Here After

by Sean Costello

  “Did I say you could come in here? Did I?”

  Peter shook his head no, the swirling dots coalescing into solid black; he could feel himself going...

  Then the hand came away, and the knee. Air rushed into his lungs and he coughed it back out. He clutched his throat, his skull throbbing from air hunger.

  Roger took a step back from him, breathing hard through his nostrils, shoulders hunched. He pointed at the door. “Get out.”

  “Roger, I—”

  “You can walk out now, under your own steam, or I can put you through the window.”

  Peter got to his feet, trembling, almost falling. Dazed, he made his way to the bedroom door, paused to look back at Roger—still breathing hard, gaze averted now—then shuffled down the hallway, using the wall for support.

  Downstairs, on his way to the front door, he passed the family room and saw the TV in there. The movie was on pause, the Pink Panther cartoon grinning out at him.

  Shattered and confused, he hobbled down the porch steps in the dark, to the ocean blue loaner parked at the curb.

  * * *

  The moon was a night or two away from full, a flawed gem in a tattered bed of cloud. Peter sat on a rocky outcrop on the shore of Lake Ramsey, feet dangling in the water, a silver contrail of moonlight dispersing around his ankles. The water was cold, numbing him, the breeze off the water keeping the bugs away. It hurt to swallow and his head was still throbbing.

  He’d been sitting here a couple of hours now, the Day-glo hands on the wrist watch David had given him for Christmas telling him it was a minute after midnight. In the wake of what had happened at Roger’s place, his mind had whited out, his scrambled thoughts defying any reasonable translation.

  Peter shivered now, his gaze drifting from the trail of moonlight to its shifting edge and the black depths beyond. It seemed an apt model for his confusion. His whole life he’d kept to the lit path, his innate fear of what might lurk beyond manifesting in a dozen different guises, from snobbish pragmatism to simple bull-headed dismissal. If he couldn’t see it, touch it or smell it, it didn’t exist.

  But what about now? Had he gone mad? Suffered sufficient brain damage when his heart stopped beating to topple him over the edge? Or was it the loss that had undone him? The unending grief?

  Or had his experience—technically, a near-death experience—made him part of a mystery? The mystery. That fearsome realm beyond death, closed to most people but for some reason opening to him? Should he trust his senses, no matter how bizarre the circumstances? Or dismiss what was happening out of hand, explain it away and risk losing it forever?

  Bottom line, every instinct told him his son was trying to reach out to him. And if there was even a remote possibility of that happening, he had to do everything in his power to facilitate it. Seen in this light, there really was no question. As this logic grew clearer to him, Peter realized that his own closed-mindedness had been getting in his way. He’d given himself a lethal injection in the hope of following his son into the unknown; what clearer expression of belief, however confused, did he require?

  He dug his cell phone out of his hip pocket and punched in Erika’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Peter,” she said immediately. “I thought you might call.” His cell phone ID was blocked, but he was too worn out to ask how she knew it was him. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was talking to my daughter.”

  He said, “The dead one?” and immediately regretted it.

  Erika laughed. “The living one,” she said. “She just left. But I do, you know.”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk to her. The dead one.”

  “That’s sort of why I’m calling.”

  “Are you coming over?”

  “May I?”

  “Of course. I’ll put on some tea.”

  * * *

  Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a crystal ball maybe, shelves of exotic herbs and potions—but Erika’s place was a pleasant surprise, a cool, tastefully furnished apartment with a big sectional sofa and a spacious kitchen that opened onto the living and dining areas.

  Peter settled in on the sofa and Erika sat next to him, pouring tea. There was something on the stereo, Swamp music, Peter thought, the kind of stuff acupuncturists and massage therapists played ad nauseam—birds chirping, brooks babbling—but this was the only thing even remotely fringe about Erika’s living space.

  A plump woman, she wore a shapeless, full length dress, her preferred look, this one dark blue denim. She had a wholesome face with a ready smile, showing perfect white teeth. Her hands and bare feet were small, the nails manicured, painted bright red.

