Eva nodded enthusiastically. “OK. I can hurry real fast, Mommy.”
Sam smiled. Fact was, he was scared. And Eva knew it. Molly probably did too. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to do his carpentry work again. And if not, how would he provide for his family? The long-term disability checks were nice, but they were only a fraction of his normal income. Their savings wouldn’t last forever. And what then? What happened when the money ran out? It wasn’t like they had rich family to turn to. Sam was an only child now, and his mother was too busy with her own problems and taking care of his father to notice the struggles of her son. Molly had one older sister in Oregon, and her parents were in Maine, too distant geographically and emotionally to care.
Sam and Molly were alone in this nightmare. Correction: Sam and Molly and Eva were alone in this nightmare. And it did scare him.
“Daddy.”
Sam pulled his mind back to the kitchen, his wife, his daughter. “Yes?”
“Your eggs. You’re not eating them.”
“Oh.” He feigned surprise. “Where did they come from?” He looked up at the ceiling as if the eggs had fallen from the sky in some rare cosmic event.
“A chicken.”
Sam pointed at her. “Ah, good one. You got me there.”
Eva laughed. “Mommy made them. Eat ’em. They’re good. She even put cheese on ’em.”
Sam speared a chunk with his fork and shoveled it into his mouth. “Mmm, wow, Mommy makes wonderful scrambled baby chickens.”
Eva scrunched up her face “Eww, gross. Don’t say that.”
“What? That’s what they are.”
Eva looked to her mother for confirmation.
Molly shook her head. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just fooling with you.”
“Are they baby chickens?”
“Sort of, yes. They’re baby chickens before they become baby chickens.”
“That’s kinda gross.”
Sam tickled her side. “Maybe. But they taste so good, don’t they?”
Eva opened her mouth wide and put in her last bite. “Sure do.”
“OK, you rascal,” Molly said. “Upstairs, and get dressed. And don’t forget to brush your teeth. When you’re done, bring the hairbrush and a hair tie down, and I’ll fix your hair.”
After gulping the rest of her milk and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Eva said. “’K, Mommy. I’ll hurry too; don’t worry.”
When the sound of Eva’s socked feet had made it to the top of the stairs, Molly said to Sam, “She was up really early this morning, sitting on her bed and talking to herself.”
“How early?”
“Three o’clock, about. Said she was talking to Jacob, her shiny friend. She said he looks like he was dipped in glue and rolled in glitter.”
Sam didn’t say anything.
“Did you know this Jacob was a man?” Molly said.
“A man? I’d imagined another kid.”
“So had I. Eva said he tells her to be brave and pray for you all the time.”
Sam shrugged. “That’s a good thing, I guess, right? It’s normal for kids to have imaginary friends, especially when they’ve gone through a stressful time like she has.”
“Did you have an imaginary friend?”
“No. But I talked to myself a lot. All the time.”
“Did you ever answer yourself?”
“Of course I did. Held whole conversations with myself. How about you?”
“How ’bout me, what?”
“Did you have an imaginary friend?”
Molly’s eyes twitched. She grabbed a dishtowel and started wiping the counter with small, quick circles. “Yes.”
“And was she a kid or a grown-up?”
“He was my age.”
Sam could tell there was more to the story, something hurtful Molly didn’t want to talk about. He knew she’d had a rough childhood, an abusive father, an inattentive mother. Her make-believe friend must have been an escape from all that.
Molly paused. “Do you think I should have the doctor talk to Eva?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s just her way of dealing with the stress.”
“But is it healthy?”
“Is it unhealthy? It sounds like she’s processing things in a positive way. I can use all the prayer I can get. And it sounds like this Jacob is telling her all the right stuff. He could be telling her to go online and hack into Bill Gates’s bank account.”
Sneakers clomped down the steps, and Eva rounded the kitchen corner. “I’m ready.”
“Wow,” Molly said. “That was fast. Did you brush your teeth good?”
