Back Again (The Short Story)

by Susan May



  BACK

  AGAIN

  By

  SUSAN MAY

  BACK AGAIN

  BY SUSAN MAY

  Copyright 2014 Susan May

  About Back Again

  Dawn had lost count of the number of times she’d lived through this. Every time it hurt as much as the time before. Eventually, she thought that she must become immune to the events, and that her heart wouldn’t shatter into a thousand, million pieces—

  But it always did.

  Is there any greater nightmare than living through the death of your child?

  Reliving it again and again.

  A tragic accident takes Dawn’s only child right before her eyes. The following surreal days are filled with soul-destroying grief and moments she never wants to live again—until, inexplicably, she finds herself back again, living that day.

  It’s a second chance to save her son. But changing fate is not as simple as it first appears. Time is not Dawn’s ally.

  Tag Line

  Fate doesn’t like to be changed

  No matter how many times you try

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to O’Henry, Edgar Allen Poe, Hans Christian Anderson, Alfred Hitchcock, Jeffrey Archer, Stephen King and every other master of short story form. You’ve inspired me since I was four years old.

  For my sons, Bailey and Harry, you’ve filled my life with wonderful memories and taught me how to be more than me.

  I would come back again for you, forever.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MOVEMENT 1

  MOVEMENT 2

  MOVEMENT 3

  MOVEMENT 4

  MOVEMENT 5

  MOVEMENT 6

  MOVEMENT 7

  MOVEMENT 8

  MOVEMENT 9

  MOVEMENT 10

  Movement 1

  What can fourteen seconds do?

  They can cause you to miss a train, a plane, an important phone call. Or cause you to miss the hearing of a secret that might change everything. They can change your future.

  They can take your son.

  Tommy would leave his music lesson any minute now. No, that was too vague. She knew the time. He would leave his music lesson at 4:33 and fourteen seconds. The seconds were what mattered. Fourteen increments of time can and will change everything.

  She checked the car clock. Dawn always glanced at it—she couldn’t help herself—though there was no need to note the time. She knew it.

  4:29

  Her hands twisted together in her lap, before pausing to pull at a stray thread on her skirt. She wrapped it around her finger and pulled. The thread was always there. It came away from the material, but she kept it twisted like a ring as if she were married to the moment.

  Married. That was a few years ago. She didn’t think about John anymore. She used to, but there wasn’t the time to care and fuss about inconsequential things like marriage.

  Even now her heart still kicked a little. How many times had she checked that clock? How many seconds had she counted down? Still the beat echoed in her head as if she herself was a ticking time bomb.

  Her mouth felt dry, not a normal dry but the draining thirst that no amount of water can quench. Without looking down at it, she pawed at the drink bottle sitting in the center console. Flicking the lid open, she raised it to her lips and sipped. As she did, the clock’s hands moved.

  4.33

  She lowered the bottle to her lap. Her fingers gripped the cylinder, as if it were the last rung of a ladder hovering over a long drop. The metal felt as cold as her heart did in those times when it all seemed pointless.

  The door of the studio flew open. Tommy’s guitar, a large black case that seemed too big for his ten-year-old body, preceded him through the doorway. He paused and looked across the cars parked outside.

  Catching sight of her, a smile erupted across his face and he waved. It was a small wave, one of those waves where you barely lift your hand. A wave that simply said I see you—you’re there. Not a wave to say I love you, you’re special or I am glad you’re there. Certainly, it wasn’t a wave to say goodbye.

  Internally, she coughed back a sob as her hand raised to wave back. Her wave said more. It said I love you. I’m sorry. I will find a way to get you back.

  Fourteen seconds to go.

  Movement 2

  Kylie had worked at this dump of a supermarket for two months. Although she was planning to leave, there was no way she’d expected her lame-ass boss, Mr. Ramello, to be the one who sent her packing. Ridiculous, that she be the one fired from the lamest job on earth. She was the one who should be telling him to shove it.

  The asshole just didn’t understand a thing. He’d pegged her for someone she wasn’t. She’d been doing pretty well on the register and, as far as she knew, no customer had complained. Occasionally her till had even balanced. Sure, she’d been spending a lot of time on her phone, but that wasn’t really her fault. It was stupid Andrew, her very ex-boyfriend.

  She’d told Andrew she wanted to end it a week ago, but he just wouldn’t accept it, constantly texting and calling her every few hours. Last night he even had the gall to show up at her house—unannounced, for Christ’s sake.

  Anyway, she wasn’t going to feel bad about losing this job. What’s so great about a job where the most challenging duty was working out whether to put the tomatoes in a bag on top of, or below, the eggs?

  Repeating “have a nice day” fifty times an hour gets pretty old, too. Like she really cared what the never-ending stream of shoppers did with their day. They could have a shit day, for all she cared. She’d quickly mastered the side-lip raise that gave the effect of a smile. Whatever used the least amount of energy.

  If that shitty creep, Ramello, wanted to fire her for the sucky reason that she was on her phone occasionally at work, then screw him. Maybe he had told her a dozen times to stay off the phone. So what? Hadn’t she worked overtime the other night when he’d asked?