  She handed him a cup of tea and he thanked her, setting it on the coffee table in front of him. He wasn’t a tea drinker either, but didn’t want to appear impolite. Erika took a sip of hers then set it on the table next to his, shifting on the sofa as she did, facing him now.

  “So tell me.”

  And he did, leaving out only the parts she’d already heard in group. Erika nodded throughout, the information seeming familiar to her, as if what he was relating was a shared reminiscence rather than a personal event. He finished by telling her of Roger’s violent reaction and how badly he, Peter, felt for his trespass, one fueled by an impulse so powerful it had seemed almost involuntary.

  Erika tilted her head and smiled. “Where do you suppose that impulse came from?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Peter said, “but I can’t get my mind around it. On the way over here I was convinced, but describing it to you just now...I don’t know. It sounds so hokey. The mind’s a tricky thing, particularly when stressed or fatigued; or in my case, both.”

  “You said Jason’s room was the one you found yourself in when your son died? The one you dreamed about later?”

  “It was dark...it was a kid’s room with a bunk bed. How many of those are there in the city? In the world? Maybe it’s just a random memory I dredged up from a magazine or a movie.”

  “I’m not going to try to convince you one way or the other,” Erika said. “You have to listen to your heart and decide that part of it on your own.”

  “Fair enough...but what do you think?”

  She took a sip of her tea, leaning back on the couch with it this time, holding the cup to her chin, idly blowing steam off the surface. She looked away from him for a moment, thoughtful, then said, “You and David were close?”

  “Very.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  “All the time. What do you mean?”

  “When something was eating him, would he bring it you?”

  Peter averted his gaze. “It was better after he got sick; we talked about everything then. Before that the only person he really opened up to was his grandmother. Dana’s mom. She owns a deer ranch near Warren. Dave spent all his summers there from the time he was about two. He loved the place.”

  “You shouldn’t feel bad about that. Boys often find a woman to confide in. On certain topics dads can seem a tad unapproachable.”

  “I always blamed it on my job. The long hours.”

  “You said your son and Jason were about the same age?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When Jason disappeared, did you get a sense of how it affected David?”

  “It was summer. He was at the farm. He hadn’t seen Jason in months. I’m not sure David even knew about it.”

  “He knew about it, alright,” Erika said. “And apart from the loss of his mom, I’m betting it was the single greatest trauma of his life.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “You think the man I saw—barely saw—you think he’s really the one who took Jason?”

  “When you were in Jason’s room tonight, what did you think?”

  “But how would David know about him?”

  “I don’t know, Peter. I only know that he does.”

  “So why doesn�
�t he just tell me?”

  “Imagine waking up in a place completely foreign to you,” Erika said, an avid light coming into her eyes, “a place in which the sun never shines and all you can discern are shapes and shadows. Imagine then discovering that this place is actually the world you’ve known all your life, but for some reason you’ve been knocked out of sync with it, the ways in which you were previously able to interact suddenly closed to you. No one can see you and no one can hear you. It’s as if you no longer exist. Imagine the frustration. The fear.” She paused to blow on her tea, her gaze unblinking, then said, “But in the midst of these emotions, you learn that sometimes, though you have no idea how or why, you can reach out and make something happen. Usually not what you intended, but something. I’m sure David would love to just whisper it in your ear or jot you a note, but his best effort might produce only a chill breath of air or—”

  “Finger smears on a window.”

  “Exactly.”

  Peter looked into Erika’s soft green eyes, as convinced as he was ever likely to be. “So what should I do?”

  “If it were me, I’d start with your mother-in-law. Find out if David said anything to her about it, if for nothing more than to convince yourself of the impact the event must have had on your son. Then, just...do what you’ve been doing. Keep your eyes and your mind open and eventually it’ll work itself out.”

  “No séance or anything?”

  “You watch too many movies.”

