Between Seasons

by Aida Brassington

  “But… what am I supposed to do for work?”

  Patrick’s mother slammed her hands down on the table. “I don’t care about your Goddamn business! My son is dead! I just need to get the Hell away from here!” Her breath came faster, the harshness of it ringing out in the small space.

  Patrick was stunned - he’d never heard his mother swear before. His father reached across the table and folded his fingers around her hand , neither of them saying a thing.

  “We’re forty years old,” his mother said. “We’re not supposed to outlive him.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Patrick screeched, pacing around the kitchen, barely feeling it when his hip half-sank into the counter. “How can you just… leave?” It was bad enough that God hadn’t shown up yet, but now he might have to deal with living here with people he didn’t even know?

  His mother shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. But I need to leave the state. I’m going to die if I’m anywhere near here.”

  Patrick couldn’t believe his eyes as his father nodded briefly. “Okay.”

  His life… such as it was… fell apart. His father sold the garage, and his mother began packing. Patrick panicked - not only were his parents abandoning him, he was going to lose his stuff, the things he could touch. He’d been reading his way through the novels on his bookshelf, and now they’d be gone. He’d re discovered a book Ginny had given him for his birthday last March, some book about world religions, and he was twenty pages into it. If they left and took his books, he’d go insane. What would he do in this house with no one… and nothing? Or worse yet, strangers?

  He hid things. His mother emptied his desk, shoving books into a box, and by night Patrick secreted them away. He hid his book on religion and his Bible in the basement behind the washer and dryer. Other books disappeared under the stove and behind the refrigerator. There was a spot under the insulation in the attic that served as a secret repository of the things that meant the most to him - a cigar box filled with sea glass and stones and other random things he’d collected over the years, his cop y of The Turn of the Screw and a collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe. A box of photos precariously balanced in the fireplace, above the damper. His records and record player were harder to hide, but he did it. There was a perfect spot under the stairs in the basement - he’d used it to play hide and seek with the neighbor kids when he was younger. It was full of cobwebs and dirt, mouse droppings and spiders, but Patrick didn’t care. Those things couldn’t hurt him or even touch him. He pushed his treasures all the way back, praying his mother wouldn’t get motivated to check the spot.

  His car disappeared from the driveway one day, although he had no idea where it went. He hoped she was with someone who would treat her right, take good care of the motor. The missing car was like a hole in his heart... one more thing to piss him off or freak him out or bum the crap out of him.

  His parents left on a Friday, two weeks after Halloween. Patrick spent the morning following them around the house. His father’s hair stuck out in the back, and Patrick wanted to smooth it down , so it wasn’t the last thing he’d remember about his dad. His mom wandered around the house rechecking drawers and closets, the slip hanging below her plaid skirt.

  Mrs. Stout, the next door neighbor, hugged Patrick’s mother in the bare living room and received a set of keys with a sad smile.

  “Just check the mail now and then, and I’ll send you some money for Jimmy to mow the lawn.”

  “You’re sure you won’t sell? It’s a shame for this place to sit empty.” Mrs. Stout squeezed his mother’s arm and looked around.

  “Come on, Ma, change your mind.” Patrick stood beside her, pleading with his eyes. Deep down, he thought they’d stay at the last minute… stay with him.

  “I can’t live here, but I can’t let anyone else live here either. Not yet. Maybe one day.”

  Patrick groaned.

  “Are you ready, Arlene?” Patrick’s father smiled, a grin as empty as the house, from the front door. The crisp smell of fall air wafted through the door, bringing with it a few crimson leaves from the tall trees in the front yard and the smell of smoke. One of the neighbors must have been burning lawn clippings or something.

  “No, not really. But let’s go.”

  “Wait!” Patrick ran to his mother, draping his arms around her carefully and breathing in her powdery scent. They’d come back; they had to. This wouldn’t be the last time he’d see them – it just wasn’t right. “I love you, Mom.”

  She shivered and reached across herself to grasp her own arms. “I love you, Patty,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

  Patrick gasped and allowed his arms fall to his sides. He knew she hadn’t heard, but the thought made the space where his heart used to beat ache.

  “Dad, don’t go.” His hair still kicked out in the back, and his shirt collar was folded oddly.

  “Come on, Arlene. We need to get on the road.”

  Mrs. Stout kissed his mother on the cheek and edged around his father at the door. “Call me when you get to Florida.”

  His mother paused and looked around again, face tired and drawn. Without another word, she walked out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  “Stay!” he called, hoping by some miracle they’d hear him.

  Patrick watched out the picture window in the living room as his father helped his mother into the car. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear his dad look ed straight at him , turn ing to face the house before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  CHAPTER TWO

  May 2, 2010

  Every day was exactly the same. Every season was exactly the same. Bright fall leaves turned to snow. Ice melted and revealed the spiky beginnings of flowers rising from the dirt, which transformed into the bright blooms Patrick’s mother had planted in front of the house. He used to think of spring as a time of renewal and rebirth, something drummed into his head in church because of Easter, but now he associated every new turn of season with the same sense of boredom and irritation. Being a ghost sucked.

