Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886
USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Coil
Copyright © 2012 by L.A. Gilbert
Cover Art by Anne Cain
[email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-62380-020-8
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
October 2012
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62380-021-5
Dedication
Dedicated to any parents reading this book who accept and love their children unconditionally.
Prologue
THREE years could be a long time, or not long enough, depending on what you were waiting for. For Mattie, it had been a torturously slow period, though now that the waiting was over, he found himself more than a little anxious at the prospect of seeing Simon again.
Simon, who was his silent pen pal, his biggest supporter, and the love of his fucking life. Simon, the guy who had helped him get where he was today and had waited patiently ever since, was in this very building. The notion of him being nervous at finally seeing him again was understandable, he supposed, but the idea of him actually being afraid of seeing him felt ridiculous.
Surely the cover of Simon’s new book was indication enough that the writer’s feelings were unaltered. Looking down at the book he held in his hands, he felt his throat grow thick as he studied the picture. It was a photograph taken of a small child with a man crouching beside him, the pair of them studying something on the ground and the image silhouetted in a way that made it obvious that it had been taken by an unskilled hand.
He remembered that day—the old saying ringing so true—like it was yesterday. It was taken during their trip to the zoo, just the three of them. In fact, he still carried around with him a small gift given to him that day by Simon. A small smile played on his lips; he wondered if Jamie still had his giant panda.
He knew that the picture had to be some sort of red flag meant for him, he just didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. That Simon had ventured to New York in part to see him was a given. Surely the stack of postcards marked from San Diego back at his apartment proved as much, those postcards being his only link to Simon at all. Like clockwork, a new one would arrive every two weeks, not a single word written on it but serving as a silent “I’m still in this.” His were much the same. What was throwing him off was Simon’s sudden, unexpected visit to New York.
They were approaching the end of their agreed separation, but they hadn’t actually discussed how to go about ending it, or who would be the one to speak first. They’d maintained radio silence as per their rushed agreement to make the separation easier. If the postcards stopped coming during their break, then it was time to move on. It was as easy as that. But they hadn’t stopped. In fact, the last one he’d received had been only five days ago—only this one had broken the rules. This one had the words “The Corner Bookstore, 1313 Madison Avenue” written in Simon’s elegant handwriting, but with no mention of a date.
So naturally he’d Googled the hell out of Simon’s name for any upcoming book-related visits to New York, and discovered that the acclaimed writer was due to visit the independent bookstore for a book signing. Now, heart in his throat, he waited at the back of a long queue which he assumed led to Simon.
He was undecided, but there was still good a chance that he might throw up or pass out or both.
“Excuse me, but are you…?”
“Oh. I’m sorry, ah….” Mattie blinked, startled out of his daydreams. “Why don’t you go ahead?” He gestured with his book, an “after you” gesture. The woman offered him a friendly, if not slightly unnerved smile, and gladly took his place in the queue, putting him once again to the back of the line with a clear escape route to the storefront, which was becoming more and more appealing by the second.
If he hadn’t been so busy fighting off a panic attack, he’d take a moment to be proud. Utterly and blindingly proud of the only man he had ever loved so completely. He knew what this book meant to Simon, and what Simon hoped it would mean to his son, Jamie. To actually hold it in his hands now, after being the very person to convince Simon to break away from his comfort zone to write it, just about blew his mind. And if the lengthy queue and happy chatter amongst the people in line was anything to go by, then it had thus far been well received.
However, every time the queue shifted forward, he found himself taking one step back and offering his place to the individual behind him. He needed more time to think. Five days had not been enough notice to get his head together for a moment he had been gearing up to for three years.
That Simon was here and had notified him (in a roundabout way) that he would be, should be reassurance enough. But three years was a long time. Three years was long enough for feelings to fade or cool. It was long enough to banish them to the space in your memory entitled “fond,” or “whimsical,” or even, “what the hell was I thinking?” It was enough time to move on, though Lord knows he couldn’t. He supposed his biggest fear was that Simon had finally decided that enough was enough and it was time to let go, but was too much of a gentleman to just let their correspondence cease, ironically, without a word. A breakup in person would provide closure, he supposed.
His thoughts strayed to Jamie, as they had done over the past few years almost as much as they did to Simon. He’d be eight years old now, and he wondered where he was—if he was here in New York with Simon too, or back in San Diego, waiting for his father to return with perhaps an old familiar face in tow. On the one hand, he would love to see Jamie again. He was the sweetest goddamn kid he’d ever met, and Jamie had honored him by letting him be a part of the very small, very trusted few he would allow into his life. The kid was a gift. That was the word that came to mind when he thought of him. He was innocent, loving, and so enamored of the things in life that regular folk were blind to. People like him were so few, and simply made the world a better place.
