Praise for These Nameless Things
“Those who enjoy Jolina Petersheim, Carrie Stuart Parks, and Tosca Lee and who appreciate mind- and genre-bending fiction will want to add this to a reading list.”
Library Journal
“In These Nameless Things, the edges of an earthly world bleed into the next. Trauma and guilt fold into an immersive fantasy that’s eerie and precise in its world building.”
Foreword Reviews
“In the tradition of C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald, and Neil Gaiman, yet with a style all his own, Shawn Smucker has invited us yet again into a magical story. Powerful, startling, and with a good dollop of heart, These Nameless Things will stick with readers long after they’ve read the final page. This book is a wonder.”
Susie Finkbeiner, author of Stories That Bind Us and All Manner of Things
“These Nameless Things is an imaginative, dark, morally complex (and therefore realistic) exploration of the distorting effects of sin, guilt, hatred, and revenge on the human spirit. With a setting seemingly just outside Dante’s hell, Smucker’s novel is something of a blending of the Divine Comedy and The Pilgrim’s Progress, indebted to both but carving out its own path.”
Daniel Taylor, author of the Jon Mote Mystery series
“A poetic, heartfelt meditation on guilt, grief, grace, and forgiveness, reminiscent of both Dante’s Inferno and Lost.”
Anne Bogel, creator of Modern Mrs. Darcy and the What Should I Read Next? podcast
Praise for Light from Distant Stars
“A compelling tale of family and faith with a paranormal twist. . . . A tense novel exploring the breadth and limitations of loyalty, forgiveness, and faith. Light from Distant Stars is a memorable dive into the human psyche.”
Foreword Reviews
“Smucker takes readers on a man’s faith journey, reconciling his past with his present and reckoning with his views on God in the midst of life’s hurdles. Told with elements of magical realism, Smucker’s take on visionary fiction is an immersive reading experience.”
ECPA
Books by Shawn Smucker
The Day the Angels Fell
The Edge of Over There
Light from Distant Stars
These Nameless Things
The Weight of Memory
Once We Were Strangers
© 2021 by Shawn Smucker
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3038-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Extracts are taken from George MacDonald, The Light Princess (Lit2Go, 1864), accessed December 28, 2020, https:/etc.usf.edu/lit2go/28/the-light-princess.
To Maile
Epigraphs
Is there a single person on whom I can press belief? No sir.
All I can do is say, Here’s how it went. Here’s what I saw.
I’ve been there and am going back.
Make of it what you will.
LEIF ENGER, Peace Like a River
Death alone from death can save.
Love is death, and so is brave.
Love can fill the deepest grave.
Love loves on beneath the wave.
GEORGE MACDONALD,
The Light Princess
And, so, there is
the weight of memory
LI-YOUNG LEE,
“The Weight of Sweetness”
Contents
Cover
Praise for These Nameless Things
Books by Shawn Smucker
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Anytime to Three Months
I’m Afraid Not
The White-Haired Woman
The Emptiness
Looking for You
Closer Than They Might Appear
The First Drowning
The Tea Party
The Field
My Own Flesh and Blood
Crossing Over
A Place in This World
Leaving
The Man in the Hotel
Driving Away
Gone Again
No Trespassing
Into Nysa
No Cares in the World
You Should Turn Around
When Everything Started Happening
An Unexpected Encounter
Night Swimming
Shirley
The Woman at the Window
What’s Real?
The Question
The End of Me
She Went Under
Desecrated
The Carpet
The Boat
Sinking
The Weight of Memory
Photographs
Was It You?
A Wedding and a Ring
Dreams and Open Windows
New Developments
The Door
Going Under
The Loss of You
The Glassy Sea
Following Her Down
Something Beyond Us
Let’s Not Leave Her Alone Anymore
Too Many Secrets
Heavy Things
She’s Gone
Our Future Spelled Out
Screams at the Cabin
So Close
When You Arrive at the End, Keep Going
It’s True
The Other Side
Reality
Swimming Underwater
Only the Deepest Pools Remain
The Open Window
When I Knew
The Clouds Bear Down
The Far Green Country
Gone
The Fly
The Nesting Doll
Two Months Later
Floating Away
Another mesmerizing story from Shawn Smucker
Prologue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Anytime to Three Months
Her words hover in the air, hummingbirds, and I hold my breath, glance up at the clock above the door, and watch the red second hand twitch its way through a minute. I pinch my bottom lip in between my teeth. There is a small piece of paper under her chair, the tiniest corner torn off, left from the previous examination. What news did that patient receive? What diagnosis?
What will I leave behind?
