by Hannah Paige
William nodded knowingly—he seemed to do that an awful lot—and took his first bite of ice cream. It was a timid scoop, not a heaping dollop as Rick expected of a nine-year-old boy.
“I do believe you’re smiling, Mr. Griffin.”
Rick hadn’t recognized the shape that his mouth had pulled into. The muscles in his face that were being used in the emotional exertion felt sore, but a good sore. “I guess I am,” he sighed, taking another bite of ice cream.
“I always tell my mom ‘never underestimate the power of a good batch of ice cream’,” William added a slight smile and smeared a second bite of ice cream onto his tongue.
Rick wanted to chuckle, he even felt the start of the hearty rumbling in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn’t quite manage to push the sound out.
“That’s alright, Mr. Griffin. A smile is a step all in itself,” William responded, as if Rick had shared the shortcoming out loud.
He shook his head in awe of the little boy he just couldn’t wrap his head around, then remembered the words he had previously shared with him outside the library, “Steps. Earlier you said that I had already completed two steps in one day. What did you mean by that?”
William scooped out more ice cream, “Well, I could tell you, but I did promise that I wouldn’t mention Grace if you would agree to join me for ice cream. And the steps, while mostly concern you, also have to do with her. And I never go back on my promises.”
“What are the steps, Will?”
The blonde boy rested his spoon on the ice cream carton’s lid and folded his hands in his lap, sighing, “Steps are most often used for people who are suffering from grief, so not everyone I help needs them. But for those that do, they’re a little different for everyone, depending on where they are in their journey through grieving. In your case, Mr. Griffin, step one is the simplest: accepting that the person’s loved one is gone, deceased, that they’ve joined the pansies growing in the ground. Step two is to do something, anything, for themselves: a completely selfish act that does not in any way concern the one that they lost. You completed both of those steps today. This morning, in the cemetery, you told me that Grace was dead. You probably didn’t realize it at the time, Mr. Griffin—most people don’t—but that was the first time that you really accepted Grace as being gone and no matter how hard you wished or how many Tuesdays you read her the newspaper, it will never change the fact that she is gone. Step two was completed when you went to the meeting in the library. You did something to better yourself, something that didn’t concern Grace.”
Rick swallowed his bite of ice cream, “And step three?”
William took a deep breath, “That’s the hardest step of all. It’s one that might not come for a while after I’m gone, after my time of helping you is up. Step three is to move on. It’s to make your own life, separate from the one that you lost.”
“You realize that’s impossible, right? You can never forget someone that you love that much,” Rick argued.
William’s tone was calm, level, still, “I didn’t say forget them, Mr. Griffin. You’re right, that would be impossible, and improbable, even inhumane. Step three is about charting your own future.”
Rick scoffed, “What, like making dream catchers and finding your center?”
“I mean not letting the one you lost determine your actions anymore. Step three only happens once you no longer take into account the opinions of your lost loved one before you do something. It’s only when your life doesn’t revolve around someone that isn’t here anymore.”
Rick rocked back in his chair, “You grow up in a commune? You could give Gandhi a run for his money.”
William laughed, “I take that as a compliment; he was a wise man. Although, I still don’t understand his logic behind giving up meals in hopes that a war would stop. Personally, I’m a fan of the custom of having three meals a day, and dessert, if I’m lucky.”
“Trust me, Will, nobody understands that logic.”
He offered up a boyish smile, “I think I like it when you call me Will. I never let my mom call me that, but it sounds different coming out of your mouth. I suppose it would, though, naturally, you being a father. It’s all about perspective.”
“Where is your dad?” Rick asked; he didn’t need to worry about getting too personal with this kid.
“Oh, he’s around somewhere.”
Before he could clear up the all-too vague answer, a woman’s voice called from the other side of the house, “William, time for bed! Tell Mr. Griffin goodnight!”
Will pushed away from the table, “Well, thank you for joining me for some ice cream, Mr. Griffin. I hope I didn’t intrude on your evening plans too much.”