  His loss, too, because she’d just mastered the deli-slicer. What was he going to do when Marcus went on vacation? Anyway, after two months, she was sick of his constant standing over her shoulder and checking the till and what she was doing.

  His latest comments on her hair had gone beyond a joke, too. What was wrong with pink and purple strand hair weaves, anyway? It wasn’t like they were permanent.

  The way he’d fired her was crap. Three minutes of telling her what he thought of her, and then he’d told her to get out. Seriously ignorant. No listening to her defense; he didn’t even want to know about psycho Andrew. He just put his hand up like he was a traffic cop and told her to get out.

  Shit-for-brains. Arrogant. Creep. An all ‘round bastard. Well, he could take his deli-slicer and his job and shove it.

  There was that new Italian restaurant opening up across town. She’d just get herself a job there. Easy. First, a couple of weeks break to shake off the supermarket uniform—tired green polo-shirt and boring black pants—along with the dust, the stink of cheese, and the tooth-grinding boredom of the place.

  A new career was what she needed. Annabelle had done an online course last year and gotten herself a job in an office. She could study bookkeeping, or childcare, or even look into getting something at McDonalds and work her way up to manager.

  She did have ambition, even if her parents didn’t think so. She just didn’t walk around talking about it, jabbering every ten seconds about her big dreams. No, she was just an ordinary person who wanted to do her own thing, who didn’t like being bullied and lectured by old-fashioned morons like Ramello. He’d done her a favor, really. Now she could work on improving her life. Her job was gone, and so was her boyfri
end. Goodbye and good riddance.

  When she first saw the mess on her car, she was pissed. Even though she’d parked it a good fifty feet from the staff exit, it was so big she couldn’t miss it.

  Bitch was written in big, white, dripping letters all the way across the driver’s side.

  What the fuck?

  It had to be Andrew, the prick of all pricks.

  Her anger hit fever pitch in the time it took to take in the image. He wouldn’t want to be within a mile of her right now, or she’d gouge out his eyes. She’d laughingly told Annabelle only yesterday that his messages were getting increasingly angry in tone. They’d both giggled at the thought that she was so cool and he was working himself up. He deserved it, the freak. She hadn’t expected this, though.

  In case the psycho was watching, she put on her best I-don’t-give-a-shit face and casually walked toward her car as if there was absolutely nothing painted there. She wasn’t about to give him an ounce of satisfaction. If that was the best he had, then he was a loser. A loser who was pretty good in the hip department—but still, a loser.

  She wrestled with the contents of her bag looking for her keys. On the outside, she was calm; inside she was shaking with rage. Prick, prick, stupid bastard.

  Finally, she found them and she unlocked the car, and yanked open the door. It creaked a complaint, as it always did. The car was an asshole, too. When she got that job as a bookkeeper or a manager, she’d buy a fancy car. Then she’d drive past Andrew’s house every day until he noticed her and realized how good her life had become since him. Maybe she’d even drop in, give him some encouragement, get him in the car and show a little boob, then give him the “ah, ah, ah, you’re not worthy” line.

  She threw her bag across to the front passenger seat and slammed the door. It was the last time she’d be driving out of this shitty parking lot. Hallelujah, brother!

  Starting up the engine, Kylie leaned forward and peered through the windshield, checking around the parking lot. She wondered if Andrew was out there, skulking behind a car or a wall, laughing at her. The thought of his enjoying this sent another shot of anger through her system. She’d come up with something to pay him back. Nobody, especially a loser like him, was going to get the better of her.

  Glancing at the clock, she saw it was still early.

  4:32

  Annabelle would be getting off work in thirty minutes. Kylie could swing by the office where she worked and wait. Maybe they’d grab a coffee and she could unload everything that had just happened. It always felt better to hear your friend say, “screw them,” with you.

  She wondered if Annabelle could get her a job at her office, even temporarily until she’d worked out which online course she might do, or looked into a McDonalds career, or the new restaurant. She’d prefer a beer to celebrate, but she still had six months until she was legal drinking age.

  Just as Kylie pulled out of the car park and into the road, her phone beeped, signaling a new message. She knew exactly who it would be.

  Andrew-lunatic-car-graffiti-artist. He was probably checking if she got his message.

  Loud and clear, you mother-fucker. And I’m just working on a reply.

  The phone lay on the passenger seat, next to her bag. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself,” she muttered, leaning across to grab it.

  She glanced down at the screen. It was him. The asshole had written that he loved her and wanted her back.

  Not on your life, buddy. She began to type.

  Maybe it was the adrenaline from the anger travelling through her, or her preoccupation with her phone, but somehow she gave the car a little more gas than it needed as she pulled out into traffic.

  Her twenty-year-old Honda didn’t maneuver well with sudden acceleration. It pulled too far to the right instead of staying centered; suddenly, Kylie found herself turned into the oncoming traffic lane. Realizing what had happened, she quickly compensated by swinging the steering wheel to the left, bringing the car back onto the correct side of the road.