“I’m sorry, Dr. Cortez,” I say. “Can you repeat that?” Each of my blinks is like the shutter on an old camera, holding for an extra moment so that I see the negative of her on the inside of my eyelids. I reach up and rub my eyes. Why do I not feel a deep sadness?
I think it would be appropriate for me to feel a deep sadness.
“Mr. Elias,” she begins again, and her words have a lullaby quality to them, as if she’s explaining a monster to a child, the darkness sleeping under the bed, the movement subtly shifting in the corner of the room after the light turns off.
My mind wanders, this time to yo
u, to the happiness on your face when you see me waiting outside of the school, or how heavy your eyes are when you’re trying not to fall asleep. I think of all the made-up tales you have told me, all the imaginary friends, all the whispering voices. I realize in that moment that I can never tell you this news, because it’s a monster far too scary, a story far too dark for an eleven-almost-twelve-year-old. There is relief with the realization that I do not have to tell you. That I will not tell you. So I look over at Dr. Cortez, finally ready to listen.
“Mr. Elias,” she says, “do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I wonder how doctors can possibly appear to be so young. Like high school students. Dr. Cortez’s hair is held together in a bright pink scrunchie, and she has no wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. We have become friends through the last months, closer as the news has become increasingly worse. She has always tried to soften the blows.
The thought hums through my mind that this is a practical joke, one of those television shows where they play pranks on unsuspecting chumps. I smile to myself, eager for this to be true. I actually check the room for a hidden camera. Perhaps in the light switch, or in that pointy wall mount behind the glass jar of cotton swabs? Or in the tiny pendant that sways, barely visible inside the neck of her blue blouse where the top button sags, undone?
But there is the knot on my head behind my left temple. That is no practical joke. And there are waves of nausea, moments when I nearly black out. Those are not practical jokes. And Dr. Cortez wouldn’t lie to me. Maybe it’s God. Maybe God is the prankster here.
My face must be suitably blank, because she tells me once again, for the third time.
“Mr. Elias? There is no treatment available,” she says. “It’s too far along. I’m very sorry.” The buds of tears form in the corners of her eyes, those eyes that have no wrinkles, and the left side of her mouth twitches in a sad dance. She stands and turns away and pretends to rearrange the various pamphlets on the counter. I shift ever so slightly on the examination table, and the paper underneath me crackles like electricity.
She turns, holding out one of the pamphlets, and I take it from her smooth hands. She is a child. The words on the pamphlet read, “Hospice Care and You.”
I take another deep breath. I am full to bursting with air. I let it out in a long sigh.
“Are you still blacking out?” Her voice is probing, gentle.
I shrug, nod.
“Are your pain levels okay?”
I nod again.
When I think I’ll never find words again, five of them disturb the surface. “How long do I have?”
She clears her throat. “Mr. Elias, I don’t normally . . .” Her voice collapses in on itself.
“Dr. Cortez, I’ve been trying to get you to call me Paul for over a year now.” I try to chuckle, but no sound comes out.
“Mr. Elias . . . Paul . . .” she says.
“I understand,” I say, and my composure seems to catch her off guard. I shrug and give her a small but heavy smile. “I’m fifty-eight years old. I’ve had many good years. But I have a granddaughter in my care. She depends on me. She has no one else, and I’ll need to find someone to take her in.” My voice cracks. I clear it. My words come out all breath. “It would help, I’m sure you understand, if I had some idea.”
I have never felt so much like I’m underwater. I think of Mary. What was the last thing she thought, going under? Was she afraid? Was she thinking of me? Could she see the light from the midmorning sun, glimmering too far above her?
The doctor shakes her head. “I don’t normally . . . It’s a guessing game. You could live much longer.”
My mouth tightens into a smile. “I understand,” I say again, trying to nudge her with a kind glance. “Your best guess.”
She breathes quietly, a bird quivering in the brush. She licks her lips. Her head tilts, and her hand moves instinctively to the unbuttoned collar of her blouse, hiding the triangle of tender skin. She can’t make eye contact with me as she says the words, and this fills me with an immense amount of affection for her. It’s all I can do not to move across the small room and hug her.
“The soonest? Anytime, really.” She seems to be holding her breath. She doesn’t know where to look.
Anytime.
“And the longest? Perhaps two or three months.”
Three months.
Her chest quivers in what seems to be a stifled sob. It strikes me as both completely unprofessional and deeply human.
Between anytime and three months.
I feel a subtle relief. There it is. The finish line.
I think of you, and the relief turns sour. How can I leave you behind? Who will take care of you?
