Go away!” Mark had yelled, bolting upright in the bed, April gasping and jumping up with him, their naked torsos glistening with sweat in the moonlight spilling through the window. “Go away, you bitch! You’re dead! Leave me alone!”
After the panic had subsided and the anger flattened, Mark told April everything. Again. Just like he’d done in the Dodge that day after the funeral. Only this time, his wife’s response had been to make him an appointment with a therapist and demand that he go. No excuses, no argument. Just a matter-of-fact thing he was going to do if she had to drag him there herself kicking and screaming the entire way.
Mark didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life with his mother breathing over his shoulder. He’d end up killing himself, which was terrifying, because then he might have to see her again if she’d managed to lie, cheat and steal her way into Heaven.
He went twice a week for two weeks to a lovely woman who smelled like mint and jasmine and spoke with a voice as soft and warm as a nice bath, a voice you could sink into and relax and lay down your worries. He told her everything without a shred of embarrassment, because if she had the answer to make it all stop, Mark would do whatever necessary.
They had great conversations, Mark and the woman who smelled of mint and jasmine, and she made some great points and said some very wise things about the effect a mother can have on her children, even in death. The experiences, for Mark, were cathartic and educational and overall very pleasant.
But also pointless.
Because his mother was right there, waiting for him after every single one of his sessions, just like she’d been when Mark’d been a child and had reemerged from the back of the dentist office to the waiting room or had come down the sidewalk to her waiting car on the days she’d picked him up from school.
“Learn anything useful today?” or “So how much is she gouging you for?” or “You getting it on with her yet? I wouldn’t blame you, considering the alternative at home.”
After the two weeks, Mark had called from work and canceled his next appointment. Told the receptionist he was going to look for another doctor to help him. She’d started to ask a question, but Mark hung up before she could finish.
He drove home, later that evening, trying to figure out how to tell April that he’d ended his therapy sessions, dreading having to tell her he’d failed, that his mother was still with him and he didn’t know how to make it stop. Fearing as though he’d sound like a whiny little child who can’t sleep without the lights on because he’ll have nightmares about things that go bump in the night and live under the bed. He couldn’t imagine a conversation that would make him—a grown man—sound less attractive to his wife.
But when he pulled into the driveway and parked and let himself in through the front door, he found April sitting at the kitchen table, an odd but somewhat excited look on her face.
“We’re going to Pennsylvania,” she’d said.
“Why?” That was all Mark could think to say.
“Because I think there’s somebody there who can help you.”
* * *
And so they’d come here to Pennsylvania, where they’d met him and it looked like everything might turn out alright.
The story was crazy, of course. The kind of thing where Mark would have ordinarily shaken his head and scoffed and wondered what sorts of people could be so gullible. But when he considered that he was effectively being haunted by the spirit of his dead mother—whether this was purely psychological or metaphysical or, yes, he was willing, at this point, to concede to the supernatural—Mark Backstrom was capable of accepting help in any form it might come.
“He called me on the telephone,” April had said. “It was … the strangest conversation. And he knew it would be. He said, ‘I know this is going to sound completely insane, and I can’t explain it, but I know you and your husband are having some sort of trouble. I think something to do with a lost family member. I can help you, if you trust me.’”
Mark had been surprised to see that April’s eyes had begun to tear up as she spoke.
“And I don’t know how he knew, Mark, but when he talked to me, there was just something about it, something about his voice, or … I don’t even know how to describe it, but it felt right. Almost like I was experiencing an answered prayer, live and in the flesh.”
Mark knew then that April was serious. Neither of them had prayed in a long time.
Or maybe she had. Maybe in their newfound struggles, when no other option had seemed adequate, April had decided to pray for him behind his back. He wasn’t sure if he should feel grateful or embarrassed or betrayed, but the look in his wife’s eyes told him everything he needed to know.
She had an address scribbled on the back of a grocery store receipt—all that she’d been able to find at the time—and when she showed it to him, eyes full of hope and expectancy, Mark had pulled her close and kissed the top of her head and said, “Let’s go.”
Whether this person waiting for them would be the answer or not, Mark didn’t want to spend another day in his home with his mother lingering over his shoulder. Thought maybe if he was going seventy on the interstate, they might be able to outrun her.
