Throughout all Janet’s harassment, Milton told her what he’d told Lisa that morning, that the whole thing had just been a big mistake. He’d overreacted to a nightmare he’d had two nights earlier that had confused him with its utter realism.
“Did you call that woman?” Janet asked. “The boy’s mother?”
“Yes. I already told you I did.”
“And what did she say to you?”
“Nothing. She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Daddy, please tell us the truth. What did the woman say to you when you spoke to her?”
“She didn’t say anything! She told me Adrian—” Milton stopped, started over again. “She said the boy is okay, that I had to be mistaken about the accident. And I was. I was just mistaken. Talking to her helped me see that.”
Milton refused to discuss the matter further.
He sat down in front of his television and lapsed into silence, acting like Janet and Lisa had gone and left him in peace. They watched him from the kitchen and debated what to do. Janet was sure their father’s denial of the accident was a lie, a smokescreen he was only putting up to satisfy a need, and Lisa was inclined to agree. But what need? Certainly it had nothing to do with any sensitivity to what his children might think of him. As recently as that morning, he hadn’t appeared to give a damn how insane Janet and Lisa thought he was. He’d seemed prepared to take to the grave his false memory of killing a stranger’s child, regardless of the consequences.
What had happened to him since—what had this woman Diane Edwards said to him—to so dramatically change his mind?
Janet renewed her pestering and drew only more vacuous responses from him. Nothing had happened. He’d been confused and now he wasn’t. They could stop worrying and go home.
They never did stop worrying, but they did eventually go home.
* * *
Milton waited for several minutes to pass after Lisa, trailing her sister, closed the door behind her, before he allowed the breath it felt like he’d been holding for three hours to escape from his lungs. He sank into the chair like a stone, lacking the strength to sit up straight for a moment longer.
He didn’t know if he could do this. It was too hard, and he was too old. Adrian Edwards’s father had been very clear about what he, his wife, and Milton all needed to do—proceed from this day forward as if the accident last March had never occurred—but Milton couldn’t see himself perpetuating such a colossal ruse indefinitely. Lies no longer came as easily to him as they once did, and this would be the biggest lie he had ever thought to tell.
And yet he would have to tell it, over and over again. He would have to find a way. Because Adrian Edwards was alive again. Milton had seen the boy and held his hand and felt the new life in him, and as much as it terrified him to do so, Milton could make peace with only one explanation for such a phenomenon: it was God’s work. Inexplicable and without any discernible point, other than to erase the enduring pain of three people.
Ever since leaving the restaurant that afternoon, Milton had done little but weigh the relative merits of alternative theories, specifically that of Adrian’s teacher, Laura Carrillo, who apparently believed the accident and Adrian’s death were mere illusions the Edwardses had somehow cast on, and then erased from, the minds of dozens of people. On one level, this was no more ridiculous an idea than the other, and yet, try as he might, Milton could not bring himself to buy into it. It was one thing to grant a god unlimited powers, and another to concede such powers to two mere mortals. Milton didn’t know what the events of the last two days were about—he feared he may never know—but he was certain they were part of something much larger, and of greater consequence, than a man-made scam.
So here he was, left with nothing to do but believe in this miracle and accept the responsibility of helping keep it intact. If it were to somehow come undone, as the boy’s mother feared it might, he did not want to be the reason. He had to live with the knowledge this incredible thing had happened while pretending to be ignorant of it. Play the senile old man who had let a bad dream shake his hold on reality, and bear all the humiliation that would earn him, resisting the lure of alcohol throughout. For one night, at least, he had managed to meet these demands.
Tomorrow, he would try to do so again.
* * *
Allison put off going home for as long as she could. In recent weeks, the house had increasingly become a place her instincts urged her to avoid. There was a funereal quality to it now that had never been there before, a chill that filled every room and permeated every corner. Day or night, lights on or off—even when Flo was there, she wasn’t—and the house that had once felt so warm to Allison felt cold and empty tonight, like a warehouse stripped bare by thieves.
Much to Allison’s surprise, Flo was waiting for her when she walked in, just after nine p.m. The late night at the office had apparently been put off, and Flo was sitting in the living room reading a book, or rather, sitting there with the prop of an open book in her lap, an actor setting the stage for the scene to come. Allison didn’t need to enter the kitchen to know that no dinner awaited her. It was clear from the look on Flo’s face that such amenities were not on the evening’s agenda.
Before a word could be spoken, Allison knew everything Flo was about to say. She told herself, Breathe. Just breathe.
“Hi.”
Flo closed the book, remained in the chair. “Hi.”
“I was right. You are sleeping with her.”
Allison could see the pretty little brunette perched there behind her desk, peering up at Flo as she laughed her sexy, deep-throated laugh. Professor Patricia Averson.
Flo shook her head. “No. I’m not.” She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “But I want to. And it’s probably just a matter of time before I do.”