The idea comes to me as I sit in Dr. Cortez’s office. I will take you back to my hometown, back to where I grew up. Back to Nysa. I will show you the home I was born in, the creeks I fished, the small town where my friends and I caused trouble. To me it feels like the last safe place in the world, and if I have to leave you, that seems the best place to do it. I don’t know who will take you in, but the idea of driving with you through these early autumn days feels so good that I decide we will leave today. This afternoon.
Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow morning at the latest.
I stand and take a deep breath, as if everything is finally beginning. I approach the door, and Dr. Cortez doesn’t stand. I know she is very new at this—her face is in her hands. I reach down and my fingertips graze her small shoulder, and I squeeze her collarbone reassuringly. I’m surprised at how fragile it feels, like an eggshell.
“Thank you, Sarah,” I whisper. “You have always been forthright with me. I know you’ve tried many things. And I appreciate that. This will get easier. Telling people. Don’t worry.”
She reaches up to squeeze my hand, but her reach stops somewhere short of her shoulder, short of my fingers. I walk away, breathing, each step a deliberate effort to keep going.
Outside, the late September air is soft and warmer than it should be.
I’m Afraid Not
During my walk home through the city, I reassure myself once again that I don’t have to tell you about the diagnosis. The asphalt smells hot, and there is a distant beeping, perhaps from the road crew paving the next road over. The lunch hour has passed, and office workers have returned to their desks. The schoolchildren have not yet been released. The rest of us run our errands. Groceries. Post office. Doctors’ appointments. It strikes me as strange that, besides the doctor, I am the only person in the entire world who knows what I know, that my end is near.
Anytime to three months.
I imagine traveling back to my hometown, entering that strange little peninsula of Nysa from the west, the dank smell of the river as we cross the bridge before driving Cat Tail Road through the woods, passing the Steward farm on the left, driving through all those cornfields. It’s nearly fall now, but some of the corn will still be standing, lining the roads like high walls, and some of it will be cut down to dry stubble, leaving behind lines like a labyrinth. All the way to town. Maybe I’ll even take you to the cabin on the shore of the lake. How much will I tell you about what happened there forty years ago? How much will I leave out?
How much do I even know for sure?
Anytime to three months.
I glance at my watch. My house is there on the left, and it observes my approach. I know that somehow the house knows about my anytime to three months. The morning paper leans against the front stoop—I was so distracted by the knot on the side of my head and the doctor’s appointment that I was knocked out of my normal routine, forgetting to collect and read the paper after I walked you to school this morning. I pass the house, our house, and I turn left at the next alley and walk the five long blocks down to your elementary school.
That’s when the first shadow of doubt creeps into my mind. I’m not sure I can keep this news from you. You are very perceptive for eleven-almost-twelve.
Not long ago, I thought I
had received a phone call from your father, and when it turned out not to be him, what felt like a near miss almost crushed me. When I walked up to you at school that day, you reached out, took my arm in a gentle hold with one of your small hands, and gave a sad smile.
“It’s okay, Grampy,” you told me. “We’ll be okay, the two of us.”
How do you know these things?
It is still thirty minutes until your day ends, and the parking lot is full of teachers’ cars, but there are no parents, not yet. I sit on the swing and the chains protest. The thin rubber seat pulls in tight against my hips as I sag down in the middle. I push myself gently, feet not leaving the ground. I close my eyes and remember that swaying, that freedom, forward and back, forward and back. The breeze kisses the sweat on my forehead, and I wonder if I’m sweating because of this thing inside of me that’s making me die or if I’m sweating simply because it’s hot for September.
I reach up and touch the marble-sized lump above my ear. It’s a little larger than a marble now, and my stomach drops at this new realization. Evidence of the culprit. The root. The knot, always growing.
This unusual autumn day has gone from warm to hot, but the heat is comforting. It is weight, like a gravity blanket. I remember where I was the day Mary left me, how hot it was on the lake, how the water felt too warm to swim in. John, your father, only days old, had fallen asleep on my bare chest where I lay on the stale, golden sofa in the cabin. The top of his head was covered in night-black hair, fine baby hair, and he smelled like powder and sour milk and sweet drool. His eyes were small black embers rarely revealed in those early days, his yawning mouth somehow both tiny and gaping. I looked up over that fine black hair, through the glass doors that led out to the deck. Beyond it all, beyond his hair and his smell and the heat waving up off the deck, I could see the lake, and out on the lake I could see Tom and Shirley coming, each in their own kayak. Only them. And I thought, Where on earth is Mary? And why are they coming so quickly?
I hear the thunk of the heavy metal door.
“Mr. Elias?” It is Ms. Howard, your principal.
If Mary left me forty years ago next week, that means John’s birthday is . . . today? Tomorrow? Did I miss his birthday?
The Weight of Memory Page 1