The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “I’m heading out for lunch,” Ethan replied, but something wasn’t right. “Join me? You can drive. It’s your taxi.”

  Ethan noticed Randy’s hesitation. He didn’t just look tired; he looked exhausted.

  “Well?”

  “Ethan?”

  Something shifted. The whole scene in front of him moved as if one life-size diorama were replacing another—like a living version of Disney World’s Carousel of Progress.

  “What?” he answered, his eyes locking on Randolph’s.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?” Ethan answered, knowing something had happened. He’d gone and come back in an instant.

  “You were different there,” Randolph said, staring him in the eye while turning his head like a dog trying to understand its master. “You can’t fake a faker, Ethan.” Randolph squinted his left eye and added, “Most of the time, I know what’s real and what isn’t.”

  Ethan pushed out a laugh, not comfortable with his friend’s insinuation. “That’s what got me here,” he said, pointing at the hospital over Randolph’s shoulder. “Then they get in a quandary when they can’t figure it out either.”

  They both laughed, knowing better than most what went on inside.

  Ethan thought about what had happened between him and Randolph. It’s just nerves, he said to himself. Facing the outside world again was a lot to take in. He was bound to encounter a few anxious moments. Randolph must have triggered something. “Nerves and anxiety,” Dr. Katharine had explained, “wreak havoc on how the mind perceives and reacts.” Going home and experiencing life on the outside would push him way out of his comfort zone in the hospital. “You’re as prepared as you’re going to get, Ethan,” she’d added, patting his shoulder and smiling. “Sooner or later, you have to play it for real.”

  “Should have known you’d still be talking,” his father said as he approached them beside his car. He was carrying three lidded Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  “Did you expect any less?” Ethan replied. He said it as if it were a statement, not a question. Randolph’s departure had been tough on Ethan, who’d missed talking with someone who was really present. Randolph had visited once since leaving. Released patients usually had no desire to return—especially sane ones. Reminders came often enough in the middle of the night, when the only escape was waking up.

  “No, but we probably should get a move on.”

  His father handed a coffee to each of them and then walked around to the driver’s side of the car to get in. Then, as if choreographed, Ethan watched a tall dark-haired woman approach Randolph from behind.

  “Here you are,” the woman said, stopping beside Randolph and grabbing his arm. “You’re never where I expect you to be.”

  “Sorry, Rachel,” Randolph said, putting his arm around the woman. “I found him out here—about to leave without saying goodbye. Rachel Duri, meet the Actor, Ethan Jones.”

  Ethan smiled and extended his hand. Rachel transferred the book she was carrying to her left hand and shook his hand. She was a big-boned woman with a large, soft hand. Her grip was light but had a “Hello; I’m here” firmness. Her brown skin was flawless; her round, smiling face was smooth. Crimson fingernails matched her lipstick. The dark eyes that looked back at him were edged in a purple eye shadow that made the whites of her eyes even brighter.

  “Glad to meet you, Rachel,” Ethan said, smiling.

  “Likewise. Are you really an actor?”

  Ethan kept smiling and shook his head.

  Randolph interjected. “Sorry.” He winced and turned to Rachel. “Ethan’s the phenom I told you about who came back to the real world while I was here. He acted out the book.” Randolph held up the tube in his hand.

  “I don’t know that phenom is the right word,” Ethan said with a sigh, “but the Actor came from that other world, or so I’m told.”

  “You’re leaving?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes,” Ethan said, trying to see what book was in her hand. “Randolph attacked the car as we were pulling away.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Rachel exclaimed, seeming genuinely pleased for him. “I wish you well.”

  “Thank you. What are you reading?”

  Rachel held up the book. “I picked it up in the shop inside.”

  “Browning Station.” Ethan smiled.

  “I heard about the book on the radio the other night. Randolph’s obsessed with it. Sounds creepy.”

  “Creepy and disturbing,” Ethan said. “I’ve been reading it during my stay—both now and apparently before.”

