by Abe Moss
“Our last test, we discussed the events leading up to your final night at the Holmes residence. I know that was difficult to talk about. You did very well, by the way.”
She flashed her proud eyes up at him while she wrote. He only barely caught this gesture, however, as his mind was already under the influence of the helmet, showing him the briefest flashes of that night again, the looks on everyone’s faces around the dinner table, the blood, the screams. It seemed the helmet dug its claws in deeper and much faster the second time around.
“Today, I want to go back further. Before the Holmes residence. I’m sure this won’t be much easier to discuss, but hopefully enough time has passed that you won’t feel as uneasy about it.”
He knew perfectly well what she referred to, and she was wrong. He wished to discuss it even less than the Holmes residence.
“I’d like us to talk about your mother.”
Emmett closed his eyes. His mother’s face stained the darkness there like negative film, her features bright and alien and penetrating. He opened his eyes instead, watching Dr. Marks possessed by the pen in her hand, not sure what he liked seeing better.
“Marion Callahan. Twenty-six years old. Eighteen when she gave birth to you. Very young, but it’s a common age for mental illness to manifest. Can you describe to me, Emmett, the nature of your mother’s illness? As you saw it?”
His mind shuffled like playing cards over a table, each one a different image he was reluctant to turn over and reveal. What was his mother’s illness? While he knew she wasn’t altogether right, it was difficult to draw the line. Until his mother had used the word herself, he hadn’t defined it that way.
Crazy.
Was that what she was? Others would have him believe as much. And the fear those memories conjured up made him inclined to agree.
“My mom…” He turned the cards over one after the other, each alternating scene a contradiction to the last. What came out of his mouth was honest, but he wasn’t sure it answered the question. “She liked to read really weird books.”
As vague as it was, deep down he felt that described his feelings at their core. She wasn’t mentally ill or crazy or sick or any other word for it. She was weird. And depending on the day, sometimes he loved her for it and other days he feared her.
Dr. Marks bit her lip, intrigued. “That’s good, Emmett. Let’s follow that train of thought. What kind of books did your mother like to read?”
Their old pages fluttered across the room in his mind’s eye, the sour-sweet scent of age behind them. Yellowed and eaten at their edges. Words he believed he’d never learn in his lifetime scrawled in tiny print across them. They were always heavy, their covers hard and thick enough to survive the test of time, and no matter how often his mother opened them they seemed just as full of dust.
“They were really old.” He imagined his mother at home, in their little apartment, with books open all over the floor and on their tiny kitchen table. His mother going from one to the next like she couldn’t make up her mind which she wanted to read. “And she took lots of notes, too, like you.”
“Did she ever read these books to you?”
She had, and it was always a kind of game. The words made no sense. She’d read them, smiling, trying to make him laugh at their absurd sounds. Then he would read them, too, after her, mimicking the way she pronounced the objects on the pages which he didn’t even recognize as being words at all. More like pictures, some of them.
“Yes.”
“Were they stories? What were they about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think they were about anything.”
“Did she ever tell you what they were for?”
“Wait…” he said, remembering.
He recalled his mother describing some of them to him. She would sit him in her lap and read the words like a story, even if he didn’t understand anything she said. The sound of her voice soothed him. Sitting across from Dr. Marks, he heard it plainly, as though his mother shared the room with them, standing just behind his chair, leaning over and whispering into his ear.
This is a story about old, old times…
She had described what some of the books were, now he thought about it, but never had she translated them for him into something he could follow. And yet, somehow, he remembered being fascinated by them… strange…
This book tells us who we are… and who we used to be…
He closed his eyes and he was in his mother’s arms again, sitting in their cramped apartment full of things no average child would find any interest in. She flipped the pages, reading the words, describing them to him, though mostly he waited for the pictures. Usually depicting people dressed in very outdated clothes.
“They were about the past,” he said. “Like history books, except…”
This one’s about you, Emmett…
Just then Dr. Marks made a sound. He opened his eyes, distracted, and caught her scrutinizing the helmet on his head, deciphering whatever it must have been doing at that moment.
“What is it you’re remembering, Emmett?” She jotted down the helmet’s truths or untruths. Not knowing what it told about him made him fidget uncomfortably. “Go on…”
“Some of those old books were about… the future…”
…you and me, exploring our world as no one else has ever done…
“There were stories about what would happen in the future, and she’d say…” Eyes closed once more, his mother’s loving grip around him in an embrace, rocking together in the dim lamplight of their shabby, cluttered apartment. “…she’d talk about how we were going to change the world someday.”
Dr. Marks hmmm’d, writing quickly, making a book of her own.
“Did you believe her?”
He wasn’t under the impression he was ever meant to believe her. They were only stories, after all. His mother’s enthusiasm filled him up like a warm cup of hot cocoa and no matter what she told him, truth or fiction, he was more than happy just to hear it and be along for the ride…
“I don’t know.”
