All That We Say or Seem

by Cole Delacour

  As I struggled not to squirm, Professor Haggard stared me down. His usually jovial eyes narrowed. Lips curled. He fought the distrust blooming. I saw it in the twitch of his mouth - the unsettled shifting of his weight from one foot to the other, but although his dark mood differed well enough from his natural state to draw Dr. Kedves’s concern, it was not enough to stop whatever messy path we had made between each other.

  "I can lend you a coat," Dr. Kedves offered, reaching over to give me his own, but I held up my hands, shaking my head.

  "Boston’s got nothing on my hometown. I’ll be fine. Professor Haggard’s giving me a ride, so it’s not like we’re walking, right?"

  A curt nod from Rory’s younger brother. "I’m parked right outside, so let’s head out before we’re blocked in."

  Walking with us, Dr. Kedves glanced at the security guards and nurses along the way. Everyone seemed tense. Their shoulders low and hands calm, but something in their eyes gave them away. A feverish herd panic at seeing one of their own acting so out of character.

  Brushing his hands down his white coat, Dr. Kedves frowned. "Maybe I should come with you -"

  "He isn’t the only patient tonight, Ben," Professor Haggard reminded his colleague. "Come on, James, we don’t want to keep Zeke waiting!"

  With a nod, I followed him. Despite the hum of the engine indicating he left it idling, he hadn’t bothered to put on the heat, so my breath curled - white puffs of vapor escaping my lips with each exhale. For a moment, I couldn’t be sure if he would turn it on, and when he sat down in the driver’s seat, his brow furrowed as he stared down at the wheel, seeming to fight with himself over how much of a jerk he intended to be.

  Reaching over, he turned up the heat. "Are you sure you want to do this, James?" His eyes focused on the road ahead as he shifted into gear. "You’re too smart to not have realized how personal this is for me."

  Goddamnit, why couldn’t Rory be here for this? I sucked at comforting people. Not that he wanted that. He wanted something - maybe for me to be contrite. To apologize for something - maybe he thought I desecrated his brother’s memory, or maybe he personally hated anything to do with Rory nowadays. I knew what it was like to have a toxic family, and as useful as Rory had been - as much as he obviously loved his brother, that wouldn’t change if he was a bad presence in his brother’s life. Cut out by death or otherwise.

  "I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t personal for me too," I informed him, having nothing else kinder to say.

  His frown returned, but my resignation seemed to give him pause as he pulled out onto the road toward Zeke’s place. "How did you find the design?"

  "It’ll be easier to explain at Zeke’s."

  His mouth twisted this way and that as if he fought off the words which threatened to escape him. As we slowed at a stoplight, he sighed. "Is this about Theodore Thompson?" He asked then shook his head, moving on before I could answer. "You didn’t write on him. I would have kept a closer eye on you if you had."

  Blinking, I toyed with the vents, shifting the direction they blew the heat around me. "Why?"

  "Because there’s one every year."

  And they all failed apparently. "I didn’t realize these tattoos were so popular."

  "They aren’t. As far as I know, you’re the first who’s gone that far. The rest just schedule vigils or make shrines - Theodore Thompson, the patron phantom of Harvard psych students." With a forced laugh - dark and deep in his chest, he pressed a bit too hard on the accelerator, jarring us forward, but he glared out at the road ahead, acting as if I hadn’t just slammed forward, auto-locking my seatbelt as it snapped to hold me back. "I’ll be happy to see Crables Manor ground to rubble."

  "Well, no shrines here. Theodore Thompson had a weird and short and more than slightly screwed up life, but he was just a guy. Medium or psychic or whatever - ‘more things in heaven and earth’ et cetera et cetera," I returned.

  His eyes glimmered in the dark. "Then why did you get those tattoos?"

  Rather than repeat my earlier answer, I remained silent. Shadows stretched - ephemeral yet ancient beneath the city’s lights. Though I hadn’t eaten, the intravenous fluid helped settle my head. Hopefully, the clarity would last. Odds lended me to making a run from Zeke’s. Crables Manor may have been a good distance away from the shop, but I had about twenty-four hours to get there. No supplies. No time to twiddle my thumbs and gain the confidence (or the nervousness) of extra time. A mad dash to the end - if Professor Haggard sincerely intended to bring me Zeke’s at all. Having never been to the hospital - or its psych ward before, I had no idea how to tell where we were. Lost in the shifting neons and LEDs, he might’ve brought me anywhere.

