Sins of the Fathers

by S Gepp

  The door closed suddenly, and they separated like two naughty children caught out. Chelsea giggled and let her forehead fall against Francis's. "Oops," she said, then recoiled a little.

  She bent down and picked up an envelope from the floor. "Oops," she repeated with a giggle and tore it open. The card was very ornate, and she opened it, then removed a gift certificate for a day spa. She rolled her eyes. "Three of these and counting," she muttered, then, "Oh, listen to this: 'Your graceful legs are like jewels, the work of a craftsman's hands. Your navel is a rounded goblet that never lacks blended wine. Your waist is a mound of wheat encircled by lilies. Your breasts are like'—oh, Lord, really?—'like two fawns, twins of a gazelle.' Seriously?"

  "It's from the Bible, Song of Songs," Francis said. "And, sorry, and no offense to whoever gave it to you—that's sad."

  "Too right, it is."

  "Look, can I ask who it's from?"

  She read the bottom and shrugged. "It just says, 'TW.' I don't think I know a TW." She tossed it over her shoulder like yesterday's rubbish and rewrapped her arms around his neck. "Now, where were we?" Her kiss sent a fire through him, a feeling that was so wonderful and perfect he hoped it would never end.

  A shiver ran through him.

  Francis did know who it was who had thrown that card in here. And for a few fleeting moments, before he completely lost himself with this girl again, he wondered just what was going on with his old friend, and what he was even doing here, and how he would be after seeing the two of them together.

  But then it was Chelsea. Chelsea was all that mattered. Chelsea was all that would ever matter…

  Chapter Sixteen

  2012

  Brandon sat on an old wicker chair on the front porch of his house as his two eldest children played with a soft, round ball, trying to emulate the soccer game they'd just finished watching on television. And, like most five-year-olds, they simply did not stop. They had already asked Brandon countless times to join them, but after the previous night's nocturnal visitor, he felt was simply too tired to do it safely. What he really wanted was to catch up on some sleep, but Tara was with the younger two children at their pre-schoolers' swimming lesson, and so he was awake and here.

  The phone in his pocket sounded loudly, its ring tone a recording of an old-fashioned dial-up phone, the volume enough to jar him out of a near-sleep. He pulled it out slowly and pressed it to his ear without checking the number. "Brandon Cornelius," he stated emotionlessly.

  "Hey, mate, it's me, Julian." The tone of voice made him sit up immediately, spilling his coffee on his pant leg. "Look, I know this is weird, but just get your kids, the twins, and don't let them out of your sight for an instant. Now, Brandon; I'm serious."

  "I can see them right now," he replied, running his hand over the wet patch. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

  "It's Chelsea."

  That name was enough to send ice through Brandon's veins, freezing him into immobility, his eyes not seeing anything.

  "C'mon, Krissie, kick it harder!" young Allan yelled at his twin sister. The girl obeyed with a loud squeal. The ball bounced off her brother's chest and onto the road.

  Brandon hardly noticed. "Julian, Chelsea's dead," he said simply, rubbing his forehead with his hand. A headache had suddenly and uncomfortably decided to make itself known.

  "You think I don't know that?" There was a pause while he calmed himself. "Look, I'm coming over. The nurses will kill me, but I need to tell you something that doesn't make any sense. As soon as I've seen Francis, I'll be there, okay? Just look out for my taxi." He sounded a touch embarrassed. "And I might need some help to pay for it. Luke's hidden my wallet."

  "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" This was all impossible, and Brandon's voice felt distant to his own ears. He continued to stare at the spilled coffee as though that was the most important thing in the world. He didn't see his two children standing at the edge of the road, looking left, then right, then left, then right, again and again, while the ball sat on top of a metal disc that covered some utility or another in the center of the bitumen.

  Brandon lifted his face.

  Holding hands, the twins ran out together.

  Too late, Brandon's mind registered what was happening. He dropped the phone and stood, even though his legs were suddenly made of lead. "No…" he tried, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

  "Brandon! Brandon!" Julian's tinny voice was screaming out of the phone on the ground.