“Baby—”
“It’s no good, Ally. I’m sorry. I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m not happy and you aren’t, either, and neither of us has been for a very long time.”
I’m not in love with you. That would come next. It was the only thing left for Flo to say. On one hand, Allison needed to hear her say it, to make Flo utter the words just to watch her squirm. But that would be the end, a line that could not be erased once it was drawn, and even now, with their breakup a foregone conclusion, Allison wasn’t ready. No, please, no.
“I’m not in love with you anymore,” Flo said. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, and I’m just not.”
Flo never cried, but she was crying now, quietly and soberly, like everything else she did. No wasted effort.
Allison went to the couch and sat down while she still had the strength to move.
Flo forged ahead, emboldened to speak the truth now that the spell of denial had been broken. “It’s not all your fault. Some of this falls on me. Maybe I expect too much. Maybe I’ll look back some day and hate myself for doing this. But I don’t think so. I think we’re just two different people who went in two different directions, and you aren’t what I need anymore.”
“Because I’m not the success you are,” Allison said. Her own tears were coming, oh, yes, but not until she had said her piece. She had that much pride left, at least.
“No. I mean. . . .” Flo shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You think I’m a loser.”
“No. I think you’ve tried, Ally. I think you’ve tried as hard as you know how. You just haven’t found a way to make it work.” Flo paused. “You aren’t a loser, but you aren’t a winner, either.”
“And you need to be with someone who is.”
Flo’s nod carried all the weight of a wrecking ball.
They fell silent together, Flo with nothing else to say, Allison too numb to speak. She was dizzy from the pain, yet perversely euphoric. All her dread, her agonizing wait for the worst, was over. The worst was finally here.
Preparing for this day, she had built a case for herself many times. She was a good person with a big heart, solidly attractive. She was smart and eager to learn, and nobody could make Flo laugh with greater ease. Allison was loyal to a fault and open to compromise, and she’d cut her left hand off at the wrist before she’d cheat on a partner. She had given Flo everything she had.
It was a compelling argument, but she knew it couldn’t counter the one Flo had used against her: Allison was a failure. Flo had a career; Allison had a dream. One was hard currency, the stuff home loans and six-figure retirement accounts were made of. The other was play money, a gambler’s IOU. Flo had held that IOU for the last five years, her love for Allison strong enough to compensate for its ever-diminishing value, and now she was done pretending to believe it would ever pay off.
Flo was worth fighting for, she always had been, but much to Allison’s amazement, she realized there was no more fight left in her. One could hold the inevitable back for only so long.
“All right,” she said.
“I do care for you. You know that. I just—”
“It’s okay. I understand. But if you don’t mind, I’m not up to hearing any more about it right now.” Allison pulled herself to her feet. “I’m going to go pack a bag, find someplace to be alone for a while.”
“Ally—”
Allison headed off to the bedroom, determined not to let Flo see her crash and burn.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SLEEPLESS NIGHTS WERE nothing new to Michael.
For months after Adrian’s death, he had endured a countless number of such nights. Eyes closed or open, it made no difference. The thought of his dead son would give him no rest.
Eventually, however, time and a fistful of sedatives would grant him some relief. A few minutes of sleep became an hour, one hour became a smattering of several. It was restless sleep, a roiling sea of dreams and memories both true and false, but it was sleep. These days, he spent only the outer fringes of every evening thinking about Adrian and the accident that had taken his life. There were still occasions when he would wake before dawn and pursue sleep again with only middling results, but these were few and far between.
Tonight was a sleepless night unlike any other.
The grief that usually drove his insomnia had been replaced by fear. Instead of his past, it was his future that held him awake now, flopping in bed alongside his wife and son like a fish on a trawler floor. Diane seemed not to notice, spooning Adrian with her back turned to Michael, the two of them the very picture of blissful slumber. But Michael was not fooled. Despite all appearances, he could not imagine Diane’s sleep was any less tortured than his own.
They had talked past midnight, going over the day’s events in the breathless tones of two people in the path of some onrushing doom. Things were spinning out of their control. The secret of Adrian’s resurrection was now in the possession of three other people, and none could be counted on to remain silent about it. Laura Carrillo had made it clear she would do the exact opposite. Her fiancé, drawn by obligation alone to take her side, was as likely to speak openly of Adrian’s return as she, and Milton Weisman—poor, old, confused Milton Weisman—was a wild card: well-intentioned and sympathetic to their cause, but only halfway convinced they weren’t all insane. There was no predicting what Milton would do, or whom he might invite, inadvertently or otherwise, into the circle of those aware of God’s recent handiwork.
That this handiwork was intended to be known only by the four people presently cognizant of it was becoming increasingly apparent. Others could join their ranks over time, but Michael had the sense no one would. God would have given sight to the entire world had He wanted His miracle widely known from the outset, and the more people were aware of it, the greater was the risk that word of it would spread. And then what?