“Sure did.” Eva smiled wide, showing off slightly crooked but white teeth. She turned and flashed them at Sam.
Sam covered his face. “Oh, man. They’re so bright they hurt my eyes. Good job with the brushing, young lady.”
Molly took the hair tie from Eva, combed her hair, and pulled it back into a ponytail. Her deftness at this always impressed Sam. She was like an accomplished artist working in her favorite medium. Whenever he tried fixing Eva’s hair, it looked like it had been done by a three-year-old.
Molly said, “All right, baby girl, give Daddy a kiss and let’s get going.”
Sam bent so Eva could reach his cheek. She gave him a peck on his stubble, then wiped her lips. “Daddy, you need to shave.”
“I know, kiddo. Have fun at school, OK? I’ll see you when you get home.”
“OK. I love you, Daddy. A lot.”
Sam’s throat tightened. He used to be the one leaving for work, giving out the kisses, and saying good-bye. Eva would sit in the window, the one now covered with plastic, waving and blowing kisses as he backed out of the driveway. He called her his waver in the window. It was one of those memories he had tucked away for later. “I love you a lot too, Eva. Do your best.”
Molly kissed Sam on the lips. “After dropping her off, I need to run to the store. You’ll be all right here?”
He knew yesterday’s incident with the gun had scared her. “I’ll be fine, babe. No worries.”
She would worry, though, and that bothered him. She shouldn’t have to worry. In fact, it was his job to make sure she didn’t. But lately he seemed to be stumbling along, unable to find his footing.
At the door he helped them with their jackets and gave them each another kiss. “Bye, you two. See you soon.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
When Sam shut the door, the house was as quiet and still as a church sanctuary midweek. Such a contrast from the hustle of the morning. If he listened real hard, he could hear the remnants of Eva’s footsteps and her loving voice, as though the sound waves were trapped here, gathered in the empty corners, and stored in the plaster of the walls.
Sam walked over to the window and stared at the plastic covering it. Questions, like day-old bug bites, nagged him. Questions about his work and his ability to do it. Questions about finances and insurance and disability benefits, about his ability to care for and protect his family. Questions about Molly and Eva and her imaginary friend.
He said Daddy’s real scared and needs my prayers.
Was his fear that obvious to Eva? She was an observant kid, but he thought he had done a better job of hiding it, of shielding her from his own troubles.
From the top of the stairs, from behind the study’s closed door, a voice cut through Sam’s thoughts.
Tommy’s voice.
“Sammy.”
Thirteen
EDWARD AND GLADYS MOELLER WERE EARLY RISERS. BORN IN Adams County—Edward in Gettysburg, and Gladys in nearby Biglerville—they’d both spent their childhoods on farms where people rose before the sun to put in a day’s worth of labor and where sleep came quickly and peacefully at night. For the Moellers, married close to sixty years, life had always been simple and uncomplicated.
But they’d recently been introduced to a word neither thought they would ever hear: Alzheimer’s.
It had starte
d a year ago with Edward and his forgetfulness. Forgetting to lock the door at night. Forgetting to shut off the shower water. Absentmindedly leaving the hose running outside. Little things that could easily be explained away as preoccupation with more important things in life. Except there were no more important things. Not for the Moellers. Ever since Edward’s retirement from the Gettysburg School District where he’d taught history for a few months over thirty years, they’d lived a carefree life of leisure and relative comfort. Life had been good to them, they’d worked hard, and now they were going to enjoy their golden years and reap what they’d sown.
Six months ago Gladys had noticed Edward’s forgetfulness becoming more frequent and harder to explain away. He was taken to the family doctor, who sent him to a specialist. And two weeks ago the diagnosis was made: early-stage Alzheimer’s. It would only get worse from here. Medication would slow its progress, but the end was inevitable. The day would come when Edward would start to wander, ramble nonsensically, forget familiar faces, even forget Gladys.
