by Nate Allen
it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you taken a life?”
“No, but how easy it would be.”
The radio shuts off as fast as it came on.
Matthew Mills
The screen on my cell shows a buzzing phone. I answer this time. The voice on the other end is trying to hide panic, but it’s all I can hear.
“Mr. Mills?” she says.
“I got your messages.” surprisingly, there is no quiver to my voice. It’s calm and collected.
“I’m so sorry—”
“I know.” I interrupt.
“Ms. Brands remembers nothing. But, she called Marcy down to the office. We heard it on the intercom. Minutes later, Marcy was gone. Maybe you can come down and talk to her?”
“Sure,” I can hear the tone of my voice. It’s flat and blank. “I’ll be down soon.”
The lady on the other end wants to say sorry again. I can hear it in the way she is breathing, and the long pauses between any sounds whatsoever. Instead, she says nothing. And the call ends.
I look up from hanging my head, to see Janet smiling at me from the kitchen. In her hands, she has a dish towel wrapping crushed ice. She walks toward me, kneels again, and applies it gently to my swollen eye.
With my good eye, I look at Janet, and then past her. The picture of Marcy framed on our wall seems brighter than the rest. I remember taking that picture. We were having a picnic. Marcy wanted to feel giant. She remained standing, as I took the picture while lying down, catching the sky behind her. It was what I called Ant Vision.
Janet follows my gaze, to look as well. She crawls next to me and nuzzles close. And then we lay down completely, remembering when Marcy got to be giant…
John Doe
Teddy is here, yet he isn’t. I can think about things I never could before. The blood doesn’t come from me as it once did. His voice doesn’t fill my head until control slips from my fingers into his.
But, all I can think about is what I heard on the radio: curses, and how easy it would be to kill someone with one. Those thoughts feel like Teddy.
A different thought just came to mind. This thought doesn’t feel like Teddy. It feels like something that Teddy would bleed me dry for thinking. Yet, I’m thinking it, and nothing is happening: If Teddy was gone, would I still take children? How can the answer be so easy? It shouldn’t be, but it is. If Teddy was gone, I wouldn’t take children. But, the question is irrelevant, because the real truth is, if Teddy was gone, I would be too. There is no other reason for me. He has been with me for as long as I can remember, keeping me hidden, keeping me in the shadows.
The shed is where those shadows lie, covering a secret that Teddy has kept hidden. And his power has spread out from the property, slowly emptying the surrounding town. Minea, Minnesota used to be a town like Payne, North Dakota: not big, but active. Now, it’s empty.
Matthew Mills
The sun pours onto my face as soon as I step from the house. It feels clean, close to the way it felt to be baptized in the Spirit.
Janet’s fingers in between mine feel as intimate as when we make love; that, I can’t begin to describe.
I told her she could stay home. I told her she didn’t have to come down to the school with me. She wants to.
We pass our two vehicles, walking the same path I walked with Marcy only hours ago. I’m hiding my swollen eye behind sunglasses; my nose is badly bruised, but not broken as far as Janet can tell.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“I’ll be okay.” I’m not sure what hurt she’s referring to. The inner pain is nearly unbearable; the outer pain is keeping the first from taking me to my knees and keeping me there.
“We’ll be okay.” Every time she smiles, I look for hints of sadness. I shouldn’t, but I do. And all I can see is faith fully surfaced. This visit to the school is going to be much harder for me than it will be for her. She just touched Jesus’ hands. She just heard Him say, “It’s going to be okay.” Her eyes aren’t set in the limitations of this world anymore. I imagine those five words are all she is hearing, over and over again. And they will carry her through whatever we hear at the school, and whatever we return to at home.
I’m walking with her, but the clean feeling has become sadness. Her fingers aren’t in between mine anymore. She’s only holding my hand. I close my eyes and imagine Marcy in place of her. Every time I think about making it through the days without seeing my little girl, I think about how her voice will never call for me again, how I will never get to hug her, or tell her that I love her. And now, I think about how Janet’s five words seem more meant for her than me.