So now, with the truck tires rumbling and the motel coming into view up ahead, just before the bend, and not so much as a whisper from his mother or the faintest whiff of her cigarettes in hours, Mark Backstrom reached over and placed a hand on April’s thigh and squeezed it.
“Thank you,” he said.
She turned and smiled and placed her hand atop his. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “We can’t thank him enough.”
Mark still had no real idea how the young guy had made his mother vanish. They’d all simply had lunch together at a small diner in the town a few miles from the motel, with the guy sometimes lapsing into long moments o
f silence in their conversation, as if he’d become distracted by something none of them were bothered by. But for the hours they’d spent together after, as the boy had showed them around some of the local shops and then left them at the base of a short hiking trail he promised had some spectacular views, which Mark and April had hiked and laughed and embraced together, silently looking out across one of the gorgeous vantage points, and for the entire truck ride back, Mark’s mother had been gone. Completely.
Mark thought about those moments of silence the boy had drifted into. That’s when it was happening, he reasoned. I don’t know what it was, but that’s when he did whatever magic he needed to.
Mark flipped on the Dodge’s turn signal and slowed the truck enough to make the turn into the motel’s parking lot. The place was well out of the way and not exactly a four-star (or even two-star) resort experience, but as far as he and April could tell so far, it was clean and quaint and quiet and maybe perfect, given the circumstances.
As Mark drove slowly to the front of their room, he saw the boy.
The boy was standing in front of their room, leaning against the exterior wall between their door and window and turning the pages of a Superman comic book. At the sound of the approaching truck, he looked up, and when he saw it was them, he smiled and waved and closed the comic book and looked completely at ease as he waited for them to park and exit the truck.
Mark and April walked up onto the walkway beneath the overhang and smiled back.
“Hey!” April said, running up and giving the boy a hug, “you were right about that trail. Gorgeous. We loved it.”
“Good,” the boy said, “I’m glad.” Then he looked at Mark. “And you, sir? Did you enjoy yourself?”
Mark was no idiot. He heard the spoken words and all the unspoken meaning. He nodded his head. “I did. I truly did. Thank you so much. I don’t think … well, I don’t think we would have ever found that trail without you.”
The boy nodded, message received, the smile still big on his face.
Mark stuck out his hand, and the boy reached out and shook it, and while they were connected, Mark was hit with a desire so out of character for himself that he had to act before any thread of embarrassment could begin to poke through. He pulled the young man in close and wrapped his other arm around him in a friendly embrace. At the sight of this, Mark heard April give a soft sob of joy and then felt her body against them and her arms stretch around them and the three of them stood that way for a moment, silent and thankful.
When the boy left them with a farewell and safe travels and a friendly wave, disappearing into the motel’s office, Mark looked at April, her eyes sparkling with happy tears, and felt such an unbridled, uninhibited sense of longing for her that he felt he could burst.
“Let’s go inside,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin.
April heard the spoken words and all the unspoken meaning.
They went into their room and closed the door.
* * *
Later, Mark Backstrom’s ears picked up something that pulled him out of a dreamless sleep. His eyes opened and he peered into the near-darkness. Took a moment to remember where he was.
The boy. The motel. April…
He turned and found his wife beside him, a sheet draped over her naked body, her mouth opened slightly as she slept. He remembered the events from earlier, when they’d gotten back to the room, and smiled. It had been pure ecstasy, sex the likes of which they hadn’t had since they’d been a new couple and had craved exploring each other’s bodies.
Another noise, softer this time. His ears pricked up, and Mark squinted around the room, his vision still somewhat blurry from sleep. He shifted around and checked his wristwatch he’d placed on the nightstand, trying to use the faint glow of light coming in from the overhead lights outside the room to read it.
It was just after two in the morning.
He sighed and set the watch back down and rolled over to go back to sleep, and that was when he saw the shadow move out of the corner of his eye.
No, not a shadow moving, but something in the shadow coming forward, emerging from their hiding place in the corner by the door.
A figure clad in solid black, inching its way closer.
Mark cried out in surprise and scrambled for the lamp on the nightstand, nearly knocked it over before he found the switch and managed to get his fingers to work right and turn it on.
Harsh light assaulted the room, and Mark had to squint against the suddenness of it. April stirred beside him. “Mark?”