  Peter chuckled, exhaustion creeping up on him. “You’re right, I do. Thanks, Erika.”

  She touched his hand. “Anytime.”

  At the door on the way out he said, “How well do you know Roger?”

  “Give him time,” Erika said. “He’s an angry man doing his best to carry on. When he’s ready, he’ll come around.”

  “Do you think I should keep going to the meetings?”

  “If they help.”

  Peter nodded, stiffened a little when Erika gave him a sisterly hug, then went out to the car.

  On his way home he drove past Roger’s place. The house was cocooned in darkness, the only light a pale glow in an upstairs window. Peter knew right away the window was Jason’s. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a hunched silhouette on the drawn curtain, Roger standing where Peter had left him hours ago.

  He went home and sat at the computer until the sun came up, staring at lost faces.

  7

  Saturday, June 16

  JUST AFTER SEVEN THAT MORNING, Peter called his mother-in-law. She was a farm woman, wide awake when she answered.

  “Hi, Katy, it’s me.”

  “Peter. It’s so nice to hear from you. How are you holding up?”

  “It’s hard, Katy.”

  “I know.”

  Peter took a deep breath. For a moment he’d forgotten she’d lost a child, too. And a grandson.

  Katy said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Three summers ago while David was there, do you remember hearing about a Sudbury boy being abducted from his home?”

  “Of course I do. David knew him. The news broke his little heart.”

  “He knew about it, then?”

  “He saw it on TV. I’ll never forget it. It was storming that day and I was making biscuits. David was lying on the couch in the living room. When the segment came on, he sat right up, and when they said the boy’s name he screamed for me. Gave me a terrible fright. I was days calming him down.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything about it?”

  “David asked me not to.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Children are people, Peter. They have their secrets. Maybe he didn’t want to upset you. He was fine after a week or so. He was a very mature boy.”

  “I know.”

  “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “No reason. Just curious. Something David said before he...”

  “I understand.”

  “Thanks, Katy.”

  “When will we see you?”

  “Soon.”

  “Okay, Peter. Whenever you’re ready. Bye for now.”

  * * *

  The headstone felt hot under the beating sun. The wind had shifted David’s crystal figurine to the edge of the stone and Peter burned his fingers picking it up. He moved it to the raised base, centering it beneath the inscription, safely out of the wind.

  There was a wrought iron vase spiked into the earth in front of Dana’s monument and Peter tucked a dozen red roses into it, Dana’s favorite. Sometimes the ache of her absence ran so deep he wondered if he could ever feel love for a woman again. Dana had been his ideal companion, his refuge, his heart and soul. He missed her humor, her sparkling green eyes flecked with gold, the perfect fit of her body with his own. In this place, the cruelty of her death, and that of his son, weighed terribly on him, making it difficult to breathe.

  Eyes glazed with tears, Peter filled the vase with water from a plastic bottle, then sat cross-legged on the grass at the foot of the adjoining plots, looking from one to the other in a species of numb disbelief. He’d opted for porcelain portraits on each of the headstones, the one of Dana culled from their honeymoon collection, Dana standing with the ocean at her back, a blush of rising sun soft against her skin. So beautiful. Almost impossible to believe she’d been gone four years. The photo he’d chosen of David was his absolute favorite, the little guy hamming it up in the yard at home, a ball cap flipped around backwards on his head, Terminator sunglasses hiding his eyes, David flexing a bicep in a black and yellow muscle shirt, smirking for the camera.

  Peter spent the balance of the day sitting there, sunburning his neck and the backs of his arms. And though he held himself open, there were no signs, no visions, no feelings other than confusion and grief. To think of his son aware and frightened in some dark limbo between life and death was almost as unbearable as his loss. It made Peter feel helpless, the way the leukemia had made him feel helpless. He thought of prayer, but his prayers had already been ignored. Why waste time on a heedless God?

  By the time he left, the air had cooled and the afternoon shadows had grown long. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and it felt like he might never sleep again.