  “You must know it well,” Rachel said.

  “Somewhere in here,” he said, pointing to his head, “not that I can remember. It’s like I’m reading a new book now.”

  “It’s getting popular,” Randolph said. “I’ve seen it in a few places.”

  Ethan raised his arm to check the time on his gold Seiko, as was his habit. It felt good to wear it again. The hospital had removed it—policy and procedures. Like a wisp of smoke, a thought came and went unacknowledged. It was almost one o’clock.

  “I’d better say goodbye,” Ethan said, lowering his arm, “before Dad gets too antsy. We’ve a long drive ahead of us.”

  He opened the passenger door. “Very nice to meet you, Rachel, though I don’t know what you see in this guy.” He laughed.

  Rachel smiled. “At times, I don’t know either.” She cocked her left eyebrow and looked at Randolph.

  “Don’t forget I’m holding the car keys,” Randolph said with a straight face. “Your place is a long way from here.”

  “Yeah, but it’s my car,” Rachel retorted. “I’ll only walk once.”

  The hint of a smile curved her red lips. She placed the back of the hand holding Browning Station on her hip. She looked to be kidding around, but Ethan sensed she was no pushover.

  “Good luck with the comic,” Ethan said, and he climbed into the car.

  “I’ll see you, man,” Randolph replied, and he stepped back, holding Rachel’s hand.

  As they pulled away, Ethan thought Randolph looked happy. He wondered whether he’d ever see him again. He hoped so.

  CHAPTER 6

  Friday, May 25, 1984

  In less than five minutes, they were on the 417, heading west out of downtown Ottawa, fifteen minutes from the cemetery.

  “Still want to go?” his father asked after the silence following their departure from the hospital. The traffic was building but surprisingly light for a Friday afternoon.

  “Yes,” Ethan answered, still concerned about whether it was the right thing to do but trying his best not to think of potential consequences. His chat with Randolph had done little to reassure him, but having his hospital friend show up to see him off had been worth it. His little spell had been unmistakable despite his denying it. Randolph had triggered something. That he’d returned was reassuring, but why had he gone and come back so quickly? More for himself than his father, he added, “I have to.”

  How his father knew where Mila was buried he didn’t know. He didn’t ask either, as mustering the courage just to make the visit was hard enough. He didn’t want to think of what had happened; he wanted to think only of his good times with Mila: Cokes at the Kitchen, walks along the canal, or times alone in her dorm room. The doctors, especially Dr. Katharine, struggled to understand how he could recall such detail about the times before his going-away period but nothing during it. In a month, he and Mila had built what he hoped now was a lifetime of memories. He kept the memories on a shelf in his head to retrieve like books and enjoy as if Mila were sitting right beside him. He could feel the silky lightness of her brown hair across his fingers and trace her soft lips with his fingertips and then kiss them. He recalled the way her breasts pressed against his chest when they embraced, and she would snuggle into his arms. But those memories were us
ually followed by the emptiness of her absence, which, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fill. The nothingness remained tight in his stomach after nightmares woke him in the night—nightmares in which he was helpless to save her, suffering the horror again and again until dawn’s light rose to release him. Visiting her grave would be the closest he’d come to her since the murder almost six months ago. He was glad his father knew how to get there.

  Ethan looked down at his new Levi’s and rubbed his hands on his thighs, drying hands that weren’t wet. The jeans fit perfectly. His mother could still pick his size—a mother’s intuition maybe, he supposed. The red short-sleeved polo shirt with the little embroidered player over his left breast fit as if it had been made-to-measure. Clothes that fit made him feel good. Even as a kid, he’d felt the fit was more important than the color or style—outside of the extremes of pink or polka dots. His mother had bought the clothes with special instructions that he not wear them until he left. If he didn’t like them, she’d exchange them until he did. His smile when he’d come out of the room’s bathroom wearing them had confirmed she’d again succeeded.