  The car screeched around the corner.

  Brandon opened his mouth to cry out, but the driver's face turned and gazed at him. In that briefest of moments, he was sure he could see who she was.

  But it couldn't be…

  The children merely stared at the oncoming vehicle in dumb fascination.

  "Jump!" Brandon finally found his voice; his command was the only one that came to mind.

  The twins obeyed automatically, Allan leaping to the left, Kristina to the right.

  The car struck them both at the same time, crashing into their hips and sending them skidding off to opposite sides of the road, lifeless, like discarded ragdolls.

  Neither moved.

  The car lost control and plowed into a parked utility vehicle.

  And Brandon fell to his knees, his eyes vague and unfixed, unable to see anything before him.

  And wanting to never see anything else ever again.

  1991

  All of the others stared at Francis.

  "Oh, I get it," Troy said coldly after a time. "You were going to stop us from doing this, and that would have made you into a hero. This strange relationship, this on–off thing you have with her would be on again, maybe even permanently. Right?"

  "Don't be so fucking stupid," Francis growled, and yet his eyes dropped to once more gaze upon the body of the beauty before them.

  "Look, we all liked her, most of us from afar—" Nearly all the rest averted their eyes at that. "—but you know what we want. We want the power and influence, and we want to be in control, like everything we had in that last year of high school, only more so. We want it for the rest of our lives. We want to dominate. What we want is almost impossible to attain. Only this—" He held the book up. "—can give us all that. The greatest of desires. That's what we are aiming for: our greatest of desires. And only through a loved one's sacrifice can the greatest of desires even hope to be delivered…"

  "It's all bullshit!" Francis cried, cutting off Troy's speech. "I can't believe we even went along with this in the first place." He looked around at all the others, making sure of at least a moment of eye contact. "Are we that desperate that we've resorted to believing in fairy tales?"

  "It worked!" Sean returned, suddenly and passionately. "Troy got money! I got…" He let his voice fade as he looked down, embarrassed.

  "What?" Francis hissed. "You did this shit as well?"

  "I borrowed the book," he mumbled sheepishly. "Did it on my own." He finally looked at the rest. "Troy was the only one who knew. I made him swear to keep it secret."

  Everyone stared at him in surprise except Troy, who was nodding sagely. "Go on, tell them," he insisted, everything about his manner that of a man who'd won the most important argument of his life.

  Sean groaned and wiped his eyes. "Remember how they said Teresa was going to die, but she pulled through, like some sort of a miracle?" he whispered. "And remember how our dog Trixie died at the same time? Our beloved dog?" He cast his eyes around and nodded, as if that explained everything.

  "Oh, for fuck's sake," Francis growled. Of course, they remembered; Teresa, Sean's older sister, had been a passenger in a car that had slammed into a tree in the early hours of New Year's Day. Her chances of survival had been minimal, and even if she did come out of it, the family had been told that the brain damage would be profound. To everyone's surprise, including the doctors, she had made a sudden and complete recovery, with only the scars showing through the hair that was still regrowin
g giving any indication that it had ever taken place. The family put it down to the power of prayer; the doctors to a poor prognosis on their behalf. But to Francis, something else concerned him. "You killed Trixie?" he finally asked, but that went ignored by his friends in the stunned shock.

  "You never said," Luke muttered.

  "Oh, but I knew," Troy gloated. "Sure, with me, it could have been a coincidence. But not this, not Teresa."

  "I wish I'd known," Francis mumbled, reaching across to stroke the long, golden locks of the girl in the bag.

  "Why?" Troy sneered.

  "Because I would have known just how fucking serious you were about this crap," he stated angrily, "and I would never have agreed to even contemplate this bullshit."

  Chapter Seventeen

  2012

  "It must be over now," Sean whispered.

  The four men with him did not even move. Finally: "How do you work that one out?" Francis asked.

