Project Pallid

by Christopher Hoskins

  When we arrived that afternoon, Mr. Laverdier met us at the door with clear instructions. “You kids see those locks?” he asked, standing in the foyer and pointing to the garage door beside him. “Those locks there?” he reiterated, still pointing to the dangling three. “That garage is off limits now. It’s a no-go zone from here on out. You kids make sure that whatever you do, you keep far and clear. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Yes, Mr. Laverdier.”

  There was no room for delay or negotiation in our response.

  I couldn’t believe he was hanging such an obvious carrot in our faces. Maybe he’d installed cameras while we were away at school. Maybe he was looking for the ammunition we’d avoided giving since my re-immersion into his home: something he could blowup at, so he could justifiably pull Catee away from Madison for good. I remember looking at him quizzically and trying to figure out the ulterior motives at play, but not being able to get a good read from the blank expression on his dead-set face. I went with my gut, though, and I didn’t pursue it any further—not in his company.

  But later on, when we were alone, it was one of the first things I brought up with Catee. “So what’s with the garage?” I asked.

  “You got me. It’s the first I’ve heard of it, too,” she replied. “He’s hiding something. I know it.”

  “I’m glad you said it first.” I squeezed my arm tighter around her as we sat cross-legged in front of her small, bedroom television.

  We were naively unaware of the gross mayhem that lay ahead. And as suspicious as we were, we could hardly fathom the magnitude of finalities that brewed outside, no more than we could have changed direction of the toxic ball that Mr. Laverdier had already set into motion.

  March 15th:

  By Friday, we were alone again. Mr. Laverdier had decided that we were trustworthy enough to be by ourselves as he ran some local errands. And while the time we had wasn’t much, it was plenty sufficient to uncover answers to some of the questions that had plagued us.

  “I can’t see! You’ve got to lift it higher!” Catee lay at the tip of the driveway, and she attempted to peer under the garage door that I tried my hardest to hoist. “I can’t see anything!” she announced to me and to any attentive neighbors who might’ve been watching or listening-in.

  “I can’t get it any higher!” I grunted, pressed against it, and strained to push my legs up and into locked position. “Can you see anything yet??” I stammered and shook under the weight of the door.

  “I see it …” she started. “Tables … Beakers … Tubes … Spotlights …” The things she listed provided few answers and sparked only greater confusion and curiosity. It was all scientific, jumbo-jargon, and no individual element of it meant anything. Together though, it revealed everything. It showed us that her dad had brought his work home with him. That he hadn’t let go of whatever he’d been working on at the hospital. And that whatever it was, it was something he wasn’t supported in doing. He was up to something. There was no question about it.

  “Catee!” I yelled, as the door won-out and crashed to the ground. “We have to say something!”

  “Like what? To who?” She jumped back and barely got her feet out of the door’s bone-crunching trajectory.

  “I don’t know. Madison General? That pharmaceuticals place he used to work at? We have to say something to someone!”

  With conflicted emotion, she agreed. And minutes later, she concluded her phone call to Madison General. One where she described the things we’d seen, and she intimately detailed the paperwork we’d read, months before.

  And when she hung up, struck by the gravity of her conversation, I finally understood the significance of what she’d done. She’d just ratted out her own dad. And right or wrong, I’d played a very active role in her familial betrayal.

  “So what’d they say?” I asked, almost too enthusiastically. “What now?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing left now,” she replied. “They told me they’d take my call into advisement, and that was it. They didn’t even let me speak to anyone else—just the girl who answered the phone—some receptionist. I don’t know, I feel like she shut me down just as soon as she figured out how old I was and who I was connected to. She barely listened to anything I said after that.”

  “So, what do we do now?” I pressed closer to her. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Based on that? What can we do? That woman barely heard me at all. She didn’t give a rat’s ass, Damian, and I know for fact, she’s not running to anybody to give them the tiny bits of whatever she remembers from anything I just said. It’s not happening. Whatever’s going on out there,” she pointed to the kitchen, through the foyer, and into the garage, “it won’t have anything to do with them. I can promise you that. They’re obviously done with him.”

  The air of indecision hung densely around us and neither of us said anything to break its silence. We gave no references to past events, and consequently, we provided no proactive solutions for those left to come.

  “I say we write a letter and pretend we’re from CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals. Let’s act like we know what he’s up to and try to get some reaction out of him. You know, see what he does.” I finally blurted.

  “You mean, forge something?”

  “Yeah, you know, make it all formal and stuff. Have it delivered … slide it under the front door … something like that … for when he gets home sometime. Then we’ll see what he does. We might not be able to get into the garage, but maybe we can smoke the monster out.”

  Catee surprisingly agreed with almost no hesitation, and we made quick use of the limited time we had left to scan the letter heading from one of the boxes he’d left unlocked, outside his office. From there, it became our template for a letter:

  CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals

  51 Research Avenue

  Washington, DC 09825

  Dear Mr. David Laverdier:

  It has come to our recent attention that certain items became unaccounted for with your departure from CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals. While we wish you the best in your endeavors, we do wish for and insist on the return of items previously designated as property of CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals. Your failure to do so will leave us no alternative but to take action against you to reclaim those properties that are rightfully our own.