  His father took the first exit ramp west of Kanata. After turning northward, they drove a couple of miles and turned left at the end of the road. In a matter of minutes, a field of headstones appeared on his right, shaded by large maple trees. His father slowed down as they approached the entrance.

  Ethan didn’t see any other cars.

  “You know where her grave is?” Ethan asked. It sounded strange to hear himself say such a thing. He was reluctant to go on yet didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  “I do,” his father said. “I’ve been here a couple of times.”

  “You have?” Ethan replied, surprised. “You never said anything.”

  “Never came up. Your mother didn’t want to talk about it. Dr. Katharine said you had to come to it on your own terms.”

  “You talked to her about it?” Ethan asked, amazed that he hadn’t known.

  “Yes, I discussed it.” His father paused for a moment and then went on. “Ethan, there’s no instruction manual here.”

  Nodding as the Accord slowed, Ethan sensed his father’s frailty.

  They moved along the paved roadway onto the fresh gravel of the entrance. As with most cemeteries Ethan had seen in passing, the grass was green and well kept. The graves were in lines perpendicular to the laneway they drove along. Many of the headstones had flower arrangements in various states of decay on or around them.

  “It’s pretty dead around here,” Ethan remarked, not thinking of what he was saying until he heard himself say it out loud. It seemed to lighten his mood.

  “It’s that kind of a place, Son.”

  They both snickered in a moment of shared levity.

  The gravel popped beneath the tires of the Accord as they edged forward. His father brought the car to a stop.

  “Do you want to be alone?” his father asked.

  Ethan could feel his anxiety growing. “Yes.”

  “It’s over there.” His father pointed through the windshield to the right.

  “Thanks.” The word came out as if from someone else’s mouth.

  Ethan pushed open his door. The gravel crunched beneath his new deck shoes—part of his mother’s purchase—as his feet touched the ground. Gripping the edge of the doorframe, he pulled himself out and stood up; his legs were more stable than he expected. Without closing the door, he walked in the direction his father had pointed toward the many headstones, each unique and different. Most were rectangular, in shades of pink, purple, black, and gray, each precise and polished. They were perfect in their craftsmanship, marking the imperfect lives whose names they bore. It wasn’t hard to identify her gravestone. The top was polished gray-black granite engraved with theatrical drama masks. As he drew close, he read, “The Lord is my shepherd.” The name engraved below it was Susan Alexandra Reed. Unexpected relief flowed over him; it wasn’t Mila’s. He wasn’t ready yet. He looked back at his father, who shook his head, signaling to move farther right.

  The next grave had bold engraving displaying the name Joachim Ray Hillier. A small pinkish stone was beside that. He kept moving. “Gone fishing with the angels” was engraved in another headstone. He admired those who looked at death with a sense of humor. He couldn’t.

  Stepping forward, he glanced at a small headstone he’d almost walked by. “Only angels are taken before their time” was arched across the top. The name Michelle Camilla Monahan was chiseled into the stone. Try as he might, he couldn’t look away. His stomach tightened. His face grew hot as he read the name again. Pressure rose inside his chest. His breath shortened. His stomach erupted. Nausea was on him like a wave he hadn’t seen coming. He dropped to one knee. His hand went to the headstone. The granite was cool but rough against his palm and fingers. He paid little attention. His stomach clenched as its contents spewed onto the green grass in front of him, releasing the anguish that threatened to take him down. He was powerless to fight it. When the spasm ended, he raised his head and looked at the polished pink granite. Michelle Camilla Monahan. He couldn’t remember knowing that Mila was short for Camilla or that Michelle was her first name.

  Vomit plowed its way out of his mouth again. This time, it came harder, thrusting him forward and causing him to plant his hands in the mowed grass to catch himself from falling into his own sickness. Though prickly, the grass was much softer than the hard granite his hand had slid off. He thought it odd to notice the texture of the grass. It made him more aware of the death of his love buried beneath him.

  His eyes closed.