  Within a few streets of Zeke’s place, I recognized my first road name. My roiling stomach calmed. Not relief exactly. More so a certainty that I had made it to the next level. Acknowledgement of what lay ahead. Too much room to fail. No chance of being left alone with Zeke to plot out my escape. When this ended, I owed that man more than I could possibly repay. If I died doing this, he’d probably never forgive himself.

  I couldn’t think that. I needed to push aside all else - nothing else mattered but Gray. Otherwise, I would stumble before the finish line. Choked. Zeke had a wife and children. His life would go on with or without me, and any guilt he might have if I screwed this all up would be fleeting. Not like I knew him. Not like Rory. We weren’t best friends. Doubt probably haunted our interactions.

  Liar. Lying to myself again. Breaking the promises I swore in the silence of my mind. Pushing aside the grief and panic - I had to embrace what I was. To absorb the strength innate to my struggle - as unfair as the years of hiding were, I survived them. Survived the rumors, escaped them more like. Watched how they tore two people apart in such different ways, but I wouldn’t make the same mistakes - wouldn’t guard jealously a treasure freely given. The world didn’t have to know if Gray didn’t want them to, but I refused to hide myself away. Disguise my love as anything else. If we lived, we’d be together. If I died, how noble would that be? To die for love.

  Sickness brewed once more in my stomach. Thinking dangerous thoughts. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Neither Gray nor I would die - for love or anything else. I’d win. I spent my life fighting the odds - to not get caught, to keep secrets (my own and those forced upon me), to escape - I could face this impossible peak - surmount it.

  Parking in front of the store, Professor Haggard turned off the car, shifting to face me. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  Flicking the lock, I opened my door. "I’m not Rory, professor. I’m not a risk-taker."

  "Which makes your recent behavior all the more concerning," he pointed out, but he made no further protests.

  Zeke waited at the door. His smile large and bright as he saw me, but the brows furrowed - peaking upward in concern when he glanced at Professor Haggard. They kept in touch, hadn’t they? It would be beyond awkward if this was their first meeting since Rory’s death.

  "Hey, Zeke, sorry I - "

  Shaking his head, Zeke reached out, setting the heavy weight of his hand upon my shoulder. "Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s all good." His eyes shifted to Professor Haggard. "Ari."

  "Zeke, I hear your son started college this year."

  With a wave of his hand, Zeke beckoned us into the warmth of his shop. "Yeah, he’s doing great." He guided me to the chair as he pointed over toward a new painting hanging beside the reception desk. "That’s one of his. Managed to sell some through a couple local places in L.A."

  "Los Angeles? Well, I suppose it’s better than if he had ended up in New York." Professor Haggard slipped his hands into his pockets, sauntering over to the painting.

  While he focused on the blurred evening cityscape, I settled into the chair with Zeke at my side. I tugged off the hoodie, pulling up the sleeve to leave my left arm exposed as he carefully aligned the transfer paper to match up with the lines coming down from my shoulder. As he pulled the paper away, leavi
ng the light stencil behind, he pulled up a hand mirror.

  "Lines match up, what do ya think?"

  No shimmer came at my side. Rory remained wherever he had gone and Carreau with him. All the lines matched. I had studied the drawings, redid them with Rory’s guidance again and again. Every bit of the guide fit the mental image I had created with each redraw. With this, my body would end the cycle. Bring Gray back from the dead. Victor Frankenstein had nothing on me. I would drag a body - fully formed - from nothingness.

  No matter how I talked it up - panic brewed inside me. I wasn’t anything special. Gray saw the dead. He dealt with the afterlife for most of his life - although neither of us had actually talked about that. And maybe we should have. Maybe then he would have understood his situation. Helped me not panic about mine. What if I failed? What if after this I lived - to listen to him burn alive again - for the last time - knowing that I failed him?

