A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  Phyllis said, “Okay, let’s get started. Mark may be a little late, and that’s okay. I am so happy you’re all here.” She opened her binder and took a deep breath. “Welcome to Survivor’s Glory. We are a group of women and men—and on Thursday afternoons, we are parents—who have lost a loved one, and wish to heal by seeking solace. The solace comes from those who have lost one or more loved ones, from those who carry the memories of one or more loved ones, and from those who wish to heal by sharing in the glory, not the guilt, of surviving one or more loved ones.” Phyllis raised her eyes over the top of her reading glasses. Dolores wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and a burst of giddy energy hit Phyllis. “This solace comes from us. We understand, no matter the circumstances, the pain we each feel is the same. We do not compare, judge, or lash out at each other. Instead, we love one another, and respect our common bond. We share in our glory, because we are the survivors, and we are not alone.”

  Phyllis took off her reading glasses and scanned the circle of parents.

  The Mapletons held hands and stared at the speckled floor. The whites of their eyes were yellow and didn’t move. They sat slumped on the plastic chapel seats. They were empty wrappers at the bottom of an ivory candy dish, on a white doily, on a gray table, in a nursing home that no one ever visited.

  Cassie looked worse. A thin, red ring ran around each of her eyes, and she pulled on her fingertips one at a time, over and over. Her ponytail had failed. Hot air blowing in from a ceiling vent had made her loose hairs friz up. She turned her head, looked at the door, and shifted in her seat. This prompted Phyllis to get the meeting moving.

  Phyllis said, “Thursday is parent’s day at Survivor’s Glory, though we understand if others wish to join. We—”

  The door to the basement swung open, and Mark entered. Phyllis glanced at her watch.

  Late as usual. Remember, he needs my help just like everyone else.

  She sighed. “Hello, Mark. I’m happy to see you.”

  Mark’s boots made a fwempt-fwempt as he shuffled toward the circle. A multitude of stringy muscles held his six-foot frame together beneath a blue flannel shirt and a pair of dirty denim jeans. He carried a ratty steno pad in one hand, and a beige, camouflage fanny pack in the other. He stopped walking and made eye contact with Phyllis. “Hi Phyllis. Sorry I’m late.” His scruffy black hair gave new meaning to the term “bed-head,” and his graying beard made him look sixty years old, yet he couldn’t have been a day over forty-five. When Mark sat next to Cassie, she turned away and rubbed her nose.

  Phyllis pinched her lower lip and glowered at Mark. He didn’t notice. He unzipped his fanny pack, rummaged around, and pulled out a yellow pencil. Cassie pulled at her fingertips. Phyllis dropped her shoulders, let go of her lip, and smiled. She wanted to talk about grief and loss, not why Mark stunk. His stench was worse than usual today, like something had died, but he needed her help too. Everyone needed her help.

  With the circle complete, except for the empty chair between Dolores and Mark where Maude Gantry would have sat had she not been too busy gambling online, Phyllis opened the meeting. “Who would like to share first?”

  Phyllis stared at Cassie, but Cassie had already averted her eyes. Everyone had averted their eyes at the word “share,” but that was okay. A strong leader knew how to break the silence, and Phyllis was a strong leader. She was an expert at getting people to open themselves up to healing. She had, after all, been doing it since high school.

  They will talk. They will share. They will heal…all because of me.

  Phyllis gazed at Cassie with all her kindness. “Cassie. How has living in the glory been going for—”

  “I’ll go,” Mark said.

  Phyllis sighed. She gazed at the floor. “Okay Mark. How has living in the glory been going for you?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Building a New Set of Tracks

  The posters in the Hi-Way Chapel basement conveyed a propaganda put forth centuries ago by men with whom Mark Collezza would never make contact, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t copy it into his steno pad. He stroked his beard, and his pencil got stuck. Gazing into his empty hand, he decided to memorize the propaganda instead. He crossed his right leg over his left and forgot about the posters. His eyes shifted from Phyllis to Dolores, Dolores to Cassie, and Cassie back to Phyllis. He skipped John and Jackie Mapleton because they weren’t at home inside their heads. He’d seen them at Survivor’s Glory before, but they had never spoken.