And that was what she feared, what she mourned. She’d had a good life with Edward—the best, in fact. They’d raised a family, served in their church, traveled the country in an RV, and watched many sunsets together. And in a few short years he would remember none of it. The slate of his mind would be wiped clean, and the only thing they had to hang on to, the shared memories of their wonderful life, would be gone.
Gladys tried not to think about it, but it was a pesky voice in her ear, always threatening, taunting, mocking. Many nights she cried herself to sleep.
Now, in the kitchen, she was waiting for Edward to wake up so she could start on breakfast. She heard him stir in the bedroom and hollered after him, “Ed, what would you like for breakfast?”
Edward appeared in the hallway, his pajama pants on backwards, shirt buttons off by one. “I said I wanted sausage and eggs.”
“You just woke up, dear. You haven’t told me what you wanted yet.”
“Why, sure I did, just a few moments ago.”
Gladys never knew whether to go along with Edward’s dementia or try and correct it. Usually she just went along with it. No use in arguing over trivial things. “OK. Sausage and eggs it is. Scrambled, right?”
“That’s what I said.” Edward turned to head back to the bedroom, then paused with that look on his face, that look of bewilderment. He was staring at something in the living room. “That lamp. Where’d it come from?”
“What lamp, sweetie?”
He pointed at the brass floor lamp. “That one, the tall one.”
“That’s not new. We’ve had that lamp for thirty-some years.”
He shook his head. “No, we haven’t. I don’t remember seeing it there before. When did you buy it?”
“Ed, we’ve had that lamp forever. It’s always been in our living room.”
Fortunately Edward didn’t like to argue any more than she did. Instead of standing his ground, he simply turned, shook his head, and said, “Gladys, sometimes I think you’re losing your mind.”
Fourteen
THE DODGE INTREPID WAS JUST ABOUT ON EMPTY WHEN Symon pulled into the driveway. This was the correct house, the one the voice on the phone had told him about. White vinyl-sided rancher, brown shingled roof, attached garage, neatly landscaped, Pumping Station Road. The mailbox bore the correct name: Moeller. The voice said the place had been chosen because it was right down the road from the target’s house, four-tenths of a mile, to be exact.
Symon lifted a photo from the dash. It was of a young girl, seven years old, blonde hair, freckles, blue eyes. She was leaving school with another girl, purple book bag slung over her shoulder, pink jacket, blue jeans. She was laughing.
Symon never laughed. At least he had no memory of doing so. Maybe he had in his childhood, but he doubted it. Those memories were not the type to inspire laughter.
After folding the photo in half, he unzipped his jacket and placed the picture in his shirt pocket. The clock on the dash said it was a little after eight. He shut off the engine and listened to the ticks of cooling metal. Another memory surfaced, whale-like, revealing only a sliver of its full mass yet refusing to be ignored …
He was in a restaurant or bar or something—it was hard to tell—eating buffalo wings while Madonna’s “Material Girl” played in the background. A woman sat in the booth with him, though he had no idea who she was or what she looked like. She was laughing, an irritating sound akin to a goose’s honk. She wasn’t laughing with him in response to something funny he’d said but rather at him. He knew this because of the quality of the laugh and the way she pointed at him.
A man came to the table and asked him to leave. He said no way, told the man to beat it. The man ruffled Symon’s hair and poked at his side. The woman laughed again. Anger and fear tasted metallic in Symon’s mouth. He cursed at the man. The man cursed back, not angry, but mocking. He was a big man, thickly muscled, shaved head, tightly cropped beard, with a small but deep scar above his right eyebrow. He pinched Symon’s cheek hard and made baby sounds to him. More laughter from the woman. The metallic taste grew stronger in Symon’s mouth, permeated his saliva and filled every cavity, even worked its way into his sinuses.