  "Yeah, yeah - it looks good."

  At my side, Professor Haggard frowned. "You look a bit pale, James. Are you sure - "

  "I’m sure," I said, cutting him off.

  As Zeke’s needle hummed to life, Professor Haggard stood before me. His eyes studied my face. "We’re here. Zeke’s working on your tattoo. I think it’s time you explained yourself."

  "Rory mentioned Gray to you, didn’t he?"

  The same dark phantom fell across his features. "You said this wasn’t about Theodore Thompson."

  I shook my head, careful to keep my arm still. "It’s not. This is about Gray."

  "My brother described Gray to me in detail. If you're discussing the same person, you’d be talking about Theodore Thompson," he proclaimed. "A man who is dead."

  Explaining this would be a waste of time. Rory had faith in his brother - thought the guy could help, but skepticism failed to cover his adversarial hatred - unadulterated loathing frankly - for anything to do with Crables Manor and its ghosts. I could not give him faith in what I could not show him. Without Rory, I had no way to confront him. No history to throw his way to argue my case. Worse still - if Zeke doubted while he had a needle to my arm, what would happen? Would he finish the markings?

  "What if that weren’t true?" I asked instead.

  Haggard crossed his arms over his chest. "Then your argument against the hold would be rather lackluster."

  See - waste of time. I couldn’t convince him. In spite of everything, I recognized a lost cause. The more fervently I argued, the worse this would be for me. My best efforts would be useless. However, if I tried to lie, I risked making Zeke uneasy - and perhaps pushing him to believe I tricked him. Still, if I stumbled too long, there was a chance the man would want to argue for me - offer up evidence from when I had Rory with me when we first met.

  No matter what - I’d be running out of here. My best bet - I couldn’t even begin to calculate. I needed Rory, but my odds of him showing up were worse than pathetic. "Did you ever tell anyone else about Gray?"

  "Only the man tattooing you." His lips squirmed. Fighting against what expression, I couldn’t tell. "Before I realized he was just another drug-induced hallucination."

  "But Rory wasn’t on drugs at Crables Manor," I pointed out.

  Glancing away, the professor leaned against the back counter. "With as long as my brother spent on drugs, having hallucinations and dissociative symptoms even after being clean for a period of time - long enough to go through withdrawal but not significantly beyond a handful of weeks - isn’t uncommon. Additionally, with his relapses…" Haggard shook his head. "I was naive to believe him at the time. Honestly, the fact that our mother allowed me to see him in that state…"

  "She didn’t have much choice," Zeke noted, lifting his needle from my arm as he spoke. We had talked during my other sessions, but somehow, his words made me far more nervous now.

  Sneering, Haggard glowered. "They were divorcing - not dying. If anything, they ought to have feared his influence."

  "Whatever - not to sound like a dick, but I really don’t care about your brother issues or family issues," I announced, cutting their argument off before it could continue. "If you only told Zeke - who was clean at the time - about Gray, how do you think I found out. From him? And what? He convinced me to get the same tattoos your dead brother tried to draw on himself? The same ones which he pulled from the very foundation of Crables Manor?" And a handful of ghosts - but again, ardent cynic.

  With a sigh, he sighed as Zeke continued his work. "No. I don’t believe Zeke would bring that up unprompted, but I also don’t believe I was the only one Rory mentioned Gray to."

  "I don’t know anyone living outside this room who knows about Gray. Theodore Thompson - sure. But Gray? There’s the three of us, and I only know about Gray because I met him." Before Professor Haggard could argue, I pressed on. "During the lucid dreaming project - I thought I was screwing up. Some freaky old manor and the most frustrating person I had ever met. But then Halloween came around, and Cheyenne took a group of us on a Boston fright tour - that included a walk through Crables Manor."

  "As she mentioned when she argued that her, Maddix, and Chad could all cover Thompson from different angles. Funny how almost half of those attending knew about Thompson, but you believe that you never had any exposure to the building prior to that night," he retorted sarcastically.

  Struggling not to roll my eyes, I sighed. "I considered that."