Questions and accusations. Adoration and ridicule. Demands for answers no one had; not Michael, not Diane, and most certainly, not Adrian himself. Was God expecting the three of them, along with Carrillo and Weisman, to make believers out of millions all by themselves?
Michael didn’t think so, and neither did Diane. Their hearts and silent prayer, offered together and alone, told them God had other plans for them. They were not being called to speak the truth but to hold it close. Defend it as long and hard as they could, and encourage Laura Carrillo and Milton Weisman to do the same. God’s endgame, and His reasons for choosing the four of them to help Him achieve it, would be revealed in time. They just had to be patient, and ready to do God’s bidding when their moment came. Because failure was not an option. Diane knew it, and now Michael did, too.
It was this last thought that ultimately drove him from his wife’s bed, the alarm clock on her nightstand making a crimson note of the time: 2:47 a.m. He stood and watched them for a moment, the wife and son he’d thought only days ago were lost to him forever, then slipped quietly out of the room.
He went to the kitchen and made some coffee, sat at the breakfast table giving no thought to drinking the cup he’d poured for himself.
A silent sentinel on watch for something outside his powers to stop.
* * *
Diane opened her eyes.
She lay in the dark, curled into a crescent, her arms wrapped around her son. Or. . . .
She felt around, fingers encountering thin air. She was holding on to nothing. Adrian wasn’t there. She started to scream—
—and woke up.
Adrian stirred in her arms but held fast to sleep. She drew him closer, put her face to the back of his head, and breathed him in. Without turning, she could sense Michael was gone. She didn’t know where, but she thought she knew why. He was afraid. She was afraid. Fear was a dangerous affront to the power that had brought Adrian back, but it could no longer be held at arm’s length. Now that her son was here in her arms, his death unraveled by the mercy of God like a spool of black thread, the thought of losing him again was more terrifying than anything Diane could imagine, worse even than the horror she had felt that morning at Lakeridge Park, racing to the spot where Milton Weisman’s car had deposited the crumpled remains of her only child.
She had known doubt before. Two, three months ago, when all her praying had garnered her only silence, she would fill entire days with the business of despising herself and the faith to which she was so stubbornly, stupidly clinging. She had come close to giving up many times, to leaving Adrian in his grave and welcoming her descent into her own, but thankfully she could never finish the job. So she lived with fear as it came and went, too weak not to feel it yet too strong to let it win out.
She would have to be that strong now. This new, darker form of terror could take her but it would not hold her. Maybe she and Michael had little say in what was to come, maybe their time with Adrian was already being measured in days and not years, but whatever happened from this point forward, it would not be Diane’s punishment for having lost faith. Her belief that all things were possible in God had once been strictly out of habit, guided only by instinct and desperation. But not now. Now she had a solid rock upon which to pin her faith, more evidence that God was real and merciful than any skeptic could ever ask for, and as long as she had that evidence, as long as she could touch it, and feel it, and clutch it to her breast, she had no reason, no right, to be afraid.
And yet she was.
She hugged Adrian tighter and hung on for dear life.
FRIDAY
TWENTY-EIGHT
IT WAS TIME TO TALK to Adrian.
The thought had occurred to Laura before. Who else could be counted on more to tell her the truth, however little of it he knew? But the opportunity to speak to him away from his parents had yet to present itself, and it had taken her this long to reach the point where envisioning herself and the boy alone in a room did not completely unnerve her. She no longer believed him to be a ghost, but neither was she convinced he was human.
/> Because her memories of the last eight months refused to fade, despite all her efforts to dismiss them, and they simply did not, would not jibe with the idea that Adrian’s death had been a mere hoax. Mere mortals couldn’t make one woman remember eight months that never happened, while making dozens of others forget them. Something larger than two scam artists faking the death of a child was going on here, and act of God or no, Adrian was unlikely to be the same seven-year-old boy Laura had known and deeply loved.
This was why the thought of talking to him now, as she sat at her kitchen table nursing a cup of tea in the predawn hours, frightened her so. She didn’t know what he might tell her, or how much worse it would be to hear it. But Laura had no choice. They had all forced her into this corner—Howard Alberts, Noreen Ives, even Elliott—and the only hope she had of fighting her way out of it was the truth. She had risked everything taking the reporter into her confidence, and lost Elliott in the bargain. He was convinced Hope was only out for herself, in Laura’s corner not for the facts but for the salacious, and if he was right, it was up to Laura, and Laura alone, to save herself.
If she could remember the old man’s name, the one who’d killed Adrian in the park, she might be able to track him down and force him to talk to her. Tell her everything he knew about what was happening and why. But all she had for him still was a last name—Weinman—and she wasn’t even sure about that. She’d tried looking him up online to no avail; adding to her growing frustration and confusion, she’d been unable to find a single word on the internet relating to Adrian’s death or its aftermath. Yet another impossibility she was being asked to accept without complaint.
In Things Unseen Page 19