On the other hand, he doubted Simon would bring Jamie with him. Jamie, for the brief time he’d known him at least, had not liked new places, was frightened of them, in fact. He’d hazard a guess that if Jamie was not with Simon, then this visit to New York would be a short one. Simon would not want to be away from Jamie for too long—any longer than necessary, he’d warrant. But that would beg the question: just who was looking after him now? Simon was desperately protective of his son, and would never leave him with just anyone.
The line shifted forward, and once more he took a step back. Three years was a long time, but it wasn’t long enough to stop loving the man at the front of this queue.
Chapter One
Three years previously…
“DAD?”
Simon abandoned the toast he’d been buttering, licked his thumb, and headed into the lounge at his son’s beckoning. Jamie kneeled next to
the sofa, peering into his Ninja Turtle backpack with a frown. Holding in a sigh, Simon sat on the edge of the sofa behind Jamie and looked over the child’s shoulder to draw the bag closer for inspection.
“Did I miss something?”
Jamie looked back at him, his expression earnest in its anxiety. “Where are my grapes?” He tugged at the bag and opened the inside net pocket that usually held a small tub of grapes that he’d eat during recess.
Simon could have slapped himself upside the head. How could he forget the grapes? “It’s okay,” he reassured. “They’re still in the fridge.”
“They’re supposed to be in here.”
“I know, baby.”
“I have them at recess. I sit with Miss Protrakis on the bench and I have grapes.”
“Daddy was silly and just forgot to put them in. We’ll do it now, okay?”
“’Kay,” Jamie said quietly, looking in the bag to check nothing else was missing. “Purple grapes?” he quickly added before Simon had even stood up straight.
“Purple.” Simon nodded, gently smoothing down the cowlick he secretly adored above Jamie’s left ear.
“No seeds?”
Simon held back another sigh. One little thing like forgetting his grapes, and his son would feel unsettled for the rest of the day. From now on he’d write a list and stick it on the fridge, then do a check through his backpack before Jamie woke up. No child should have to worry over grapes.
“Absolutely no seeds. Come and bring your bag in the kitchen and you can pick your grapes. Then it’s time for breakfast.”
Simon looked over his shoulder to see Jamie dragging his Turtle backpack along behind him. He glanced up at his dad and gave him that small, sweet smile that always, always melted his goddamn heart. He smiled back.
“Okay, up?” Simon asked. He always asked, even if he was Daddy. There was no sudden lifting or gabbing.
Jamie held his arms up in answer, and Simon lifted him up onto the counter worktop, near the fridge. “Here you go,” he said as cheerily as could, and handed Jamie the small tub with a red lid. He pulled the grapes out of the fridge and untwisted the knot in the bag. The grapes were, of course, purchased in a clear and flimsy plastic container, but Jamie didn’t like how they tasted when left in the container—so, the bag. “Go ahead, pick.”
Jamie looked in the bag. A tiny line forming between his brows in due concentration for such a serious and onerous a task, he reached into the bag and very carefully selected his grapes. When done, he placed the red lid on the tub and held it up for inspection. “Twelve grapes,” he said happily. Despite everything, he was a happy boy, which was something Simon was desperately grateful for.
Simon nodded. Always twelve grapes. “Down?” He lifted his son under the armpits, and couldn’t help but cuddle him close for a second before setting him down on his feet. “Go sit.”
Jamie sat himself at the table, waiting patiently and tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with his finger while Simon poured his Lucky Charms into his spaceman cereal bowl. After taking a minute to pick out the rainbows—Jamie didn’t like the rainbows—Simon sat the bowl in front of him. “Eat up,” he ordered, and pulled out a small plastic cup from a cupboard and poured his son some good old-fashioned OJ.
“No bits?” Jamie asked around a mouthful of Lucky Charms.
“No bits. Smooth orange juice.” Simon went back to his now cold toast and sat opposite his son as he scanned the newspaper.
“Fireman saves six from inferno.” Jamie spoke slowly.
Simon lowered the paper, blinking in surprise. “What’s that now?” he asked patiently.
Jamie’s cheeks bulged comically, one hand curled around the spoon lodged between his lips and his pinkie pointing to the back of the paper Simon was reading. Simon turned the paper around, and, sure enough, there was a spread about a local off-duty fireman saving six people from a burning building. He glanced back at his son, pride swelling in his chest. At four years old, he could read and write at the level expected of a child twice his age.
“You’re Daddy’s clever boy, aren’t you?”
Jamie beamed, his small feet in his favorite sneakers that lit up when he ran banging happily against the side of his chair as he nodded. “I’m a clever boy,” he chimed happily.
Simon saw it a second before it happened. Jamie’s hand, still holding the spoon, came down hard on the table, knocking over his orange juice. The juice quickly bled into the tablecloth and spread outward. Simon used his paper to stop the flow and leaped up to grab a small hand towel.