  Cassie, sitting to his right, pulled her fingertips and rubbed her hands together. Her fidgeting broke his train of thought. In recent days, he’d had a lot of trouble keeping his train of thought on the tracks. He asked his mind to repeat the last thing he’d heard.

  What had Phyllis just said? How has living in the glory been going for me?

  He nodded at Phyllis and uncrossed his legs. Cassie turned away from him and rubbed her nose.

  Phyllis said, “You had something you wanted to share Mark?”

  Mark crossed his left leg over his right, flipped his steno pad open, glanced at it, glanced at the circle of grievers, and glanced back at the pad. “Here it is.” His eyes widened and connected with Phyllis. It made little sense to speak unless he had direct eye contact with someone. Eye contact is an open cell phone connection. Without it, no one can hear you.

  Mark said, “My brother and I had a train set when we were little. I wasn't into it, but he was way into it. Him and I were like two trains running on the same set of tracks.” He stroked his beard and bumped the pencil. “That was when we were little. Now my train is running on a different set of tracks.” He smiled and waited. Everyone sat motionless, not saying a word. “Don’t you see?” He tried to make eye contact with someone other than Phyllis, but no one else would look at him. He tipped his head back and talked to the ceiling. “My train is running on a different set of tracks, and I can’t get back to when my brother was alive.”

  Phyllis said, “I see.”

  Mark snapped his head down and locked his eyes on hers. She smiled. “Thank you, Mark. I’m sorry you lost your brother. We’re all sorry. That’s why we’re here.” Hope flowed out of her mouth, but he couldn’t feel it. She moved her eyes over the other survivor’s. “Mark, you know this afternoon is for parent’s—”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. If we have time, I’d like to find out more about your brother and his trains.”

  Mark glanced at his notes, then reestablished eye contact. “They weren’t his trains, they were our trains. That was the point I—”

  “I’m sorry Mark, you’re right. The trains belonged to both of you, and there was only one track. You shared that track with each other just like you shared your lives with each other.”

  No, there wasn’t one track, there was one set of tracks.

  He uncrossed his legs, and Cassie leaned away from him.

  “I’d like to find out more about the trains later, if we have time, but right now I’d like to have one of the parents share.”

  No one spoke.

  Crickets.

  Mark had read an article describing how, in the bayous of Louisiana, the crickets would create a cacophony so loud that the residents had to wear earplugs. He also knew that Alexi Sredo’s truck had come from the Shreveport Auto Assembly plant, also in Louisiana. After researching on the internet, Mark had learned that the plant had closed down. A connection bridged a gap in his brain. Sitting here, in this silent circle, was the same as sitting in an empty factory and wearing earplugs. The only ones talking were the crickets.

  Someone had better talk soon before the factory closes.

  Mark crossed his right leg over his left, and Cassie waved the air away from her face. Mark said, “My brother used to—”

  Phyllis shot a glance at Mark. He told himself to stop talking…and thinking. Impossible. He flipped through the pages in his steno pad until he found space to write. He wanted
to write something about crickets, cars, and the bayous of Louisiana, but he couldn’t remember where he’d left his pencil.

  Phyllis said, “Cassie, honey. You don’t look like yourself. Would you like to share?”

  Cassie stopped pulling on her fingertips and smoothed her hair back. Fifty percent of her frizzes stayed smoothed, and fifty percent popped away from her head. She was beautiful, but she was married to Seth. Mark had never married.

  “I don’t have much to talk about,” Cassie said.

  She’s lying. She doesn’t have to lie, but she’s lying.

  Phyllis said, “Let’s start with your loss. I know how it hurts to lose someone. Have you been living in the glory of your son’s memory?”

  “Yes.” The word jumped out of Cassie’s mouth. “I’ve been living in it. I’ve been living in the glory of both my son’s memories.” Her eyes went from Phyllis to Dolores, and Mark’s eyes followed. “Dolores, did you see Warren at school today?”

  “No, I don’t remember seeing him. Was he supposed to be there? I assumed he was…” She made air quotes with her fingers. “Sick.”