  Days later, she would think about that moment and contemplate what would have happened if she’d only turned the wheel an inch less. There wasn’t time to think when it happened. Time’s a bitch like that.

  If the phone hadn’t beeped again—happy and chirpy, as if it wasn’t delivering a nightmare to her—and if she hadn’t been at her wit’s end with that fucking lunatic harassing her, it all might have worked out differently. But she didn’t ignore the phone. She glanced at it in her hand, the same hand that held the steering wheel.

  Some nosy witness later told the police that she’d swerved, and then righted the car back into the correct lane, having seemed to regain control. It was the phone that did it—if she hadn’t been looking at the phone.

  She would later tell the police that all she remembered was feeling the car jolt as it hit something, simultaneously heard a loud thud, and then saw a momentary blur of gray.

  At the time, when she stopped the car and looked in her rear-view mirror, she simply wondered why someone would leave a bag of old clothes in the middle of the road. Her first thought was that it was another practical joke, courtesy of Andrew. Next, she heard someone screaming; still believing it was clothes, she wondered why it was such a big deal.

  It was only after she climbed out to inspect any damage done to her car by the bag that she realized it was not, in fact, clothes. The bundle lay about fifteen feet back from her car. The screaming had stopped, replaced by crying, and there was a woman bent over the clothes.

  It struck her, as she stood there staring at the clothes and the woman, that she had made a mistake—a terrible mistake. In a flash of horror, she suddenly understood.

  Bile rose in her throat and she turned and retched right there in the middle of the road—where everyone could see—but she didn’t care. Even Andrew might be watching and laughing, but still she didn’t care.

  The woman was cradling the bundle; a haunting, ghost-like wailing was coming from her. Kylie wiped the stinking spew from the sides of her mouth. She began to shiver as she shuffled toward the scene. As she drew closer, she saw the blood. Her trembling feet gave way beneath her, and she fell to her knees next to the woman… and the boy.

  Now her mind had processed everything. Now she understood. She was looking at the end of her life as she knew it.

  Movement 3

  Each time Dawn was returned, she remembered the first time as if it was embedded in her mind, each subsequent experience only serving to color those memories, but never to overwrite them. She tried to look at everything logically, but each experience, unchanged as it was, felt original. She noticed things every time, but the first time Tommy died was the most horrific.

  Dawn leaned over Tommy. Her first instinct was to keep screaming, but she realized that if she didn’t calm down she would be of little help to her son.

  The blood had soaked quickly through his gray uniform, turning the school emblem on his pocket to a rich burgundy totally discoloring the words—Mater Dei, Mother of God—making them illegible.

  His face was a white she’d never seen before. His eyes were closed, as in sleep. Dawn’s heart pounded as she pulled at him, trying to rouse him. Both his legs were bent at a strange angle, and there was a lump swollen to the size of a golf ball on the side of his head.

  Dawn sensed the girl kneeling near her, staring. She turned to her and yelled that she should call for help. The way the girl was bent over, staring blankly at them with white-rimmed eyes, made Dawn realize she would be of no help. She couldn’t worry about the girl for now. At the time, Dawn didn’t realize who she was, but she at least looked unharmed.

  Dawn stared down at Tommy’s little face, so perfect, so peaceful.

  “Hold on, baby. Hold on,” she whispered.

  She sucked in deep gulps of air as she brushed her hand across his forehead. Now that she’d calmed down, she knew not to move him. Leaning in, she kissed his face and felt his breath
slide over her cheek as she did. It was all she could do, the only comfort for him and for her.

  Then he coughed. She felt his chest rise and press against hers, and then stop. A single, long sigh escaped his lips, as her hand clutched the back of his head and pulled him more tightly into her. Something was happening. Another breath. Then he was still.

  A hush enveloped her, as if all around her the world had been sucked into a sound-proof vacuum. For a moment she, too, stopped breathing. In a mindless attempt to infuse her own life into him, she wrapped her arms about his small body.

  He was gone.

  She knew it in the center of her being—a mother’s connection broken. Panic gripped her, and she didn’t know whether to stay or run or start screaming again. If this was a dream, this was the time to wake up.

  Tommy died that afternoon.

  He should have just gone home by the same routine. They should have been halfway down the street, chatting merrily about his lesson, with Dawn barely listening as she mentally checked off the necessary ingredients for that night’s meal.

  Instead the woman—girl really—would come squat beside her and say how sorry she was and ask if Tommy was okay.

  Dawn wouldn’t answer, because there were no words. Watching her beautiful son die was the worst thing she had ever, could ever, experience.

  She’d lost count of the number of times she’d lived through this. Every time it hurt as much as the time before. Eventually, she thought that she must become immune to the events, and that her heart wouldn’t shatter into a thousand, million pieces—

  But it always did.

  Movement 4

  The ambulance would arrive shortly, the sirens distant at first, increasing in volume with each second. Two paramedics would arrive within five minutes and seem to leap on Tommy, one of them pulling her away with: “We’ve got him. We’ll do our best.”