“Whoopsie daisy,” he said airily, not knowing where he’d first heard the expression, but knowing that it usually made Jamie smile. He glanced at Jamie and was dismayed to see big brown eyes filling with tears and his small chin quivering ominously.
“I spilled.”
His voice, so small and upset, got Simon every time. Ignoring the lump forming in his throat, he quickly plastered on a bright smile. “Hey,” he said softly. “Come here.” With his hands already out, showing Jamie that he was going to pick him up, he gently pulled Jamie from his chair and hugged him close, swaying slightly. “It doesn’t matter, not at all.”
“I knocked over the juice.” Jamie hiccupped, winding his arms tightly around his dad’s neck.
Simon rubbed his back soothingly, shushing him gently. He hated that his child suffered like this, that knocking over a cup of juice could disrupt his calm and upset him so much. But this was the way it had always been and would be for a long time. It was a part of Jamie’s condition. It was a mild case, and there were a lot of other children with the disease that fared far worse, but the effects were difficult to deal with nonetheless.
At four years old, Jamie had in fact only begun to speak a year ago. He’d been diagnosed when Simon had been so concerned by Jamie’s seeming disengagement with the rest of the world that he’d taken him to a doctor. It was explained to him that his son’s condition was a brain disorder—a problem in his neural development. The night Jamie was diagnosed, Simon hadn’t slept. He’d sat at his computer until the sun came up, researching, desperately trying to understand why. Why his boy? Hours of surfing and torturing himself led him to the same answers. There was no reason for it; it just… happened sometimes.
He was not Jamie’s biological father. Technically, he was his uncle. Legally, he was his guardian. He was devastated when his sister passed away during childbirth. Devastated and angry. Who died of childbirth nowadays, anyway? Apparently it still happened, or it at least still occurred when women like his sister insisted on a home birth with zero drugs and then promptly bled to death. He knew he was being bitter, and that plenty of women who decided to give birth in such a way had healthy babies and lived to see them grow up, but not Carol-Ann. Not his sister. And though he’d been assured it wasn’t the case, he couldn’t help but feel that if she’d been in a hospital, Jamie might not be the way he was.
He’d felt bewildered too, and despite any residual resentment he may feel, he was in no small way honored that she had named him the next of kin for her baby—the biological father remaining a question mark and their mother not even considered—but the responsibility had hit him full-on. He’d been close to his sister, and grieved for her still, but he’d felt ill-equipped to provide for Jamie before he’d realized what that would fully entail. After he’d been diagnosed, he’d felt like an absolute fraud, as if child services would be knocking at his door any moment to take Jamie away from him.
They didn’t, of course, and Jamie was legally his son for always. This was something he’d attempted to explain to Jamie a short time ago, and he’d been surprised by the lack of emotion that such a gentle but potentially rocking revelation had gained from the young child. He’d soon come to realize that Jamie had understood, but that he just didn’t care. This was, of course, all a part of his condition, which was nothing more than a pervasive developmental disorder.
There were so many symptoms and different ways Jamie’s
impairment could affect a child. Generally, the condition showed itself in two ways. The child’s IQ was either below normal or above normal. Jamie’s was above normal, particularly when it came to numbers. But where he excelled at such a young age academically, he lacked dreadfully in social situations.
Jamie did not have any friends. Not really. There were two other boys and one girl, all with the same ailment of different degrees, whom Jamie’s teacher, Miss Protrakis, had told him Jamie would occasionally, only occasionally, speak to. Otherwise, he spoke to his teacher and his dad. Absolutely no one but Daddy was allowed to pick him up, and the number of people Jamie would look in the eye could be counted on two fingers. That was one of Jamie’s biggest challenges, and something that was very difficult for Simon to swallow.
His other symptoms were evident in his inability to initiate a conversation. He would really only speak when spoken to and was otherwise perfectly content to play with his building blocks, utterly oblivious to his surroundings. Except Jamie’s building blocks took on the form of towering skyscrapers in repetitive blue and green blocks. (He didn’t like the reds or yellows, they were far too bright.) And living on the outskirts of downtown San Diego, he’d often pointed out the large buildings and high-rises to his son when they’d go on one of their walks or to the park. He could swear it was the downtown landscape his brilliant son replicated, though that was most likely the proud father in him speaking.
And he was proud. Damn proud.
Jamie could repeat every line from The Hobbit, and would only have Tolkien read to him at bedtime or he simply would not sleep. His motor skills were slow, hence the plastic bowls and cups. He couldn’t quite grasp another person’s perspective, thus his lack of a reaction upon hearing that Simon was not his biological father. And everything, everything was literal.
It was draining. It was so absolutely draining that sometimes he would miss how his life had been before his son was born. But he loved Jamie. He loved him so much that quite often when he held him close, as he was now, all he could do was just breathe him in. He was sure that, if asked, he wouldn’t be quite able to put into words the love he felt for this beautiful little kid, and that was saying something, given his profession.
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