Yesterday's Gone | Novel | October's Gone

by Platt, Sean

  She fell asleep feeling sad and woke up feeling sadder.

  * * *

  Her mood didn’t improve until Liz was halfway through her burrito during lunch the following day. Colette, her best friend for the last five years, had polished hers off already. Mostly because she wanted both of her hands and all of her mouth’s attention focused on Liz and what a colossal asshole her husband was.

  “I seriously don’t know why you won’t just leave him,” she said, waving her hands around to punctuate the point.

  “You know why. Because I repeat myself every time this subject comes up.”

  “Which is what, every day or so now?” Colette said.

  “Approximately.”

  “Doesn’t that tell you something? I’m sorry, but life is too short for the way you live it.”

  “I’ve explained this a million times: I’m not doing that to Junior.”

  “Doing what? Showing your son how a woman sticks up for herself? You act like you’d be leaving Father of the Year behind. He’s not just an asshole to you, Liz.”

  “Children need both of their parents. I can always leave Anderson once Junior’s out of the—”

  “That’s not fair to anyone.”

  “I’ve heard this all before, Colette.”

  “Good. Now you’re going to hear it again. Maybe this time you’ll finally apply the lesson.”

  “Can we—”

  “It’s selfish to stay with someone you’re planning to leave in eight years.”

  “I didn’t say I was planning to leave him. I said that I always could.”

  Colette looked at Liz for a long moment before responding. “You’re going to leave him.”

  “Fine,” Liz reluctantly agreed.

  “So, you’re making yourself miserable and stealing eight years from Anderson.”

  “I don’t entirely agree with your logic, but even if I did, that seems like a small price to pay for Junior to have a childhood with his father around.”

  “Right,” Colette said. “Because they have such an awesome, enriching relationship, where Anderson is proud of his son and really sees him for who he is. I do love how invested your husband is in getting Junior the help he needs.”

  “He just doesn’t believe in therapy.”

  “How about vaccines? Does he believe in those?”

  “I didn’t even want to talk about Anderson. I just want to figure out what we can do for Junior. I mean … where is he even getting this stuff?”

  “YouTube?” Colette shrugged. “Have you seen some of the shit that’s on there?”

  “You’re acting like none of this is concerning. Are you really telling me that neither you nor Sam would have a problem if Cooper or Rebecca drew anything like what I described to you?”

  She shrugged again. “Kids do stuff. I maintain that the problem isn’t Junior so much as you not having Anderson’s support in fixing the issue. You should get Junior tested, whether his father likes it or not.”

  “I’m not going behind his back.”

  “You do see the cycle, don’t you? Junior has a few issues that could be helped if he just had someone he could talk to. Until then, he’ll never bond with his father, since Anderson’s the sort of asshole who thinks every dude should be a bro.”

  “We can’t go to a therapist.”

  Yet another shrug, this one with an air of finality. “Junior needs a connection with something. If he can’t get that from his father, then maybe you should get him a pet. That helped my sister’s oldest kid.”

  “I told you, Anderson doesn’t like animals.”

  “That should tell you all you need to know.”

  “He’s allergic,” Liz said.

  “That’s what people say when they don’t like animals.”

  Liz opened her mouth to argue, but Colette kept talking.

  “Look, every one of these arguments ends the same and takes your life nowhere, and that will keep being the case as long you’re letting Anderson make all the rules. You have to stand up for yourself, Liz. Do at least some of what you know in your heart is right. I’m not saying you should get to make all the decisions and do whatever you want in the marriage, but marriage is supposed to be a partnership. It’s fair for you to have a say, so—”

  “I hear you, but—”

  “Nope. No buts. Not this time.” Colette shook her head. “If you’re not willing to get Junior a therapist, fine. Get him a pet. He’ll love it, and he’ll love you for making it happen. Anderson can deal.”

  Colette was right.

  So Liz stopped at the shelter on her way home from work.

  She went in expecting only to look, though perhaps a part of her knew she wasn’t just prepared to take a puppy or perhaps a dog home with her, she wanted to.

  More and more, the longer she stayed.

  Moments after meeting Harley, a two-year-old Golden Retriever, it became impossible for Liz to leave without him. Bruce, the man at the shelter, told her that the breed was an excellent choice for families with an autistic child. Golden Retrievers were gentle and patient. Loyal, with a calm temperament. Intelligent, highly trainable, and emotionally stable.

  Too bad Anderson wasn’t a Golden Retriever.

  Harley was perfect for Junior. An instant hit, the two of them slobbered all over each other.

  To nobody’s surprise, Anderson was furious.

  The argument was explosive but expected. She mostly stayed on top of it.

  Harley slept at the foot of Junior’s bed that night, and Liz fell asleep smiling with a singular thought:

  Fuck you, Anderson.

  Seven

  October 16, 2011 …

  Liz crept slowly toward the shed.

  She stepped carefully, to avoid the crunching leaves underfoot.