  "Logic," he stated with strange detachment. "All of us have had our eldest kids taken—or tried to be taken—from us. Chelsea was the eldest. Whoever's doing this has got what they wanted, clearly. So, that's got to be it." He struggled to keep himself from crying. "Some of us lost our children, others were really lucky…" He seemed to be fighting an internal battle not to cast an accusing eye at Julian. "…but it's got to be over now. Doesn't it?"

  It took a while before anyone dared to formulate an answer.

  "I don't know, but…" Francis stopped as the intercom buzzed and some garbled, distorted voice announced that a car was parked illegally. Francis found himself looking at his watch. He should have been in court half an hour ago with one of his firm's more valuable clients; he only hoped his junior barrister was doing a good enough job to keep the old man happy. He snapped back to reality; his mind was wandering to keep itself from thinking about the maelstrom swirling about him. He resumed, feeling the others' eyes on him. "…but, shit, I hope it is."

  Randolph stood, his face a barely contained volcano, and started out of the waiting room.

  "What's up, mate?" Luke asked.

  "Can't do this," he mumbled from between clenched teeth. "Can't." Luke went to stand up to follow, but Sean placed a firm hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Luke saw it in Sean's eyes, and then he understood not only the reasoning but also the emotion behind Sean's actions. Luke could not really comprehend what was going through Sean's mind; Chantelle was in a bed upstairs with Nathan probably right beside her. He had not gone through the ultimate loss.

  At that simple thought of his daughter, he gazed upward, in the direction of her room, only vaguely aware that Sean had now taken off after Randolph.

  Yes, despite everything, Luke had apparently somehow managed to get "lucky," thank God.

  * * *

  Unaware of—and not overly concerned with—her father's proximity, Chantelle was lying on her back, eyes closed, listening to Nathan read the book he had started before she had even known him, a slight smile on her face.

  Gradually, and ever so subtly, her hand reached along the bed and came to rest on his forearm. Her fingers wrapped around his muscular limb tightly. He missed a beat in his reading, and when he managed to resume, it was with the slightest hint of a grin on his lips.

  "Time for a quick obs." The voice of a nurse interrupted Nathan's story-telling, and Chantelle's hand darted back to her hip as the red flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks.

  "S'pose it's time for me to get going then," Nathan said with a slightly exaggerated sigh, gripping the wheels of his chair.

  "No." Chantelle's hand returned to his arm. "Stay. Please."

  He offered her a nervous smile and cocked his head to one side. "If you really want." There was more hope in his voice than he was entirely comfortable with.

  "It's your call," the nurse stated without hesitation or judgment.

  "I do." Chantelle's response was immediate, and her eyes did not leave Nathan's.

  The nurse offered a very slight shrug and carefully pulled back the sheets and blankets. "You sure?" she asked once more; Chantelle merely nodded. The nurse lifted the hospital gown, revealing a pair of lycra running shorts and a stomach completely swathed in bandages. Some rust-colored stains showed through on the edges, and the nurse grunted. "I'll come back to change those dressings later," she said with disinterest. Again, Chantelle just nodded. The nurse then pressed down on top of where the surgeon's incision was. Chantelle winced and gripped Nathan's forearm. The older woman moved her fingers outwards with expert precision, and Chantelle's wincing diminished. The nurse then grabbed a clipboard. "You eat anything today?" she asked mechanically.

  "Uhh, I had water for breakfast, but I had some soup for lunch."

  "Any feelings of nausea afterward?"

  Chantelle shook her head.

  "Well, I think you've got sandwiches and tea tonight, so see how you with that." The nurse cast Nathan a quick sideways glance. "Bowel movements?"

  "Uhh, no, not yet," was the soft response, "but I walked to the toilet this morning for, erm, number ones."

  "Okay." She looked at the chart. "It's not noted here. Do you remember who took you?"

  Chantelle looked at Nathan. "Red-haired nurse. Young-ish," she said, unsure of herself.

  "They took a drip on a stand with them," Nathan added. "I reckon it must've been ten-thirty or so."