John Doe
Before mom died, Minea was a town I actively participated in. I was in the elementary T-ball program, even though I was the slowest of the kids. They called me heavy hitter, fat boy, and John Doe the slow. It was funny to them. Dad came to the games and cheered me on. I’m just remembering that now.
Teddy has kept me fixated on the day daddy stuck me with his piece in the shed. It’s all I’ve been able to remember. It’s all I have thought about when thinking back to the days of my childhood. Until now, I’ve only seen him the way he was after the shed. But now, for some reason I am remembering before the shed. Before his piece. Before Teddy.
The roar of the road is quiet. The hum of this Buick is nearly non-existent. No matter how much I listen, Teddy isn’t in my thoughts.
All I can think about—all I can see—are the T-ball days:
“Go get ‘em, John!” dad said. He wasn’t heavy set like I was. He was tall and thin, and cleanly shaven. Handsome was the word my mom used. I just now remember that as well. I must have only been six, maybe seven at the time. To remember any of this after twenty six years of only remembering the day in the shed, I somehow feel alive, more alive than I have in twenty six years.
Matthew Mills
All I can wonder as I walk toward the office is this: If I fall, will I get back up? Janet fell and nearly gave up because of it. Had The Lord not visited, she would probably be in the act of ending her life right now. But, He did visit. He helped her back up, and now she is walking with me.
It’s going to be okay. They are not Janet’s words. They are The Lord’s. They are a promise. I have to take it as that. If I don’t, I will fall, and I will stay down. Faith is all I have left. It’s not an exaggeration. It’s a statement stripped to its barest truth.
The feeling of being human doesn’t change with this realization. There is no elevating above this. Pain shapes us. It will shape me. Lord, help me see Your plan, because I don’t.
“I love you, handsome husband of mine.” Janet says. Her eyes glisten with the same personality I fell in love with.
“You haven’t said that you love me since the miscarriage.” I answer quietly. “I wasn’t sure if you still did.”
“Of course I do. I was ashamed. I was broken into so many pieces. I failed. It was all I could feel. And I was even failing as M’s mom.” something has grown in her eyes: sadness, or something close to it. “I know that Jesus came to me. I know that He told me, ‘It’s going to be okay.’ But, I was so hurt, I neglected her. I could have had one more week with my daughter, my little M. And now she is gone.”
Why is comfort the only thing I feel from seeing Janet’s sadness? If I’m completely honest with myself, I envied her. Deep inside, her indifference to the situation made me feel like my wife was already gone. But, I was wrong. Her eyes are set in this very moment, in this very reality. Jesus didn’t numb her of what we have to face. He picked her back up, and let five words be His promise. Now, it’s about faith. Now, it’s about letting His promise keep us afloat.
Grief is tumultuous. It’s a sea with waves that keep tossing and thrashing. The only thing that keeps you from sinking is whatever piece is left from the already sunken ship. And you drift. Days become weeks. Weeks become months. Months become years. You stay in the present moment, because the future
is too big. All you have is that little piece of the ship. You cling onto it. If you let go, you drown. If you give in, you die. I have lived this. But, there’s something this metaphor on grief doesn’t include: the Holy Hands that lift you back up to the surface even when you let go.
We are at the office doors now. I can see two women through the glass windows. They see me too. Their eyes seem to dart away from mine. Janet opens the door. Our hands stay together as we enter.
“Hi, Janet,” one of the women say. She is the younger of the two. The other is an old face of layered wrinkles.
“Hello,” Janet replies.
“And you are Matthew?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“I’m Mrs. Fig. I’m the Principal.” she pauses. “First of all, we have already made the authorities aware of Marcy’s disappearance. I want to apologize to you both. I don’t even know how this happened. Marcy was in class. Ms. Brands paged her down to the office. And then—” she stops whatever she was about to say. “Ms. Brands is going to tell you what she remembers.”
The face of wrinkles moves. I can now see that her hair is a tight white pony tail.
“I can remember talking to her. I don’t remember what she asked me. I don’t remember what I said. I just remember seeing her.”
“Was she with anyone?” Janet asks.
Ms. Brand’s eyes fill with confusion, like asking a patient with dementia to remember their social security