  The smile on Phyllis’s face tensed, and Mark studied her.

  She’s hiding something.

  Phyllis said, “I’m sorry to hear Warren missed school today, but we should talk about Cameron. How long ago did he pass away?”

  Cassie’s face turned red. “Okay Phyllis. You want to talk about Cameron? I’ll talk about Cameron. Cameron’s dead. Okay? He’s been dead a long time, except I think I saw him yesterday. I think I’m going crazy, and now Warren has run away. For all I know, Warren's dead.”

  Tiny drops of sweat formed on Phyllis’s brow, and her lips quivered. “One of our rules is that we don’t lash—”

  Dolores said, “Oh my God, Cass. Why did he leave? What happened?”

  Cassie was coming off the rails. Mark tried to make eye contact with Phyllis so he could say something, but Phyllis just sat there and stared at Cassie with a desperate smile on her face.

  Cassie said, “Seth and I were arguing last night, and we didn’t know it, but, Warren was sitting in the front yard, listening.” She pulled on a fingertip. “Seth saw him and yelled, but by the time I got to the window, Warren had disappeared. He’d run away. Oh, God, what did he hear us say?” She moved her eyes around the circle like she was trying to make eye contact with someone. “When he didn’t come back, I thought he had gone to his friend’s house. I went there right before this meeting, and his friend said he hadn’t seen Warren since yesterday.”

  Mark stopped trying to get Phyllis’s attention and checked to see if the Mapleton’s were home inside their heads. They were watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother, but they weren’t getting any of the jokes. Mark pitied them. He wanted to help, but there was nothing he could say unless one of them would make eye contact with him. He uncrossed his legs.

  “Eww. It smells like someone died in here. How much pot did you smoke today?” Cassie waved her hand back and forth.

  She’s looking at me. She’s looking straight at me.

  Mark said, “I have a prescription. I don’t—”

  Phyllis said, “He suffers from PTSD Cassie. One of our rules is that we don’t judge—”

  “I don’t smoke it all the time, just when I need to calm down.”

  Cassie glared at Phyllis.

  Phyllis said, “It’s healing to listen and understand how others have suffered. Mark served in the Middle East in 1990, didn’t you Mark?” She sounded like she was reading a newspaper, and the newspapers controlled too much information. At least she defended him. Most authority figures—people like Phyllis—didn’t use the news to defend the innocent—people like him.

  “Now, having said that, I want to make it clear I don’t believe anyone should use grief as a reason to self-medicate, but in Mark’s case…well…he has a prescription.”

  Dolores said, “That smell isn't just Mark." She glanced at Phyllis. "Someone else has been—”

  “I’m sorry Mark,” Cassie said. “I just don’t like the smell of marijuana, it’s too strong. I wasn’t accusing you of self-medicating.” She put her hand on his shoulder and turned her head toward one of the posters. Having lost eye contact, Mark followed her gaze. The poster read BONGO LOVES THE BIBLE…AND YOU SHOULD TOO. Mark flipped through his steno pad searching for notes on monkeys, evolution, and the separation of church and state.

  Cassie’s face turned bright red. Creases formed around her eyes, and her upper lip stiffened and shook. She buried her face in her hands. “Seth self-medicates. He self-medicates every night.” She sniffed and lifted her head. Her eyes hid behind a wall of tears. “He drank a lot when we first met, but after Cameron died, he drank a lot more. He used to only drink on the weekends. Now it’s every night.” She sniffed again, and Dolores held out a box of tissues. Cassie took one and wiped her face. Mark sniffed. He wanted to wipe his face with a tissue, but used his flannel sleeve instead. “And it’s not every night anymore. It’s every day too. He drinks all day, every day.”

  Phyllis said, “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “I stopped talking to him about it a long time ago. He knows it’s a problem. He uses Cameron’s death as an excuse. What am I supposed to say to that?” Cassie pulled on her fingertips. “And now that Warren’s missing, I—if he doesn’t come back, or if he’s dead…Seth will kill himself.” A wall of tears covered Cassie’s eyes. She wiped them away with another tissue and let it drop to the floor.