  The nurse sighed again and made a note. She then placed everything back where it had been and stared at Chantelle, her eyes a touch more vacant than before. "Time for a painkiller, then," she stated with no emotion in her voice at all.

  "What about pulse rate, blood pressure, and the other stuff?" Chantelle asked, the first touch of worry clouding her question.

  The nurse gave no indication she had even heard. She simply pulled a syringe out of her top pocket and then unwrapped a fresh needle, which she attached carefully. She pulled back the plunger, filling the plastic tube with nothing but air, and then gripped it in a tight fist.

  She looked up at the two teenagers.

  The middle-aged woman was not the person staring at them. The face was suddenly so much younger and stunningly beautiful, framed by long, golden hair that shone in the harsh fluorescent lighting. It was a face they recognized immediately, and which sent a chilled dagger into both of their hearts. Chantelle gasped and closed her eyes; Nathan could only watch. The nurse's thumb was poised over the plunger. One final gorgeous smile and then she stabbed it down hard and fast.

  The needle stuck, and she forced her thumb onwards.

  It didn't depress.

  Her beautiful eyes darted downwards, showing anger and confusion for the first time. But when the face gazed back at them, the older nurse's visage had returned, and the expression on her face could only be described as one of absolute horror. She stumbled backward, knocking a vase from the side table, her mouth agape, tears filling her eyes, then turned and fled.

  The two youngsters watched her go, wide-eyed, Nathan's body tense, Chantelle's shaking violently, the stain on her bandage growing worryingly.

  Then they slowly lowered their eyes to the book Nathan had thrust painfully onto Chantelle's stomach.

  To the book and the hypodermic syringe quivering from the front cover like a well-aimed, deadly dart.

  Chantelle burst into pained, wracking sobs and reached for Nathan automatically. He hugged her close to him. She held him so tight he struggled to move, but he forced himself to, at least enough to grab his mobile phone from the bag attached to his wheelchair. He held Chantelle for a few moments, his hand on the back of her head, her face buried in his neck, then typed a simple message to his father:

  "Come here now."

  1991

  The first round of university offers arrived in the mail; the previously organized celebratory party was at Francis's house, in the rumpus room—formerly a two-car garage—out back. Just them in the room with alcohol and food, and Francis's parents simply letting them go; in all the years of this friendship,
nothing untoward had ever happened, so why would it start now?

  As had become their custom, they all arrived within five minutes of one another, except Troy, who was his usual twenty minutes late. They found it hard to keep a lid on things until he arrived, even though to Francis's mind it was all strangely subdued, even somber, and yet they drank beer around the large table, which had hosted years of games of Dungeons & Dragons, Risk, Trivial Pursuit, and dozens of others, and just waited.

  Troy's eventual arrival heralded the beginning of a ritual they had decided upon half-way through their final year of high school. But Francis could already feel it was not right. Still, the show must go on, he told himself.

  It was Francis who stood first. "Gentlemen, pre-law," he said with pride.

  "Huzzah!" the others responded before they all swallowed a mouthful of beer.

  Julian next. "Didn't get into engineering, but I'm happy enough with science. If I don't get in on the second round, maybe I'll transfer across if I get good enough marks in first year."

  "Huzzah!" Swallow, done immediately, to hide curious glances. Julian didn't get his first choice?

  Luke stood, a little self-consciously. "I made it. Physiotherapy."

  That was better. "Huzzah!" Another drink.

  A pause, then Sean stood next, almost reluctantly. "Accounting, but I'll try for an accounting-economics double degree when I go in for orientation week."

  "Huzzah." But it was nowhere near as hearty a cheer. That hadn't been Sean's first choice—not even his second—and they all knew it. And he was not even considering getting a better offer in the second round.

  Another longer pause before Brandon pushed himself slowly to his feet. "Journalism." His voice was quiet, ashamed, his eyes downcast.

  "Huzzah." It was intoned, with not even a touch of emotion.