“Did you believe you and your mother would someday change the world together?”
He thought back to those moments, to his mother’s stories. Were they stories, or were they promises? How had she presented them? In his mind, he imagined them as the former. Magical tales.
“They were just stories…”
Dr. Marks nodded, satisfied by his answer. “You’re so young… it’s fascinating how independent you are in your own thoughts, Emmett. Impressive. You should be quite proud.”
He wasn’t proud. He knew almost nothing. All he did know was that his mother had a lot of ideas about things—things he never felt any strong connection to, like she had—and the longer he remained apart from her, the more those ideas atrophied in his own mind.
“These stories your mother told you… They weren’t stories to her. She believed them entirely. Did you get that feeling as well?”
Emmett didn’t say.
“Do you know what it’s called when people believe in things that are impossible, beyond rational thought? Truly believe in them? They’re called delusions. They’re a sign of being mentally unwell. Your mother had many. Did you ever feel endangered by your mother’s delusions?”
“I don’t think so…”
“One of them was that—yes—you and she were destined to change the world. She believed you were very special. Which, of course, many children are special in their own ways. I believe you’re special, too. But your mother’s belief was quite… spectacular. You never knew your father, did you?”
Emmett gawked, his mind gone temporarily dumb by the question.
Out of the dark pools of his thoughts, an image sprang like a crocodile, snapping its vivid jaws at him in sudden ambush. He flinched in his chair as it happened, gasped—so real and present that it made his existence in Dr. Marks’ office questionable as being the true one.
“Emmett?” Dr. Marks asked. “What are y
ou experiencing?”
“I…”
It was hard to think. It was the helmet. His thoughts, memories. They took to the foreground, pushing Dr. Marks and her desk and her notebooks and binders and even his mother’s trinket into the back, behind smoke and sound.
Her voice was far. “What is it, Emmett?”
The concrete was broken up into pieces.
“I don’t know…” he managed to say. His eyelids were wrinkled, he squeezed them so tightly. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re lying,” came the doctor’s voice, getting farther. “Tell me what you see. Emmett? Stay with me, all right? Tell what you see.”
“I don’t see anything,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair. It was less to deceive her than it was to convince himself. “I don’t know what I see…”
In an attempt to keep him anchored with her, Dr. Marks began asking him many other questions, perhaps hoping to derail the current train of thought which was taking him elsewhere.
“Tell me more about your mother’s beliefs.” There was an odd ripple to her voice—up and down, up and down. “Were you aware of the things your mother did in the pursuit of her beliefs? Emmett? Are you there? Come back to me, now. Pay attention to what I’m saying… Can you hear me?”
He did, less and less.
A shovel. A book. A knife. A boy.
“Did you know that?”
He’d missed something. Her questions were falling out of place.
“Emmett, were you with her when she did it? Were you with her when…
when…
when…”
His head was warm. Getting warmer. Hot, almost. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face from his temples. It almost felt good, except at the rate the heat was growing he felt it might burn him any moment.
“Oh my… Emmett…”
He heard something else then. Popping. Fizzing. Humming. He couldn’t move, even as the heat threatened to cook him. As though someone had trained a magnifying glass over him, directing a hot sunray onto the top of his head…
A darkness swelled over them, pulsing. A terrible thing. Right over their heads. What had she done? He almost didn’t recognize her. It must have been a mistake. An accident. Right over their heads.
The blood. It was on the cement, on her wounded hand. The dust in the air. The magic.
…you and I decide our own destinies…
The heat ignited into flame—a detonation—but before the sound of it could reach him, before it could rip him out from the sinking past, those dark pools dragged him under, gripped him with the weight of their crocodile jaws.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A MOTHER’S MAGIC
His mother bent over the basement wreckage, grunting and grabbing chunks of concrete and tossing them aside into the beginnings of a pile.
“It’ll go faster if you help me,” she said.
Each chunk she tossed, he turned his worried face to the ceiling.
“It’s not just us,” he said. “Someone else is here. I saw them upstairs…”
His mother paused. “Emmett, you were supposed to wait in the kitchen…”
“We’re going to wake them up.”
She moved toward him, put a hand on his shoulder.
“They won’t hear us. They’re very heavy sleepers.”
Sleepers, he thought?
“How many are there?” he asked.
“Two. Both sleeping very heavily. We can make as much noise as we’d like.”
“We can?”
She nodded. Grinned. “They’re under a magic spell. We can’t wake them.”
The idea not only made sense to him—how else could they not have heard the blast?—it was also thrilling, to believe magic was at work. Normally he brushed his mother’s silly comments about such things away, detecting her humor, but this time he knew it could be the only explanation.
He smiled, too.
“There it is,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Are we okay, then? Will you help me?”
He agreed and together they began clearing the larger chunks of concrete, revealing dirt underneath.
Quickly exhausted, Emmett paused, panting, amazed at how consistently his mother grabbed and tossed, grabbed and tossed, never seeming to slow. Through panting breath, she looked up at him, tossing another chunk aside.