  When he pulled into the driveway at home and saw Roger Mullen sitting on the porch steps, smiling guardedly at him, Peter felt something slacken inside him.

  * * *

  Roger stood as Peter approached, stretching to his full height on the third step, towering over Peter. Extending his hand, he came down the stairs to the stone walkway. Peter took his hand and shook it.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Roger said.

  Peter was startled to see a glimmer of tears in the big man’s eyes. “Me, too. I never should have gone into that room.”

  “I lost it. Overreacted.”

  Peter released Roger’s hand and smiled, glad to see him. “You’re lucky I didn’t kick your ass.”

  Roger laughed and it was okay between them again.

  Peter pointed at the steps. “Sit for a while?”

  Roger said, “Sure,” and they sat together in the heat of the westering sun, enjoying a comfortable silence. It was just past suppertime and the neighborhood was quiet. Then a dog barked in reaction to a screech from across the street—Sophie on the saxophone, butchering what might have been “Proud Mary”. Now a woman in running togs came around the corner from the park, pushing a baby jogger, a kid of perhaps two gazing at them as he rolled by. The woman smiled without breaking stride.

  “My wife used to run with David,” Peter said.

  Roger nodded. “We had one of those bike trailers. Jason loved the thing. Even wanted to go out in it in the rain.”

  Peter smiled. “You know what I was thinking about on the drive home?”

  “Cold beer?”

  “I’ve got root beer.”

  “That’ll do in
a pinch.”

  Peter said, “Gimme a sec,” and went inside, coming back a minute later with a frosty can for each of them.

  Roger tabbed his and took a healthy swallow, then looked at Peter and said, “So tell me.”

  “What?”

  “What you were thinking about on the drive home.”

  Peter said, “Right,” and told him about the bio-glue debacle, Roger grinning and saying, “You’re kidding, right?” Peter saying, “Not a word of a lie.”

  When Peter was done, Roger said, “I got a good one, too. Maybe not a match for that whopper, but still a doozy.”

  Surprised at how good telling that story had made him feel, Peter said, “Let’s hear it,” and took a slurp of his pop, the syrupy liquid cooling his throat.

  “Jason was heavy into dinosaurs,” Roger said, resting his elbows on the step behind him. “His first stuffed toy was a paisley T-Rex. He wouldn’t sit through a bedtime story unless there were dinosaurs in it. We had all the Land Before Time videos and Jase had them memorized. Me too, actually.” Roger chuckled. “Anyway, we’re at Science North this one day and it’s almost closing time. I have no idea how old Jase was at the time, but he was still in diapers, holding a juice bottle with a nipple on it. All I know for sure is he could talk. I was carrying him around on my shoulders and when the five-minute announcement came over the PA, we were standing at the live beaver display. The attendant was getting ready to feed the thing a bunch of fresh fruit, and I guess Jason looked pretty unhappy it was time to go because the guy asked him if he wanted to feed the beaver before he left. Jase was a little shy in those days, but I could tell he was thinking about it. Then, a few seconds later in that serious little voice of his, he says, ‘To what?’”

  Peter sprayed a mouthful of pop onto the steps, almost choking on it, his laughter making an old couple out for a stroll stare at him from across the street.

  The men were quiet for a while after that, each dwelling in his own thoughts. Then Roger said, “Ellen, my wife, she was out of town the night Jason was taken. She managed a boutique in the Southridge Mall, did all their buying for them. She called that night from Toronto and we got into an argument over an appointment Jason had for a haircut that I forgot about. She kept going on about it, how it inconvenienced the hairdresser, who was a friend of hers, how bad Jase needed it cut, and I ended up being short with her. Bad day at work, didn’t think it was worth making a federal case out of. Finally, when she wouldn’t let it go, I hung up on her, didn’t let her talk to Jason.” He looked at Peter with the most wretched guilt in his eyes. “She never got a chance to speak to him again.