  Phyllis opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. She put her hand over her mouth and turned toward the posters. None of the sayings dealt with suicide, but maybe Bonzo the Bible loving monkey could help her.

  Cassie said, “You’re right Phyllis. Grief is not a good reason to self-medicate.” She sobbed, turned to Mark, and made eye contact.

  Mark’s muscles tightened, and he leaned toward Cassie. She shouldn’t have apologized for not liking the way he stunk. It wasn’t her fault. In the fifties, a secret project approved by Eisenhower genetically modified marijuana to make it smellier.

  Mark spoke before she could apologize again. “Your husband’s train derailed when your son died. The problem is, he’s trying to get his train back on the main line rather than building a new set of tracks.”

  “What?” Dolores said.

  Distracted by Dolores, Cassie’s eyes started to move away from Mark. He waved his hand in front of her face and drew her attention back to him.

  Mark said, “We are all trains running on a track. Sometimes bad things happen, like when the chain falls off your bicycle, or someone at the VA yells at you. These are little rocks on the track. Most trains run over them and keep going, never leaving the main line.”

  Cassie’s forehead wrinkled, and Mark feared he was losing her.

  “Sometimes, the rocks are bigger, like when you fall off your bicycle and break your leg, or get turned away from the VA. These rocks can make your train leave the main line. It’s not the end of the world, it’s just that some trains need to take a different route for a while before they can appreciate getting back on track.”

  Cassie leaned back and folded her arms across her lap. She stopped pulling on her fingertips. Mark didn’t know if any of the others watched him, and he didn’t care. Any second, Phyllis would interrupt him, so he had to keep going. He had to make Cassie understand before the connection closed. “Even if big rocks push a train off the main line, they aren’t derailed. They can always get back on track.” Mark’s head twitched, and he resisted the urge to blink. “For you and your husband, something really bad happened. A really big rock fell on your track.”

  Phyllis stared straight ahead, and her mouth made a buhh sound. Mark spoke faster. “Really big rocks derail trains. When a someone blows your brother’s head off for defending his country in the Gulf, your train derails.” Cassie tilted her head to one side and raised her cheeks. She wasn’t getting it.

  No, I’m not getting it. Thursday is Pa
rent’s Day at Survivor’s Glory, and Cassie is a parent, not a brother. Tell yourself to talk about her son.

  Mark held up his hand. “Wait, sorry. I meant to say that when cancer enters the body of your child, and the blackness eats him front the inside out, your train derails.”

  Cassie gulped and closed her eyes.

  John Mapleton said, “For crying out loud son, would you take that pencil out of your beard?”

  John and Jackie had stopped staring at the floor and made eye contact with Mark. It was a miracle.

  Jackie said, “Yes. That pencil really is quite distracting.”

  Mark pulled the pencil out of his beard, and Cassie opened her eyes. Everyone was looking at him. He made eye contact with each person in the circle, one at a time. He had everyone’s attention, even Phyllis’s. Cassie stared at him, searching for an answer.

  Mark said, “When your train derails, no tracks lead back to the main line. The main line continues on without your train…the way things were supposed to be.”

  John cleared his throat and shook his head. “Holy cow son, that’s depressing.”

  “A derailed train has no choice but to build a new set of tracks. Otherwise, it will sit and rust until nothing is left, like Seth. It will slow down all the trains that come near it…all the trains that love it.” Mark crossed his left leg over his right. He stared deep into Cassie’s eyes, searching for a light at the end of her tunnel. “Do you get it?”

  The corners of Cassie’s mouth lifted, and she nodded. “Yes Mark.” She wiped her eyes with a fresh tissue. “I think I do. Thank you.”

  Phyllis grimaced, glared, and made eye contact with Mark, but he didn’t care.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Keep It Simple Stupid

  A white flower waved in the wind, alone in a sea of green grass. Warren jumped, but he couldn’t reach it. His mom needed that flower. It was mom’s day. He jumped again, and the grass disappeared. He looked down, and the ground disappeared. He fell. He fell, and he fell…