  She needed to see what was hiding inside. Its heavy breath was a siren song, inviting and frightening, drawing her closer to the truth one terrified step at a time.

  She froze halfway to the shed. Now even more scared, but this time of being seen.

  Junior slipped out of the shed’s door, then locked it behind him.

  While his back was still turned, Liz dodged behind the nearest tree, then pressed her back against the trunk as her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.

  What was Junior doing in the shed?

  And what was he keeping locked inside?

  She pressed herself harder into the tree, trying to flatten herself as much as possible, wishing she could make herself invisible as Junior walked toward her. He didn’t seem to see her as he passed. Still, Liz didn’t know if that was because she had shrunken herself enough to avoid notice, or because Junior really was acting like an alien, muttering to himself as he floated silently by an inch above all those crunchy leaves.

  Liz wanted to scream; levitation wasn’t possible and didn’t make sense. But neither did the sounds coming out of her son’s mouth.

  She couldn’t decipher a word. To her ears, it sounded like, “Mishven ictbienavioven abeeaberen estee ieempo derededie.”

  She followed Junior, then stayed several feet behind him as they walked toward the cabin. This had to be a dream … as hypnotized as she felt.

  Junior disappeared inside, but Liz had every reason to believe that entering that house would be the end of her. She paused, unwilling to go a single step further.

  Mishven ictbienavioven abeeaberen estee ieempo derededie …

  She didn’t know what it meant, but his words compelled her forward like magic.

  The door was already open. She just had to step inside.

  So Liz did.

  The door closed behind her.

  Then the monsters feasted on her flesh as she screamed.

  * * *

  Liz woke up with the scream, still stuck in her throat.

  She was sitting straight up in bed, covered in sweat and panting.

  At least it was a dream, and a brand new morning before her. Today would have to be better than the hell of yesterd
ay.

  Like the dream she was still shaking her way out of, the storm and the drugs and the blow to her knee had all coalesced to get her mind playing tricks.

  She needed to get out of bed and see the reality for herself. Prove that none of the bullshit was actually happening. Anderson was apparently missing, so that was something to figure out, but Liz had clearly also gotten lost in her head.

  Her nostrils curled with the scent of frying butter.

  Liz felt instantly lighter. Anderson was finally home and cooking.

  She wiggled her toes and gauged the pain in her leg. Bad, but not unbearable. It was still hard to put weight on it, yet nowhere near blinding like before, confirming her belief that it was a sprain instead of a tear, and that she’d probably be close to normal within a week or so.

  It was already improved over yesterday.

  Liz limped to the bathroom, then went back to the bed and carefully slid on her jeans, wishing she’d brought a dress or skirt to reduce the effort of dressing with her swollen knee. She’d packed light, not wanting Anderson to see the excess clothing and figure out what she was up to. She could buy new stuff with Colette, then head to the shelter out of town. From there, people could help her figure out the legal shit.

  Liz spent forever limping to the kitchen, but she looked forward to every step if it meant Anderson was back. Though she was perfectly happy to have him gone, she didn’t want to be blamed for his death.

  She just hoped that whatever happened wouldn’t keep him from his hunting trip tomorrow, because that’s when Colette was coming to take her and Junior away to start their new lives.

  But it was Junior standing over a skillet, slowly turning the eggs. He looked over and greeted her in a monotone. “Good morning, Mommy.”

  “Good morning. Are you making breakfast?”

  “I’m making eggs and toast and coffee.”

  “You’ve never made breakfast … or even cooked before. How did you know what to do?”

  “You make eggs all the time.”

  “And you watched how I make them?”

  “I watch everything you do, Mommy.” He smiled, but it was like another piece in Mr. Potato Head’s mouth. He turned away from her and went back to his eggs.

  Junior was actually cooking.

  Anderson in her head: See, Liz. What have I been telling you? The kid doesn’t need a shrink. He needs you to stop doing everything for him. This is how you turn a boy into a man, and make him self-reliant.

  Maybe her husband was right. And if he was right about this, what else might he be right about?

  Or maybe she was just feeling scared and alone without him.

  Junior finished the eggs. He poured them from the skillet onto a plate, next to a piece of toast that must have been waiting for a while. He brought it over to her. As Liz piled a forkful of eggs onto her toast and took a bite, Junior brought her a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s time I grow up. Show some self-reliance. Become more of a man.”

  She swallowed a whimper, but couldn’t do anything about the shudder that ran through her body at hearing Anderson’s words in his mouth.

  Then he turned away from her, took his sketchbook from the counter, and left the kitchen. He stopped back at the doorway as if just remembering something.

  “I’m going to draw.”

  “Okay.” Liz smiled, unsettled, but not yet wanting, or willing, to fully retreat from her earlier optimism, still just a few minutes old.

  She gave Junior his space while finishing her breakfast. The eggs were runny, the toast was cold, and the coffee somehow managed to taste bitter, astringent, sour, and weak, all in unison.

  But at least Junior had made something for her.