  We appreciate your anticipated cooperation in this matter, and we look forward to mutually agreeable conclusions to this otherwise, congenial relationship.

  Cordially,

  CrossPoint Pharmaceuticals

  “It’s perfect!” Catee exclaimed. “Not too much! Not too little! We haven’t said anything—”

  “But we’ve said enough!” I jumped.

  “Exactly! If we get any reaction out of him, it’ll be because of this,” she guaranteed.

  But, as much as I wanted to believe our shared conviction, I was beginning to have my doubts. I’d been so vehement from the start that her dad was up to foul play, that I’d barely taken time to consider the possibility of his innocence. That maybe I’d leapt to my own conclusions because of his surly ways, and that maybe, at the core of it all, he wasn’t the bad guy I’d made him out to be from the start.

  But then reality hit, and I remembered his office. I remembered the garage. And I remembered the sickening feeling I got whenever he was around. It wasn’t natural, and like my mom always said, you’ve got to go with your gut. From the start, mine had screamed that Catee’s dad was nothing but bad news.

  And as we sat down to Good and Bad dinner that night, Catee and I choked on the excitement of what would happen when her dad found the letter we’d planned to deliver under their door the next day. What would he do with the operations he’d set underway in the garage? Anything? Nothing? We were acting on suspicion alone.

  Still, it was that intuition that steered us to seek answers, long before anyone else understood the severe irreversibility of the isolated events that erupted across Madison, only
two months later. And it was that intuition that gave us—or me—the advantage I need to survive its devastation and to see that he pays the ultimate price for the harm that he’s done.

  April 23rd:

  Turns out, our letter was entirely ineffective, and it only prompted intrigue from Catee’s dad, who asked us if we’d manufactured and left it under the door for him. In hindsight, I think the formality of the letter itself was negated by our informal method of delivery. Had we considered or even understood registered mail, we could’ve gone that route, but even then, given our limited mobility, it would’ve only been postmarked from Madison, and it would’ve been even more incriminating than it already was. Naturally, we denied any knowledge of it, and we played entirely ignorant to its contents. Catee even managed to choke out a few tears and asked him if they were safe anymore. She said he was scaring her.

  The letter did nothing to circumvent his workings in his garage laboratory. In fact, it actually exacerbated his work, and it caused him to spend as much time blockaded inside it as he’d spent at the hospital before. It went on like that for almost a month—until the news broke about their neighbor, Mrs. Arnold, losing her mind at the bank. And only then did he reemerge to reintroduce himself to us as a new person: a more cheerful person: a gloriously vindicated person.

  And when the news reported her death, four days after her hospitalization, he was out in the garage, whistling cheerfully and packing boxes.

  And as reports of the officer who mauled his family were leaked that same afternoon, Mr. Laverdier was finally taping up the boxes that he’d left long unattended, outside his office.

  “Be back soon, kids!” he shouted into the house as he moved to load the last of things into the trunk of his Mercedes.

  And minutes later, he pulled away without another word, leaving us to stand and stare at the empty driveway from inside the foyer—the garage door swung open beside us.

  We looked to each other, then to the door, and fought to be first through it, to finally see its hidden guts.

  But it was empty.

  The myriad of folding tables were still there. The light fixtures swayed there, too. But everything Catee had seen before—the beakers, the test tubes, the liquids—they were all gone. Had we been seeing it for the first time, the garage would’ve seemed perfectly ordinary and unassuming. But seeing it before, and seeing it then, we knew that it’d harbored something far more sinister than its remaining paint cans and spare tires suggested.

  It was the birthplace of The Whitening.

  April 26th:

  Catee’s dad purchased their place in Damariscotta two weeks after his dinner with my parents and two-months before he fled from Madison with the innards of his garage. It wasn’t a place where he and Catee spent any time together, but it was one he claimed to be fixing-up for. And because of that, when he wasn’t in the garage, he was away from home, more and more—allegedly doing repairs, painting, or other restorative things of that nature.

  Even though their place in Madison had a “FOR SALE” sign staked street-side in front of it, Mr. Laverdier repeatedly assured Catee that if it sold, and that no matter what, they wouldn’t be moving before summer, so she didn’t need to worry about being pulled from Madison High. He even stopped mentioning her “slipping-up” as a contingency of that contract. He only said it’d take time to get their new home “ready”.

  Catee had been there a few times before, and she reported that it seemed perfectly fine: smaller, but in even better shape than their place in Madison. Her dad’s claims made little sense until his intentions became clearer, and he stopped inviting my mom to his copycat, family dinners, and he starting inviting her out of town, to his place in Damariscotta, instead: in the process, they left Catee and me alone in Madison until Mom picked me up around eight, nine, sometimes even ten o’clock at night.

  “Mom … ”

  “Yes, Damian?”

  “Are you and Dad okay?” It was one of the latest night’s she’d picked me up: 10:46, and on a Tuesday night, when she pulled into the Laverdiers’ driveway. With school in the morning, I wouldn’t be to bed for at least another hour.