  "And what disproved you being subconsciously influenced?"

  "Zeke? You mind?"

  He nodded, lifting and backing off enough for me to tug my wallet free and pull out the Ted Williams baseball card. Both men gaped. Leaning forward, they stared at it like I held up a pure gold. "I found this exactly where it was in my dream. In Gray’s room."

  "You could’ve bought that," Professor Haggard argued - his voice choked and disbelieving - though I couldn’t tell if that came from what I showed him or his retort.

  "If you think I could afford that card, you haven’t been paying attention. I bought the plastic to hold it in. I thought Gray would be pissed if he found out I had his prized possession stuffed in my wallet, but I couldn’t bear to leave it in my room." My lips curled into a smile as I set it down, shifting back into position for Zeke to continue. "Careful with it. Gray’s dad gave that to him."

  "Cards like these can be faked," he floundered, running a hand through his hair.

  "He knew things," Zeke added. "Things he shouldn’t have known when I first met him. Came to me, and it was like talking to Rory again."

  A harsh forced laugh escaped the psychiatrist. "And what? I’m supposed to believe you can see ghosts? That some attempts at lucid dreaming awoke some psychic ability in you?"

  "I’m not special. Crables Manor is special. There’s a reason it’s considered to be one of the most haunted places in Boston. People died there by the dozen. A family killing each other in the basement. The widow dead in the watch. Cook in the kitchen - two doctors died there, your brother." I tried to contain the wince as the needle crossed down to my wrist. "You’ve spent how long getting papers about the place, and you didn’t once consider that there might be a reason so many people were attracted to it? That they became almost possessed by it?"

  Another disbelieving scoff. "I’ve read your work, James. You never struck me as a believer in the fantastical."

  Staring him in the eye, I tried to call out - tried to get across why that shouldn’t have been the defense he believed it was. That my own skepticism should’ve underlined the truth of my words. "When a life is on the line, should my cynicism be the reason that life is lost?"

  "Thompson died decades ago."

  "Then you don’t mind giving me twenty-four hours to prove you wrong."

  He blinked. "What?"

  "If you are so certain that you are right, it shouldn’t matter. I have no intention of killing myself. I plan on being alive January 1st, so your conscience can be clear. I’m not suicidal. I’m not manic or insane." Shoulders falling, Professor Haggard frowned, hi
s brows curving upward as his expression turned pitying. "I know how ridiculous this sounds, but every time I believed myself to be wrong - every single time I started to not believe, I’ve been proven wrong. What sort of scientific mind would I be if I failed to reconcile my results to the data when the data has clearly opposed all prior suppositions?"

  "When your results run counter to logic, you first should reanalyze your sources and their mechanics. A card in a room isn’t enough to rationalize the existence of ghosts," he argued.

  "What do you have to lose if you give me time and find yourself right?"

  "Your life!" Haggard exclaimed, leaping forward as if to interfere, but Zeke’s hands remained steady as did I. Standing before us, the professor clenched his hands into fists. "You can tell me that you aren’t suicidal, but that isn’t the sort of reassurance I need. We’re doctors, James. You were found unconscious - severely dehydrated and malnourished, yet you refused to eat. When questioned, you claimed to be playing a game that doesn’t exist, and if you were almost any other male student, I might believe you were hiding the embarrassment of a masturbation bender, but your room was pristine when they found you."

  This time, I didn’t bother to hold back the grimace as Zeke resolutely pushed on toward the end. The lines were almost complete. Just a bit longer. Haggard might’ve been in decent shape, but with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I could lose him in the streets. "What if you’re right? What if this is all some breakdown from me having to face that I’m basically an orphan the moment I come out? That my folks’ll disown me, and I’m freaking out because I promised to own who I was when I got here, but it’s a hell of a lot harder than I imagined. Maybe that’s happening. Maybe you’re spot on, but if you stop me from doing this, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering. I’m asking you to let me go - not even twenty-four. Hell, give me until ten o’clock tomorrow. That’s all I need. Give me time, and if you’re right - and nothing changes, then I won’t fight against you." His gaze wavered, and I pressed, "We both know how much easier that would be."