  He stopped drawing when she entered the living room, then dramatically covered the page with his arm. Liz sat on the couch a few feet away from him, but Junior closed his sketchbook as he moved to the love seat and next to her.

  “What were you drawing?” she asked.

  No answer. Just Junior staring off into space. Or, more specifically, back into the kitchen.

  “Is there anything you want to talk about?” She silently counted to ten. “You know it’s okay to be scared, right?”

  But still nothing.

  She followed his gaze, through the kitchen to the back door, out the window to the shed. Even from all the way in the living room, Liz spied something that deeply disturbed her.

  It was troubling to have seen the heavy lock missing from the shed door last night, but it was much more bothersome to see it back in place now.

  Had she imagined it last night? Had she imagined the entire encounter with the thing creeping around the cabin?

  “Do you know anything about the lock on the shed?” But of course, he didn’t answer her. “I need you to answer me, Junior.”

  She shook his arms to rattle him out of it.

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Do you know anything about the lock on the shed, Andy?”

  “No.” So flat, he had to be lying.

  “I’ll be back.” Liz stood and limped to the kitchen, pulled the charger out of her phone, and brightened in surprise as the screen lit right up, and she saw bars. A signal.

  She went to her messages app, but her history of texts with Colette had gone missing.

  Same for Colette as a contact, and when Liz looked further, every contact she carried in her phone.

  What a goddamned disaster.

  Fortunately, she had been calling Colette since before the smartphones started making her stupid, so she knew that number by heart.

  She texted the number:

  Text me back. I really, really, REALLY need you. And you know I hate being needy.

  But her message just hung there without sending.

  She dropped her phone with a heavy sigh, regretting the negligence as it clattered on the counter. No wonder the thing had reset itself.

  Liz turned and saw Junior staring at her. Or maybe past her, to the back window. Either was unsettling. She grabbed a knife and slipped it into her back pocket, then limped back to the living room.

  “I’m going to look for our nearest neighbor, and I want you to come with me.”

  Junior didn’t respond with words, but he did follow Liz out of the house, staying behind her the entire time, even though her steps were slow and heavily weighted by effort.

  But once off the porch, he veered to the right instead of left, toward the road.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  No answer. Junior just walked over to the truck, opened it up, and pulled something out from the back seat. She already knew what it was.

  “Can I use it?” Junior held Anderson’s rifle in the air.

  “No, you can’t! That’s a dangerous weapon.”

  “Dad taught me to use it last summer.”

  “Oh?” Goddamn Anderson. “I didn’t know that.”

  “So, can I use it?”

  “I guess so.” Her heart was pounding, but she hadn’t ever fired a gun. So if they did run into a bear, or whatever the hell was out there, at least one of them would be useful. More useful than a cripple with a knife in her back pocket. “Just be careful.”

  Every step was agony. She might have suffered a sprain instead of a tear, but even after only a few hundred feet of the journey, Liz was sure she was making things much worse.

  Wouldn’t take much to turn a sprain into a tear.

  “I need to stop. Just for a minute.” She gave Junior a smile to let him know she was fine.

  “I can find the neighbor by myself.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I just need a minute.”

  “I can find the neighbor by myself.”

  “Honey …” She wanted to touch him, but the rifle kept her away. “You don’t even know where the nearest neighbor is.”

  “I can find the neighbor by myself.”

  YOU SAID THAT!

  Dee
p breath. “I’m sure you could find the neighbor by yourself. But I’m scared, and I don’t want you out there alone.” Another gasp like stolen breath, then, “I don’t want to be out here alone.”

  “Why are you scared?” he asked, his eyes suddenly soft and caring.

  “I saw something last night.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I don’t know,” Liz admitted. “Maybe a bear.”

  “What kind of a bear?”

  One with a crooked human face. “Probably a black bear.”

  “The American black bear is a medium-sized—”

  “I know. You’ve told me before.” Another fast smile. “Do you think you can help me walk?”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, and they started walking together.

  In silence until Liz finally vented her mind. “I don’t think the thing I saw was a bear.”

  “What was it, Mommy?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m worried that it might hurt you or me or maybe both of us.”

  Junior laughed, but the sound had no mirth.

  “Why are you … laughing?”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “About the bear, or whatever it was?”

  “About anything, Mommy. The trees will keep you safe. And the clicking hasn’t started yet.”

  Clicking?

  She sighed again, not even knowing where to start. “What do you mean ‘the trees will keep you safe?’”

  She wanted to know about the clicking too, but asking two questions at once meant getting neither one answered. Besides, “talking trees” might be Junior’s way of feeling safe while telling her what was on his mind. If the trees needed to send Liz a message, so be it.

  “The trees have been talking,” Junior said.

  “Who are they talking to?”

  “Anyone who knows how to hear them.”

  “And you know?” she asked.

  Junior nodded.

  “What are they saying?”

  “So many things.”

  “Have they said anything about your father?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can you tell me something that they have said? Maybe just one thing?”