Rick shook his head, closing up the ice cream carton, “If by plans, you mean sitting on my couch trying to keep my mind off the beers in my fridge, then yeah you messed them up pretty good. But, it’s probably for the best.” And it occurred to Rick that he had not once thought ‘I need a drink’ while sitting here with this strange little boy.
Will walked Rick back to the front door. He opened it and Rick stood in the doorway, about to leave, when he turned around, “Grace. You think she’s…here? Is that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”
Will smiled, “Another night, Mr. Griffin. Goodnight.”
It wasn’t until the front door had closed and Rick was on the quiet street that he heard a single, clear sound coming from Will’s house. He heard the faint start of a new song and someone turned the radio up inside, just as the lyrics, “And makes me realize. And she says, ‘Don’t worry baby. Don’t worry baby. Don’t worry baby. Everything will turn out alright’” streamed through the open kitchen window.
Funny, the entire time he’d sat there with Will, Rick hadn’t noticed that it was open.
Chapter Four
It was Thursday before Rick finally saw Will again. He couldn’t believe that he had found himself missing the kid, but he had been dying for a drink for the past thirty-six hours and he knew that, somehow, whether it be the boy’s way-out-there mindset or the haphazard conversation topics, he kept Rick’s mind off alcohol.
He was sitting on a bench at the park that afternoon. His cell phone had been ringing off the hook all morning—calls from Steven that Rick had been avoiding—and he needed to get out of the house, clear his head.
The park was quiet. It was five: too late for school-age kids to be there, but too early for couples to be perusing the scenery that the park had to offer. It was right across the street from the library. Rick thought he recognized a woman from his AA meeting walking by, but he couldn’t remember her name, so he didn’t say hello.
“It’s good to see you out of the house, Mr. Griffin.”
He jumped, “Jeez, do you ever just try a normal greeting when approaching someone?” He hadn’t noticed Will approach the bench, let alone take a seat on it, and wondered how long he had been there.
Will smiled pleasantly, “A friend once told me that it’s better to be atypical. I may as well not try to be normal, I never have been quite able to achieve that status. Though, I can’t understand why so many aspire towards it.”
Rick raised his eyebrows, “A friend, huh?”
Will nodded, “Yes. She’s a mutual acquaintance.”
Rick rubbed his eyes, “Right, right. Because you know Grace.”
“Are you ready to answer her questions, now?”
Rick turned to face Will on the bench, “No, first I have some questions for you. And if you give me some ridiculous, vague, open-your-mind-and-you’ll-see answers I’m going to call CPS on your ass and have you committed.”
Will waited for Rick to continue.
“What the hell is it that you actually do? Last night you said that most people you’ve dealt with don’t realize that their loved one is gone. What did you mean ‘most people’? You mean you’ve dealt with more than just me? There’s been several? Is this—is this what you do? You just stalk people that have lost someone in their liv
es and you…you mess with their heads? You feed them your psychic-crap and hope the bait takes? What the hell is a nine-year-old even doing, dealing with this kind of stuff? You should be in school, not wandering around annoying people and digging through their lives.”
Will blinked at Rick, “Am I annoying you, Mr. Griffin?”
“Yes! No! Answer my questions, damnit!”
Will smirked and his eyes darted past Rick for a second.
“What are you looking at!” Rick whipped his head around to see a flock of birds fly away, but no people behind him.
“I’m looking at Grace, Mr. Griffin. She’s laughing at you, she finds it amusing when you lose your temper. ‘Swearing at a kid, very mature,’ she says.”
Rick threw his hands up, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Will nodded, “I’ll answer your questions. And maybe then you’ll understand. I don’t ‘mess with people’s heads’, as you put it. I try to help people, as best I can with my gift.”
“Your gift? Like a sixth sense?”
“Not exactly. My gift allows me to see things that no one else can, people that can’t be seen anymore by most eyes.”