Symon slid out of the booth and stood, reached for the glass of water on the table, took a gulp, and then in one smooth motion smashed the glass into the side of the man’s head. The woman started screaming. The big man stumbled back, lifted his hand to his face. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Between his eye and ear, a piece of skin peeled back along the cheekbone like a fold of paper, and blood gushed from the wound. The woman was still screaming. The man hit a nearby table, lost his balance, and fell to the floor. Symon was right there, landing a boot in the man’s gut, then another in the man’s face. The sound was that of a hole punched in a watermelon. The man howled as more blood spilled onto the floor.
That was it. Symon sat in the Intrepid, listening to the tick-tick of the engine, grasping at the last remnants of the memory, but that was like trying to catch a trail of smoke.
Who was the woman? The man? Why had she laughed at him? He felt a great loss not being able to remember more of his past. Scattered pieces of a puzzle, that’s all his memories were, and none seemed to fit into a larger picture. He was a man with no beginning, a drifter trying to navigate a foreign landscape without a map, compass, or point of origin … only a destination, a mark, a target.
Sadness overcame him like a sudden summer storm that rolls in over the horizon, unexpected and uninvited. It was then he noticed that metallic taste in his mouth again and realized he was biting the inside of his cheek. He drew air through his nose, bringing in the aroma of snack foods and soda, then exhaled through his mouth. He continued this pattern for a full minute to calm himself.
Finally he exited the car and approached the house. It had a long porch in front with a bench and a couple of wicker chairs. A wreath of fake brown and orange flowers adorned the front door, along with a wooden sign that said Happy Thanksgiving. On the sign a scarecrow held two pumpkins at shoulder height, as though getting ready to smash them together. Symon had no memory of any Thanksgivings. No family gatherings, no turkey or stuffing or football.
Rather than knocking, he reached for the doorknob. To his surprise it was unlocked. The Moellers were trusting people. They felt safe in their home on Pumping Station Road in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
Shame on them.
He eased the door open and slipped into the house. He was in a living room, fully carpeted and neatly furnished. Everything was done in shades of beige. The TV was on, with Matt Lauer jabbering about some kid who’d saved his parents from a burglar. Good for him. No one was in sight, but sounds of cooking came from the kitchen directly ahead. The smell of eggs and sizzling bacon made his stomach grumble.
Without making a sound on the carpet, Symon walked through the living room to the kitchen. An older woman stood at the stove, facing away from him. Gladys Moeller. She was plum
p, with rounded back and shoulders beneath a light blue, fleece housecoat. At seventy-one years of age, her short, curled hair was dark gray and wet, as though she’d just taken a shower. She was humming a tune he didn’t recognize. Reaching for a plate on the counter, she must have caught Symon’s image in her periphery, because she jumped and nearly dropped her spatula.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, turning to face him. “You frightened me.” She looked past him toward the living room and hallway.
“I’m sorry,” Symon said, placing his hand over his heart in a gesture of sincerity. “I knocked twice, but no one answered.”
Gladys lifted the spatula chest-high, the way one would hold a sword or dagger.
Symon continued, “My name is Henry Imholtz, and I’m with the Department of Labor. I need to speak with your husband, Edward.”
From another part of the house a man’s voice said, “Gladys, who’s there?”
Symon stepped from the kitchen into the hall as an elderly man, Edward Moeller, emerged from a bedroom. He wore baggy blue jeans and a plaid shirt, which looked nice on him. His wispy white hair hadn’t been combed yet and hung in strands across his forehead. He was short and pudgy like Gladys but distinguished looking, an educated man who had once held a good-paying job.
When Edward saw Symon, his eyes narrowed and suspicion tightened his face. “Hello there. Is there something we can do for you?”
Symon almost offered his hand, then decided against it. One could tell a lot about a person with a simple handshake, and though Symon knew the facts on Mr. Moeller, he did not know the man himself.
“I’m Henry Imholtz, from the Department of Labor. I need to speak with you about your pension.”
Behind him Gladys said, “Can I offer you some breakfast?”
Symon smiled. He’d practiced this smile and now executed it satisfactorily. Although his stomach begged for sustenance, he said, “No, thank you. I’m not permitted to accept gifts from clients.”
Darkness Follows Page 6