Gone

by Lisa McMann

  Janie looks at Cabel and nods. She’s been wondering it.

  “Janie. Do you have any reason at all to think this dream thing could be hereditary?” The car slows and comes to a stop in the middle of the country road.

  “I don’t know,” Janie says. She glances over her shoulder nervously. “Cabe, what are you doing?”

  “Turning around,” he says. He backs into a three-point turn and hits the gas. “This is important stuff. He might have some information on this little curse of yours. And we might not have another chance.”

  12:03 p.m.

  Cabel stands at the front door of Henry’s house and pulls his driver’s license from his wallet. He works it into the crack of the door next to the handle and begins to move it side to side. He presses his lips together as he works, trying to get to the bolt to move aside so they can break in.

  Janie watches him for a moment. Then she reaches out and grabs the door handle. Turns it. The door opens.

  Cabel straightens up. “Well. Who doesn’t lock their doors these days?”

  “Somebody whose brain is exploding, maybe? Somebody who lives out in the middle of nowhere and has nothing good to steal? Somebody who’s half-crazy? Maybe he told the paramedics not to lock it because he didn’t have his keys.” Janie steps into the little house, making room for Cabel to follow. “See?” she says, pointing to a key rack on the wall with one set of keys hanging from it.

  It’s stuffy inside. Kitchen, living area, and bed are all in the main room. A doorway in the back corner appears to lead to a bathroom. There’s a radio on a bookshelf and a small TV on the kitchen counter. Hot air plunges into the room through an open, screened window at the back of the house. A thin yellow curtain flutters. Below the window is a table where an old computer sits. It appears from the coffee mug and bowl that the table serves as both an eating place and as a desk. Under the table is a three-drawer unit that looks like it once belonged to a real desk. A few papers rest on the floor as if they’d been carried there by the breeze.

  Flattened cardboard boxes lean against the wall near the back door. The bed is disheveled. A nearly empty glass of water stands on a makeshift bedside table made from a cardboard box.

  “Well,” Janie says. “There’s goes my dream of a magical surprise inheritance. Dude’s poorer than us.”

  “That’s not an easy feat,” Cabel says, taking it all in. He walks over to the desk. “Unless maybe he owns this property—it could be valuable.” Cabel shuffles through a few bills on the desk. “Or . . . not. Here’s a canceled check that says ‘rent’ in the memo line.”

  “Damn.” Janie reluctantly joins Cabel. “This feels weird, Cabe. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “You’ll never find out anything if you wait until after he’s dead—the state will take over and the landlord’s going to want a tenant who can actually pay the bills. They’ll clean this place out, sell what they can to pay the hospital, and that’s that.”

  “You sure know a lot of random shit.” Janie looks around.

  “Random, useful shit.”

  “I suppose.” She wanders around the little house. On top of the TV there are a variety of over-the-counter pain relievers. The refrigerator is half-stocked. A quart of milk, half a loaf of pumpernickel bread, a container of bologna. One shelf alone is filled with string beans, corn on the cob, tomatoes, and raspberries. Janie glances out the window to the backyard and sees a small garden and, off to the side, wild-looking bushes dotted red.

  The cupboards are mostly bare, except for a few nonmatching dishes and glasses. There’s a light layer of dust all around, but it’s not a dirty house. In the living area, there’s an old beat up La-Z-Boy recliner, an end table with a wooden lamp on it, and a large, makeshift shelving unit filled with boxes. Near it is a small bookcase. Janie pictures Henry sitting here in the evening, in the recliner, reading or watching TV in this almost-cozy house. She wonders what sort of life it was.

  She walks over to the bookcase and sees worn copies of Shakespeare, Dickens. Kerouac and Hemingway and Steinbeck, too. Some books with odd lettering that looks like Hebrew. Science textbooks. Janie removes one and looks inside. Sees what must be her father’s handwriting below a list of names that had been crossed out.

  Henry David Feingold

  University of Michigan

  She squats down and pages through the textbook, reading notes in the margin. Wonders if those are his notes, or if they belonged to someone before him. The binding is broken and some of the pages are loose so Janie closes the book and returns it to the shelf.