And then Mark’s eyes adjusted and he saw the person standing at the foot of their bed. Black pants and shirt and a ski mask pulled down over their face.
A gun in their hand, pointed right at Mark.
11
Lance stared at the closed door to his motel room for a long time. He’d known for sure that he’d not stepped across the threshold. He’d opened the door and had been prepared for the cold and was going to make his way to the motel’s office to talk with Meriam, but instead of the snowstorm, he’d been greeted with a warm summer evening and voices, and before he’d had time to process it all he was on the sidewalk in front of the rooms, no memory of taking those couple steps, and certainly no recollection of closing the door behind him.
He reached out to grab the knob and—
“And you, sir? Did you enjoy yourself?” A voice. Male. Younger.
Lance swiveled in place, turning to his right and looking down the walkway to the room next door. A pickup truck had parked in front of room two, a dirty Dodge with the engine still hissing as it cooled. A small group of people standing in front of it, up on the sidewalk in front of the room’s door, only a few feet from where Lance stood.
Lance felt himself surge with excitement. Or maybe it was a surge of relief, or better yet, thankfulness. Thankfulness for the fact that he might be about to get some answers, finally. Because one of the three people in front of room two, and presumably the owner of the voice Lance had just heard, was the copy-and-paste boy.
Up close for the first time, Lance saw that the boy was nearly as tall as he was, the frame long and wiry. His hair shaggy and unruly. He wore baggy clothes and had a comic book tucked under one arm. Superman, Lance thought he could read on the cover.
Yes, the resemblance was uncanny, in terms of build and physique, but as Lance looked at the boy’s face, he again saw the differences. Above all else, the boy looked much younger than Lance. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Face smooth and unblemished and not even a hint of stubble. He looked like a kid. But as Lance took a few small steps—tentatively, just like he’d done in his own room when the dead woman had been sitting at the table and Lance was unsure of his own effect on his new surroundings—moving around to get a better look at the boy, he looked into his eyes and he knew. Instantly he knew there was much more going on with the boy than what was present on the surface. He had the eyes of somebody much wiser than his years would suggest. Somebody who’d seen much more, experienced much more. It was a look Lance was familiar with, because it further reminded him of himself.
The other people on the sidewalk were a man and woman, middle-aged and husband and wife, Lance would guess, based on their respective wedding bands. The woman looked light and airy and full of … was it hope, gratitude? The man’s face was kind, but carrying something with it that hardened his features, as if he were still trying to work something out. But then, like the flip of a switch, his features softened and he answered the boy, “I did. I truly did. Thank you so much. I don’t think … well, I don’t think we would have ever found that trail without you.”
Lance watched as the boy nodded, a big smile of some deeper meaning and understanding forming across the boy’s face. And then the man stuck out his hand for a handshake, which turned into a group hug, a tight embrace that somehow bonded the three of them. The woman was crying softly, but the tears seemed like those of somebody who was overwhelmed with happiness.
And then, as if his
job was finished, the boy said, “It was very nice to meet you all. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your day. I’m glad you came.”
“Oh, us too!” the woman said, giving the boy one last hug.
“Safe travels back home,” the boy said as he turned to leave, giving them a wave. And then he walked right past Lance and started for the motel’s office, leaving the man and woman alone on the sidewalk.
Lance gave another glance to the couple in front of room two, found them uninteresting as they stood together watching the boy leave them, and quickly turned back around to follow the boy.
The boy had just reached the door to the office and was pushing through it. Lance started quickly, wanting to catch up and not lose sight of the boy, unsure what would happen if he did. He still had no solid understanding of where or when he was, and what sort of rules applied to this new environment. He sprang to action and took two quick steps, sneakers pounding on the concrete, but then his entire being felt caught, snatched up and thrown backward in an exact reversal of his actions.
Like somebody had hit the rewind button on the remote.
The space around him had whooshed by in a blur and his legs had pumped in the opposite direction as before and he’d been spun around, and then everything went right back to normal and Lance was staring at the couple again, standing together on the sidewalk in front of room two as they watched the boy leave them.
Lance turned around in his spot, saw the same scene of the boy just reaching the motel’s office’s door and beginning to push through. Lance, out of sheer determination, tried to sprint even faster to catch up, to push through the door along with the boy.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 27