  My question made her laugh before she answered. “Well, of course we’re okay, Damian. That’s a silly question.”

  “No, Mom, it’s not.” I’d noticed the changes in my parents over the weeks until then—since she’d started spending more and more time out at Mr. Laverdier’s second home. How could things possibly be the same when she’d changed everything about herself in such short time? Everything about herself that my dad had fallen in love, married, and raised a family with? How could things possibly be okay with my dad when the routines he’d come to expect were suddenly pulled from under his feet? How was my dad supposed to feel when my mom, the closest person in his life, totally disappeared and left him to microwave dinners and television reruns, all alone? How could she possibly sit there and pretend everything was okay? I just wanted to reach over and slap her across the face. Hard. So it stung. So maybe she’d return to some semblance of normality and be the mother she’d always been, instead of the pod-person I saw her becoming.

  “Damian,” she started, “your father and I have talked about this in great depth, and we’ve come to certain conclusions that you wouldn’t understand and that I don’t feel we need to explain to you. What I will say to you is this: There’s nothing going on between Mr. Laverdier and me. Nothing that’s going to change anything between me and your father. I promise you that.” The air hung heavy as she selectively chose her next words. “But Pastor Dave and I have certain things we agree upon. And because of that … that … that higher understanding … he and I have become better friends, Damian. That’s it. Friends. It’s nothing you or your father needs to be concerned about.”

  “Pastor Dave!” I shouted.

  “Pastor Dave!!!!??”

  My volume swerved her into the oncoming lane.

  “Damian! Damian!! Do you hear yourself??!! You could’ve gotten us killed! What are you doing screaming at me like some maniac??? Have you lost your mind?!” Boy was that question the pot calling the kettle black.

  “Well, I’d rather be dead than call Catee’s dad, Pastor Dave!!!!!” I screamed again, and at the top of my lungs. “What sort of Pastor is he, anyway?! He’s a SCIENTIST, Mom! A SCIENTIST!!! That’s it! He’s got no connection to God. None at all! He only thinks he’s some fucking god!!” I couldn’t help but spew profanity at the title she’d afforded him.

  Her response was a silent one as she reached sideways and slapped me sharply in the face. It brought tears to my eyes. Partially from its sting, but more from what it represented. It was a side of her I’d never seen coming.

  “Don’t you dare speak about him that way! That man is a Saint, Damian. A Saint! And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll understand that only He can save you. Only He can save you from The Whitening. I just hope you’re able to see that before it’s too late, because I’d hate to have to leave you behind. But I’ve been talking with him, and I’ve come to accept that it might have to happen, Damian. But I’m still praying you’ll hear his message before it’s too late!”

  It was the first I’d ever heard of The Whitening, and if it weren’t for the sting in my cheek, driving my assault on the man instead of his illness, I might have delved deeper into her word choice. “What!!?? Do you even hear yourself!!??” I yelled.

  The wheel whipped left and we swerved a tight, back and forth before Mom was able to stop the car in the breakdown lane. She put it in park and turned to me with an authoritative conviction that was entirely new—one that brinked on possession.

  “You listen to me, Damian, and you listen good.” Seatbelt off, her finger waved in my face. “The next time you open your mouth … the next time you say anything about Pastor Dave … you make sure you’ve thought it through, and you make sure you’ve thought it through good and hard. Because the next time I hear you say another negative thing about that man, I’m not go
ing to lay a finger on you. No, I’m not going to touch you at all …

  “The next time you say another bad thing about that man, Damian, I’m just going to leave you. Hands off. That’s it. I’ll be entirely done with you, and I won’t be there to help you when it happens. You’ll just have to suffer with the rest of them, and that’s what you’ll deserve if you can’t open up and hear His word.”

  I was totally dumbfounded, but what could I possibly say? Something had taken hold of my mom—some power that held her hostage beyond rationalization—and I knew that nothing said would free her from it.

  “Mom … are you alright?” I asked, at a near whimper and pressed tight to the door.

  “Of course I’m okay, Damian. Why would you ask such a silly question? I’ve never been better, in fact.”

  I cringed at the self-assured way in which she spoke; she couldn’t see herself being totally brainwashed by the guy. Whatever lines he’d been feeding her, they’d done their magic: my mom wasn’t my mom anymore. She was someone different. Someone more pious than I’d ever seen her before. Self-righteous in her own, self-basking glow, I admitted defeat to her then, for one of the first times in my months of inquiries and investigations. Clearly, my battle wasn’t going to be won with words alone, so I resolved to let it rest, and I promised to do whatever I could, and on the down-low, to save her from the Laverdier Lobotomy that was silently being performed on her.

  “Maybe I just need to start listening to him more,” I whispered and sunk into the wedge of the seat and the door. I bought into the overwhelming insanity that consumed the car and didn’t fight it any longer. If we were ever going to get home, it wasn’t going to happen by waging a war with her, and being the only rational one left of the two of us, I decided it best to bow out of the argument.