  Cabel is looking through papers on the desk. “Invoices,” he says. “For all sorts of weird things. Baby clothes. Video games. Jewelry. Snow globes, for Chrissakes. Wonder where he keeps it all. Kinda weird, if you ask me.”

  Janie stands up and walks over to Cabel. Picks up a notebook and opens it. Inside, in neat handwriting, is a list of transactions. No two are alike. Janie puzzles over the notebook and then she goes to the front door. Pulls the packages inside and looks at the return addresses. Matches them up in the notebook.

  She flips her hair behind her ear. “I think he must have a little Internet store, Cabe. He buys stuff cheap and sells it in his virtual store for a profit. So he’s got a little shipping/receiving department over there.” She points to the large shelving unit.

  “Maybe he goes to yard sales and buys stuff too.”

  Janie nods. “Seems weird that he’d go to school for science and end up doing this. I wonder if he got laid off or something?”

  “Considering the state of Michigan’s economy and rising unemployment rate lately, that’s entirely likely.”

  Janie grins. “You’re such a geek. I love you. I really do.”

  Cabel’s face lights up. “Thank you.”

  “So . . . ” Janie sets the notebook on the table and picks up a well-worn paperback copy of Catch-22. Pages through it, losing her train of thought. Sees a torn piece of paper used as a bookmark. Words are scribbled in pencil on the bookmark.

  Morton’s Fork.

  That’s what it says.

  Janie closes the book and sets it back down on the desk. “Now what?”

  “What do you want to do? I don’t see any evidence that he’s a dream catcher, do you?”

  “No. But would you find any evidence of that in my house if you looked?”

  Cabel laughs. “Uh, green notebook, the dream notes on your bedside table . . . ”

  “Bedside table,” Janie says, tapping her bottom lip with her forefinger. She walks over to Henry’s bed, but there’s nothing there. Just the water glass. She even pushes aside the mattress and slips her fingers between it and the box springs, feeling for a diary or journal of some sort. “There’s nothing here, Cabe. We should go.”

  “What about the computer?”

  “No—we’re not going there. Really. Let’s just go. And besides, you saw the guy. He’s not all gnarled and blind.”

  “How do you know he’s not blind? You can’t tell that.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Janie says. “But his hands looked fine.”

  “Well . . . what did Miss Stubin say in the green notebook? Mid-thirties for the hands? He can’t be much older than late thirties, forty tops, right? So maybe it just hasn’t happened yet.”

  Janie sighs. Doesn’t want to go this deep. Doesn’t want to think about the green notebook anymore. She walks to the door and stands there a moment. Bangs her head lightly against it. Then she opens it, goes outside and sits in the sweltering car until Cabel comes.

  “Hospital?” he says, hope in his voice, when he turns the car onto the road.

  “No.” Janie’s voice is firm. “We’re done with it, Cabe. I don’t care if he was the king of dream catchers. He’s probably not—he’s probably just some guy who would freak out if he knew we were snooping around inside his house. I just don’t want to pursue this anymore.” She’s tired of it all.

  Cabe nods. “Okay, okay. Not another word. Pro
mise.”

  7:07 p.m.

  At Cabel’s house, they both work out. Janie knows she’s got to keep her strength up. They have a meeting with Captain on Monday, which means an assignment looms. For the first time, Janie doesn’t feel very excited about it.

  “Any idea what Captain will have for us?” Janie asks between presses.

  “Never know with her.” Cabel breathes in and blows out fiercely as he reaches the end of his arm curl reps. “Hope it’s something light and easy.”

  “Me too,” Janie says.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Cabel puts his weights on the floor. “In the meantime, I can’t seem to stop thinking about Henry. There’s something weird about the whole situation.”

  Janie sets the bar in the cradle and sits up. “Thought you said you were going to let it go,” she says. Teases. But the curiosity takes over. “What makes you say that, anyway?”