  Mrs. Stout came in from time to time just to check on the place. Patrick stood at the window and watched Jimmy mow the grass, wishing he could open the front door and smell the tar melting under the hot sun. Every fall someone would come and trim back the Black-Eyed Susans next to the porch, and he’d remember the day he learned the name of them.

  He had no way of measuring actual time other than seeing the sun set. For the first month, he’d kep t track with a pencil found in his room –something his mother had forgotten, he supposed –but the lead wore down, and he didn’t have a sharpener. After that, time blended together. The years morphed into one long , never-ending day .

  Patrick knew every word to every book he’d managed to stash in the house. The record player had only been useful for a couple weeks until the electricity had been shut off. He’d worried about the pipes, wondering why his dad didn’t wrap them before leaving, until Mrs. Stout let a handyman into the house to take care of it.

  He spent years watching the world go by outside his house while he simply… existed. Waited. Sleep was his only reprieve. There were periods of time where he’d crash for twenty hours every day, and the only reason he knew how long he’d slept was the wind up alarm clock he’d managed to stash away. It had worked for a good long while, too, but it stopped eventually. Dead, like everything else. Patrick amused himself for a while by taking the clock apart and trying to put it back together.

  Sometimes he rushed through the front door, hoping something would change. It never did – he always ended up in his room with the smell of pancakes in his nose, always hovering in the air where his bed had once stood. No matter what he’d been wearing at the time he tried to make a break for it (he went through a period of time where he’d wake up and just get naked) , he always woke fully dressed in the clothes he’d had on when he’d died – the boxers, the corduroy pants, the socks, a t-shirt
, and a flannel shirt. Thank God his clothes never wore out.

  It was music he missed the most, living for the moments he heard someone’s car drive down the street with the radio turned all the way up; he rarely recognized any of the songs. He hummed “Gimme Shelter” as he paced the hallway, strumming his hip as though he were Keith Richards and pursing his lips like Mick Jagger.

  “Mom, can I have some strawberry shortcake?”

  He missed food a lot too… the way his mother’s chocolate cake seemed to coat his tongue and the slick sweetness of licorice. He’d craved a pear for what seemed like years, and it could have been – years, that was –for all Patrick knew. He didn’t need to eat, but he missed the taste of things. He didn’t need to breathe, either, but he still did that – it was a habit he couldn’t seem to break.

  Silence greeted his question, just like always, although he pictured his mother in the living room. Sometimes he saw her vacuuming or sitting on the couch doing needlepoint. Today she stood near the fireplace, arranging photographs that didn’t exist.

  “I read a bit more of that algebra book today. Even after all this time, I don’t understand derivatives.”

  He imagined his mother’s voice scolding him, encouraging him to try harder.

  “I will. I just… I need someone to explain it to me.”

  What are you doing this weekend, his mother’s voice asked.

  “Same old, same old. Maybe I’ll ask Ginny and Andy if they want to hang out.”

  He wondered how his parents were doing. He hoped they’d settled in Florida and liked it. He’d been pissed off that they’d left him for a long time, but eventually let it go –he just wanted them to be happy. Maybe his mother would get the tan she ’d always wanted.

  Sometimes Patrick still thought he was dreaming, or maybe someone slipped a tab of acid into his beer, and he was really just tripping, hallucinating the entire thing. He’d come down and yell at Andy for dosing him, and it would be just like normal.

  That’s nice, dear. Don’t stay out too late. Your father will be mad if you’re not on time for work.

  “I know, Ma. I’ll be home early. Ginny has school in the morning.”

  She’s a nice girl. It’s too bad that didn’t work out.

  “Yeah, but we’re better off as friends.”

  His mother would pat his hand, smile sweetly, and go… busy herself making dinner or cleaning the kitchen. If he was hallucinating, why was he having such a normal conversation? Andy once told him the walls breathed and there were slow motion trails in the air.

  Patrick waved his hand in front of his face. No trails.

  The click of the front door startled him, and the scent of lilacs wafted through the door. He’d noticed them blooming in Mrs. Stout’s yard –he had a perfect view from his parents’ bedroom window. It had been too long since anyone had come to the house in the spring, and he rushed to the door, hungrily sucking in the smell and ignoring the stooped, older woman who staggered into the living room .

  “… empty now for years, but it’s a lovely house.”

  Another woman followed – a much younger woman. “I can’t thank you enough for sending me the photos and talking to me on the phone. I didn’t have time to fly out and do a real walk-through.”

  “Oh, sweetie, no problem.” The older woman turned around, and Patrick was shocked to see it was Mrs. Stout. She had to be… Jesus, she looked like she was at least eighty years old. That couldn’t be, though –she was the same age as his parents. “Dara’s been a member of our church for years, so I was happy to get my Jimmy to email you those pictures.”

  Email? What the Hell was that? The younger woman dropped a small suitcase in the living room and ran her hand over the fireplace mantle, a sprinkling of dust spiraling through the air.