“You getting tired?”
“No,” he said. “Just taking a break.”
She gave him a wink and continued clearing the debris. She lifted one rather large chunk in both hands, her biceps flexing, and heaved it. It landed with a loud smack, and they both paused. His eyes lifted to the ceiling again.
“See?” his mother said. “Loud as we want.”
“You’re strong,” he told her.
“Am I?” She flexed both arms. “Bet I’m not as strong as you. Show me yours.”
He flexed his arms as well, and they both giggled.
“You want to know my secret?” She knelt down and, reaching down the front of her shirt, fished out the pendant hanging around her neck. Black and smooth, that tiny white jewel in the center.
“Your necklace?”
“It was a gift from your father. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No,” he said, abruptly sobered at the mention of him.
She held the pendant in her open palm, admiring it. “It’s got his strength in it. It makes me strong, too. Do you want to wear it?”
He shook his head that he did not. It sounded wrong, to wear someone else’s gift. He’d never met his father. Perhaps he wouldn’t have wanted him touching his mother’s necklace. It was hers, and only hers…
He wouldn’t tell his mother that, though.
“I don’t need it,” he said coolly. “I’m strong enough already.”
She smirked. “All right. I’m sure you are.”
It wasn’t long before most of the bigger pieces were in a pile, leaving just the smaller rocks and broken pebbles behind, which he helped gather up in small handfuls, scattering them likewise into their collection. Soon it was just the dirt, flattened and hard, hidden under the concrete for so long.
“Now what?” Emmett asked, panting.
“Now…” His mother fetched the shovel leaning against the wall. “We dig.”
She told him she’d understand if he needed a break, which he did.
It felt like hours that he watched her dig. His eyes were heavy. He blinked slowly and yawned. Soon the sun would be up, he thought. His mother stuck the shovel into the hard, forgotten earth, kicked it deeper with the heel of her shoe. Shiny with sweat. The pile of dirt grew larger by the minute. It turned into a heap. Soon it was approaching the size of the rubble pile, and his mother’s legs disappeared below the knees into the hole she’d dug. And still she continued, not asking for so much as a glass of water.
“Aren’t you tired?” Emmett asked, feeling sleepy just watching her. Or maybe it was just the hour.
“Getting there,” she said, yet she showed no signs of stopping.
That was almost a kind of magic in itself. He wondered if it was true what she said. His father’s strength…
“I’m tired,” he admitted. “I want to go home…”
“If you need to close your eyes, I’ll understand.”
He thought that sounded nice. He lay on the cold, hard basement floor, head rested on his hands. Not the most comfortable way to nap. He wished they would be done already, so they could go home where he could sleep in an actual bed. His bed. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of his mother’s endless labor.
✽ ✽ ✽
He opened his eyes, and for an instant forgot where they were. The ground was cold where he lay. The light above them was a dim, sickly white. His mother was crouched beside him, hand on his head.
“Hey, sleepy head.”
He lifted his sleepy head, remembering where they were in bits and pieces. He sat up. His mother stood, stepped away to give him a view.
“It
’s finished.”
He climbed to his feet, rubbing the nap from his eyes. His jaw dropped when he saw what she’d accomplished. All by herself, he thought. The hole was round and deep, deeper than he could ever dig. His mother stood with her hands on her hips, as though the effort hadn’t worn her out in the least.
“What’s it for?”
His mother sighed. “That’s just it. We’re not quite done yet. There’s a bit more to do… and I could really use your help with the rest.”
“Can’t we finish it tom—”
“But!” she interrupted. “For the next part… I’ll need you to be extra brave for me. That means no complaining. No worrying. Can you do that?”
He stared into the hole, to the giant pile of dirt beside it, shoveled over the pile of concrete. The basement looked much different than when they’d first arrived.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“It’s time for us to finish what we started. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can go home.”
Except going home wasn’t part of the plan. He heard it in her voice. The sound of an empty promise. He chewed the inside of his cheek, knowing better and at the same time trusting her regardless. Unconditionally. Even if she lied, it wouldn’t be at his expense. It never was.
“We’re so close,” she said. “Just a bit more work.”
“What do you mean I need to be brave?”
She led them upstairs into the kitchen, still dark with night, the morning farther off than he’d hoped. He followed her into the living room, toward the hallway he’d already traveled once before.
“Where are we going?” he whispered.
She paused near the end of the hall, at the last door full of moonlight, and turned to face him. She whispered, too.
“To get our sleeping friends.”
His breath caught in his throat. “Are we going to wake them up?”
She shook her silhouetted head. “We need to get them downstairs.”
Alarms were going off, loud and blaring between his ears. He put his hand to his mouth, chewed his knuckle anxiously while his mother proceeded into the moonlight, into the bedroom. The figure in the bed lay just as he remembered. His mother walked the length of the bed until she stood next to them.