  “Well, you said there was a connection in the dream, like you had with Miss Stubin, right? That’s what got my brain going and now I can’t stop it. And how odd, just the way he lives. He’s a recluse. I mean, he’s got that old station wagon parked in the yard, so he obviously drives, but . . . ”

  Janie looks sharply at Cabel. “Hmm,” she says.

  “Maybe it’s all just a coincidence,” he says.

  “Probably,” she says. “Like you said, he’s just a recluse.”

  But.

  10:20 p.m.

  “Goodnight, sweets,” Cabe murmurs in Janie’s ear. They’re standing on Cabel’s front stoop. Janie’s not about to sleep there again. It’s too hard. Too hard to keep her secret.

  “I love you,” she says, soulfully. Means it. Means it so much.

  “Love you, too.”

  Janie goes, arms outstretched and her fingers entwined in Cabel’s until they can’t reach anymore, and then she reluctantly lets her arm drop and walks slowly across the yards to her street, her house.

  Lies awake on her back. And her mind shifts from Cabe to the earlier events of the day. To Henry.

  12:39 a.m.

  She can’t stop thinking about him.

  Because, what if?

  And how is she supposed to know, unless . . . ?

  Janie slips out of bed, puts her clothes on and grabs her phone, house key, and a snack for energy. The bus is empty except for the driver.

  Thankfully, he’s not asleep.

  12:58 a.m.

  Janie’s flip-flops slap the hospital floor and echo through the otherwise quiet hallways. An orderly with an empty gurney nods to Janie as he exits the elevator. Up on the third floor, Janie pushes through the ICU door without hesitation. It’s dimly lit and quiet. Janie fends off the hallway dreams and, before she opens Henry’s door, goes over her plan in her mind.

  She takes a deep breath and pushes open the door, closing it swiftly behind her as everything around her goes black, and then she’s slammed by the colors and the outrageous static once again.

  The power of the dream forces Janie to her hands and knees. The attack on her senses makes gravity ten times stronger than normal. She sways inadvertently as if to avoid the giant block walls of burning color that swing toward her in 3-D. Mentally she’s trying to hear her own thoughts above the noise, and it’s incredibly difficult—it’s like she’s in a vortex of static.

  Janie’s hands and feet quickly grow numb. Blindly, she turns to the right and crawls, aiming for the bathroom so that if she has to, she can get inside and close the door. As a flaming yellow block swings toward her, Janie lunges to avoid it and feels her head connect with the hospital room wall. “Concentrate!” she yells to herself. But the noise is overpowering. All she can do is slide forward on numb stumps, hoping she’s even moving at all, and waiting for a flash of something, anything that will explain some of the mystery of Henry.

  Janie doesn’t know how much time goes by before she can’t continue moving.

  Before she can no longer press on, unable to fight any longer. Unable to find the bathroom, to break the connection.

  It’s as if she’s fallen through ice, engulfed in frigid water. Numb, both body and mind. Even the noise and the colors are muted.

  Things stop mattering.

  She can’t feel herself flopping around wildly.

  Doesn’t know she’s losing consciousness.

  Doesn’t care anymore either. She just wants to give up, let the nightmare overtake her, engulf her, fill her brain and body with the endless clamor and sickening dazzle.

  And it does.

  Soon, everything goes black.

  But then.

  In Janie’s own unconsciousness, the picture of a madman, a hairy, screaming madman that is her own father, slowly appears from the darkness before her.

  He reaches toward her, his fingers black and bloody, his eyes deranged, unblinking. Janie is paralyzed. Her father’s cold hands reach around her neck, squeezing tight, tighter, until Janie has no breath left. She’s unable to move, unable to think. Forced to let her own father kill her. As his grasp tightens further around Janie’s neck, Henry’s face turns sickly alabaster. He strains harder and begins to shake.

  Janie is dying.

  She has no fight left in her.

  It’s over.

  Just as she has given up, her father’s chalky face turns to glass and shatters into a dozen pieces.

  His grip around Janie’s neck releases. His body disappears.