  “So, Dara said the family moved away a long time ago.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Stout smiled, face sad. “Arlene and Jack moved in the early seventies . Jack died about ten years ago, and I got a letter from Arlene a few years after that saying she’d been diagnosed with lung cancer. She passed in 2007, but with the economy and all, the house didn’t sell after her estate was settled.”

  Patrick was stunned. His parents were… dead. He felt cheated that they hadn’t come back here to him. Deep down he held out hope they were keeping him tied to the earth, that when they died he’d finally make it to Heaven where they’d be reunited. And his mother died in 2007? What year was it now? The fact that the year was at least 2007 was freaking him out almost as much as his parents being gone. He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his pants and rocked back on his heels, glancing out the window. He thought by now there would be flying cars, like on The Jetsons .

  The styles of cars and clothes changed from what he’d seen out the front window , but this thing with Mrs. Stout’s age snuck up on him. He supposed he had noticed her getting older... Jimmy, too... but to see Mrs. Stout now was jarring. Maybe it was her standing so close to a new person – a much younger person. Maybe she wasn’t as old as he thought .

  “The house really stood empty all those years?”

  Mrs. Stout nodded, white hair pulled back into a severe bun at the back of her head. “Jack wanted to sell, but Arlene wouldn’t hear of it. The house was paid off, so it wasn’t a big deal to keep it. She… well, she loved this house.”

  The emptiness in Patrick’s chest grew, and he shook his head, still flabbergasted. His parents were gone, but he was still here. He didn’t even know what that meant. Were they still stuck where they died, like he was? He hoped not. He dropped to his knees, the movement not making even so much as a miniscule sound .

  “Oh, good. Maybe I’m dying.” He felt like it, even though he was being sarcastic. His heart felt as though someone squeezed it, the bits not completely broken by the news welling from between phantom fingers.

  “It’s in great shape.”

  “My son still mows the lawn, and we’ve kept up the place.”

  “They’re really… gone?” Patrick’s voice overlapped with Mrs. Stout’s words. The desolation echoed off his ribs, erupting from his skin. He felt even more alone than in all the years he’d been trapped in this Godforsaken house… which apparently had been damn near forever.

  “Thanks again, Mrs. Stout. I don’t want to keep you.”

  Patrick was a terrible judge of age, but this woman – did she own the house now? – didn’t look much older than him, maybe in her mid-twenties. She was rail thin and fairly tall.

  “No problem at all, Sara. I’m pleased to see a young person in this house. You just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Sara,” he said, trying out the name. There was no reaction from either woman. “My parents are dead.” Dis comfort rose the hairs on his arm – he slid his arms out of the sleeves of his shirt and tied them around his waist.

  “I will. You and Jim have been wonderful.”

  Even though Sara was being perfectly polite, there was something strange about her tone. Her voice sounded almost flat, emotionless. Maybe that was just her way. At that moment, Patrick could empathize. He felt empty himself in that instant.

  “When are your things arriving?” Mrs. Stout shuffled toward the door and gripped the frame to step down onto the front porch.

  The smell of flowers and air overwhelmed him; he hadn’t had access to an open door for more than a few seconds in... well, awhile. He hoped this Sara woman liked the windows open. Not that it would help make him feel any better about his parents and… oh , shit .

  He should be in his late fifties, at least. Patrick should have been old as dirt, but he’d seen himself just this morning in the dusty bathroom mirror –he looked exactly the same. Even that stupid dimple on the side of his face was still there, the product of a kindergarten classmate poking him in the cheek with a wire hanger.

  “Uh, well, I don’t have a lot, but the truck should get here tomorrow morning.”

  Patrick climbed to his feet and leaned close to Sara. Her sk
in was so pale he could see the veins beneath, and he followed a large, blue vein out of her v-neck top with the tip of his finger just above her flesh. She looked like she would be soft, even despite the angles of her bones poking at her skin. He wished he could crawl into her arms; he needed some comfort … not only because of his parents, although that was bad, but because he was set adrift. If they were gone, and he was still here… well, all his theories about God waiting to take him were for shit.

  “Well, if you need eggs and such, there’s a grocery store four blocks over on Cannondale.”

  That was new. When his mother had needed eggs, she went to a small shop down the street. He wondered what the grocery store looked like. There’d been an Acme across town when he died. Was it still there?

  “Oh, thanks. The electricity won’t be turned on until tomorrow. All the utilities are supposed to send people out.”

  Mrs. Stout smiled, and Patrick tried to see in her face the woman she’d once been. He could just make out her cheekbones, but it was her eyes that were the most recognizable. He still couldn’t believe so much time had passed.

  “Good luck, dear.” She turned and carefully made her way across the lawn.

  Sara sighed and closed the door, moving around the living room in erratic circles.

  “Hey. I’m home,” she called, her breathy voice ringing in the silence. Was there someone else in the house? No, absolutely not. He would have known.

  “I’m Patrick,” he introduced himself on a whim, wanting to be on good terms with this woman, even though he was… well, haunting the house, he supposed . He really had no idea what he really was, but it seemed as good a description as any.

  “This feels so strange.” The wistful expression on her face made him wonder what she was thinking about.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “I drove here… by myself. I just… I needed it. And you’re still here.”