  He was in a room he hadn’t been in for a long time. Metal scraped metal. He knew the sound and what it was—a key pushed into the door’s lock. The door opened, missing the person standing in the dark behind it. He watched the young woman close the door and reach for the light switch. The arms of the one standing behind the door rose, bringing the clear plastic bag up over the woman’s head. In the split second it took the light to come on, the bag was over her face and pulled tightly around her slender neck. Ethan watched like a spectator. It was all he could do.

  Mila was pulled backward into her attacker. Rage flashed through Ethan, yet he was helpless to do anything, forced by some curse to watch the brutality of his love’s attack. He screamed. The pull of tendons in his neck was tight, but he heard only silence.

  He watched Mila kick wildly while her attacker held on. Her strength was remarkable but no match for her attacker’s power. The monster held her above the floor, unable to stop her flailing legs. The plastic was taut around her neck. He agonized upon seeing her legs slow as her oxygen depleted, hoping for her miracle escape. With everything he had, he screamed for her not to give up. But his scream remained silent.

  In a last futile effort, she grabbed at the plastic, but she could find no leverage. Her legs thrashed again, this time managing to trip up her attacker. They fell together to her dorm room floor. Mila twisted. In the light, the shock and horror of recognition he saw in her eyes gave way to apparent acceptance. She knew her attacker. It would be okay. Ethan watched as life left her once vibrant brown eyes. Blood covered her neck and shoulder. The toe her gold ring was on quivered to stillness.

  Ethan shuddered, unable to absorb what he was seeing.

  The man, the monster, moved like a panther—smooth, precise, efficient. He slid out from under Mila’s lifeless, slender form. Ethan prayed to turn away, but the horrific spectacle made it impossible, as if in penance for his inability to save her.

  His eyes caught the twinkle of the toe ring—a gift. But Mila didn’t have … It was …

  “Oh, how beautiful you are,” the madman said. “Such a shame you had to get in the way. Wrong place, my dear, at the wrong time.”

  The monster lifted her to her bed and laid her on her back, her pretty face tinged with the gray-blue of death. Blood seemed to b
e everywhere. Mila’s lifeless dark brown eyes stared at the ceiling. The monster sat down on the bed and closed her dead eyes.

  “If I can’t have you, he can’t either,” the monster whispered.

  Ethan knew what was about to take place.

  The monster sat beside her corpse, observing it as an art lover might have studied the brushstrokes of a master. Two buttons had popped open on Mila’s blood-soaked white blouse, baring more of her breasts than she would have liked. But that didn’t stop her attacker, who proceeded to undo two more buttons and spread open her blouse. Blood ran down her shoulder. Ethan watched, unable to move, as the monster removed a rubber surgical glove. Like an obsessed lover, with the tip of his bare index finger, he touched—

  Ethan screamed, frantic in the silence he could not defeat. His neck muscles strained to bursting as he tried harder and harder to be heard.

  “Ethan!”

  A voice sounded from a distance.

  He was no longer in the room. There was no blood. Something was moving. He could feel her. She was yet wasn’t. Something dark moved about—something raw and gnawing.

  “Ethan!”

  He heard his name again. The voice was closer and recognizable.

  He was on his hands and knees, his hands in something prickly. His head hung between his arms. He opened his eyes to stare into a brown puddle of what looked like wet dog food. He was on grass. The sight caught him off guard. He pushed himself to get away and collided with something hard and rigid beside him.

  “Ethan! Take it easy!”

  The familiar voice was close.

  He didn’t like what he heard. “Take it easy” wasn’t about to save her. But he could move. He could save her, only it was too late.

  “Ethan!” his father said in a loud whisper. “She’s gone!”

  Ethan felt the roughness under his fingers wanting to tear his soft flesh. It hurt. The pain brought into focus the grass and the gray-pink headstone his hand was on.

  “No,” he said as the two worlds—the one he knew that wasn’t and the one that was—came together. He could finally hear his voice. “I know.”