Rick slumped back on the bench, taking his eyes off the boy and staring straight ahead, “Mick was right. You are a little Haley Joel.”
Will scrunched his eyebrows in puzzlement but Rick went on, moving past the Blockbuster reference.
“You’re telling me you see ghosts? You see my daughter?”
“I see lots of people, Mr. Griffin.” He brought both his legs up on the bench, folded them underneath him, “I was born on September 11th, 2001, the same day your daughter died, the same day that every other figment that I see died.”
“Alright, let me see if I’ve got this right. You see the ghosts of everyone that died on September 11th, all because you were born on the same day?”
“At the exact same time that the first plane crashed, and that Tuesday became a little more than a regular day of the week.”
Rick shook his head and shot his legs out from underneath the bench, rocking up to a standing position, “It’s time for you to go home. I’m calling the cops. This is insane, kid. You know, I knew you were…strange from the second I met you, but wow. This, this is too much.”
“Grace died on flight United 93. That’s why I can see her.”
“That’s enough. You don’t have the right to talk about her and you need to leave me the hell alone,” Rick started to turn away.
“If you don’t let me help, then Grace is going to be stuck here forever. I’m just trying to help, Mr. Griffin. You both need—”
“There is no ‘both’, William! There is me and only me! I am alone and she is dead. I don’t want anything to do with your steps or your plan or whatever it is that you think I need your help with. I don’t know how you found me or why you’re doing this to me, but you leave me the hell alone. You come near me again and I am calling the cops.”
“I’m nine years old, Mr. Griffin. I’m not hurting anyone, they won’t do anything. I’m helping people. I’m trying to help you. Grace has questions for you.”
“I said that’s enough! The cops won’t do much, they won’t arrest you, but they’ll sure as hell lock you up and maybe your mom too, if she’s buying into this. Leave me be, William. I don’t deserve this shit.”
Before Rick was out of earshot, he heard the boy’s ringing voice behind him, “Grace doesn’t deserve this either. I’ll see you soon, Mr. Griffin.”
Rick’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, again. He flicked it open and smacked it against his ear, “What, Steven?”
“Rick! Finally! I have been trying to get ahold of you for hours!”
“Yeah, I know, Steven.”
A pause, then, “You know? But if you know then that means you were—”
“Yes, Steven, I have been trying my hardest to ignore your calls since ten o’clock this morning. Obviously I’ve given up, now what do you want?”
He recovered quickly from the wound Rick’s rude words inflicted on him, returning to his caffeinated voice, “Well! I have some good news that, I think, will make even you of all people smile!”
Rick waited and heard the sounds of papers shuffling on the other end of the phone.
“This morning I got a call from a…Miss Naomi, no last name given, but she’s a director in the film industry!”
Rick hit the crosswalk button, “And?”
“And she is putting together a documentary on 9/11, you know since the ten-year anniversary is coming up?”
“Yeah, I have a calendar, Steven. Why does this Naomi concern me? I’m not an actor, what does she want?”
“She’s interested in interviewing you. She wants you to star in the documentary. How great is that!”
Rick jogged across the street, passing the bar on his right. His steps slowed, then stopped all together in front of the familiar distressed wood door.
He looked up at the bar sign. “Steven, do you even hear yourself? It’s not great, it’s not anything. Why would anyone want me to be in a movie?”
“Rick, because you have an amazing story to tell. Just hear me out. She wants to make it about how one day changed so many different people in separate ways, yet united them at the same time. She’s calling it Project Survivor Tree. Sounds touching, right?”
“It sounds like a load of crap. That day was a nightmare, and nobody is going to want to watch a movie about it, much less listen to some old drunk like me talk about how his life took a turn down the shitter because of it.”
“But, Rick, she—”
“I’m not doing it, Steven.”
He sighed, “I’ll call her back and tell her you need more time to think about it.”