  Janie falls to the ground, gasping, next to the pieces of her father’s exploded face. She looks at them, sucking breath, finally able to move.

  Raises herself up.

  And there, instead of seeing her father in the glass,

  She sees her own horrified, screaming face, reflected back at her.

  Static once again.

  For a very.

  Very.

  Long time.

  Janie realizes that she might be stuck here. Forever.

  2:19 a.m.

  And then.

  A flicker of life.

  A flash of a woman’s figure in a dark gymnasium, a portrait of a man on a chair . . .

  And a voice.

  Distant. But clear. Distinct.

  Familiar.

  The voice of hope in one person’s ever-darkening world.

  “Come back,” the woman says. Her voice is sweet and young.

  She turns to face Janie. Steps into the light.

  Standing on strong legs, her eyes clear and bright. Her fingers, not gnarled, but long and lovely. “Janie,” she says in earnest. “Janie, my dear, come back.”

  Janie doesn’t know how to come back.

  She is exhausted. Gone. Gone from this world and hovering somewhere no other living person could possibly be.

  Except for Henry.

  Janie’s mind is flooded with the new scene, a soft and quiet scene, of a man in a chair, and a woman, now standing in the light imploring Janie to come back. The woman walks over to Henry, stands beside him. Henry turns and looks at Janie. Blinks.

  “Help me,” he says. “Please, please, Janie. Help me.”

  Janie is terrified of him. Still, there is nothing she can do but help.

  It is her gift.

  Her curse.

  She is unable to say no.

  Compelled, Janie pulls herself to attention, to full awareness, scared to death that the horrible din and burning colors will return at any moment, dreading getting anywhere near this man who turns mad and strangles her. Wishing she could gather the strength to pull herself from this nightmare now, while she has the chance. But she cannot.

  Janie struggles silently to her feet in the gymnasium. With effort, she walks toward the two, her footsteps echoing. She has no idea what to do for Henry. Sees nothing that she can do to help. Really only wants to tie him up, or maybe kill him, so he doesn’t have the chance to hurt her.

  She stops a few feet away from them. Stares at the woman standing there, not quite believing her eyes. “It’s you,” she says. She feels a rush of relie
f. Her lip quivers. “Oh, Miss Stubin.”

  Miss Stubin reaches out and Janie, overwhelmed by seeing her again and incredibly weak from this nightmare, stumbles into her arms. Miss Stubin’s grip is strong, full of comfort. It repairs some of Janie’s strength. Janie is filled with emotion as she feels the warmth, the love in Miss Stubin’s touch. “There, you’re all right,” Miss Stubin says.

  “You,” Janie says. “You’re . . . I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you again.”

  Miss Stubin smiles. “I have been quite enjoying my time with Earl since I last saw you. It’s good to be whole again.” She pauses, eyes twinkling. They pick up the dim rays of light coming in through the gymnasium’s tiny upper windows. And then she looks toward the mute Henry, who sits ever still. “I believe I’m here for Henry . . . I think to bring him home, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I don’t know myself why I’m summoned to other catchers’ dreams.”

  Janie’s eyes widen. “So, it’s true. He really is one.”

  “Yes, apparently so.”

  They look at Henry, and then at each other. Silent, pondering. The dream catchers, all together in one place.

  “Wow,” Janie murmurs. She turns back to Miss Stubin. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? You said in the green notebook that there weren’t any other living dream catchers.”

  “I didn’t know about him.” She smiles. “It appears he needs your help, first, before he can come with me. I’m glad you came.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Janie says. “His dreams are horrible.”

  “He hasn’t many left,” Miss Stubin says.

  Janie presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “He’s my father. You knew that, right?”

  Miss Stubin shakes her head. “I didn’t know. So it’s hereditary, then. I’ve often wondered. It’s why I didn’t have children.”

  “Did you—?” Janie’s suddenly struck by a thought. “You’re not related, are you? To us, I mean?”

  Miss Stubin smiles warmly. “No, my dear. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Janie laughs softly at the craziness of it. “Do you think that maybe there are others out there, then? Besides me?”