“I don’t need time, Steven! I need—” A drink, he thought, “I need to be left alone!” And Rick snapped the cell phone closed, slipping it into his pocket, and tearing through the front door of the bar.
He knew he shouldn’t be here. He could smell the shame that settled on his wrinkled shirt as he took a seat on the tattered bar stool.
The bartender looked at him expectantly and Rick was about to order when a familiar voice piped up from one of the booths behind him, “He’ll have a root beer, Ken.”
“You got it,” the bartender answered and picked up the drink nozzle. He slid a napkin down and planted the fizzing soda in front of Rick just as the woman who had spoken for him took the bar stool beside him.
“Hey, Rick,” the voice, soft as down feathers—one that made Rick think of home-baked cookies, Band-Aids at the ready, and a hug at the end of a school day full of teasing—said.
Rick looked at the gray-haired woman next to him, in the same jean jacket that she had worn earlier in the week, and it took him a moment to come up with her name, “Lena, right?”
She nodded, “That’s right. You’re not so good with names, are you?”
Rick shook his head, taking a sip of root beer. It tasted flat in his mouth, as his taste buds were anticipating something a little stronger. “I’m not so good with people these days. My…I’ve never been the one that specialized in social skills.”
“I see. So, how you doin’, Rick?”
He scoffed, “I guess you could say I’ve fallen off the wagon, and my supervisor, or whatever it is that I’m supposed to call you, has just found me in the bar. So, not so great.”
She laughed, and Rick found himself envying her for having the privilege to produce the sound with such ease, “I’m not your supervisor. And you haven’t fallen off the wagon. That would imply two things. The first being that you actually drank something stronger than soda, which you haven’t to my knowledge. And second, that there actually is a wagon to fall off of.”
Rick turned to her, “What do you mean? Aren’t you supposed to tell me to,” he shrugged, “I don’t know, fight the urge to stay on the wagon, because if you fall off it’s that much harder to get back on?”
She reached forward and stole a drink fr
om his soda, “Well yeah, if there was a ‘wagon’, I guess that is what I would tell you. But there isn’t, so I can’t.”
She swallowed down some more soda then planted the half-empty glass between the two of them, looking straight at Rick, “There is no wagon. There’s no wagon, there’s no path to sobriety or a better life. There’s just us, people. Together, apart, what have you. And there’s the crap, all the crap that we go through just so we can, someday, get buried under a tree and have something nice written on a rock for us. But you gotta dig, Rick. You gotta pick up the shovel and you gotta dig through the crap. So, I guess if you’re big on titles or feel the need to give me a name of some sort to make yourself feel comfortable, call me”, she took another sip of his root beer, “a fellow gardener. But supervisor? I don’t think so.”
Rick blew out an exhale, sitting back on his stool as Lena smiled at him, “That was surprisingly encouraging.”
She patted his hand, “Good! Now, don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
“You have plans for me that I don’t know about?”
She shook her head, amused, “No. No, but anywhere is better than here, don’t you think?”
He felt a chuckle rumble in his chest as he pushed away from the bar. He flipped out a five-dollar bill and nodded at Lena, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll see you around, Lena.”
“See you, Rick. Go shovel some crap so you can tell me all about it on Tuesday.”
He smirked at her, “Alright, I’ll get right on that.” He grabbed the front door.
“Hey, Rick?”
He turned back around to look at her.
Lena’s expression turned more serious, but only slightly. Something told Rick that the woman’s features never fell too far below positive. “I come in every so often, to make sure I don’t see anyone I recognize. I hope next time I come in, you’re not here.”
He nodded at her. For the first time in a while, he was being held accountable for his actions, and it felt kind of good, “I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t.”
Chapter Five
The drive to New York took Rick about an hour; the longest part of his trip being crossing the bridge into Staten Island. Most people complained about the commute in and out of the island, but Mick’s daughter, April, had lived there since graduating from NYU. Rick had to imagine that the isolation didn’t bother her too much.