The Reconciling [Part 1]

by April Lynn Newell

  What now?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kevin and Deena Pike sit across from each other at a long, polished dinner table at the front of their home. The bay windows allow the setting sun to leak a beautiful yellow light into the room, a stark contrast to the scene taking place. The room is quiet as they concentrate on the roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas before them, heads low avoiding eye contact at all costs. Kesil sighs loudly in the side seat, in between his parents.

  No acknowledgement.

  They sit perfectly straight in their starched, crisp suits and cut one piece of chicken at a time, keeping their food groups totally separate from the others.

  Kesil is sure he is going to go insane.

  “Dad! How was your day at the office?”

  “What?” Kevin asks, startled at the sudden sound of human existence. “Oh, fine son, fine,” he mumbles.

  “Great,” Kesil responds in frustration. “My day was pretty normal, you know. I nearly failed my biology test, I got detention for sketching on the cover of a library book, I fell down running in PE and sprained my wrist, and I think that Walters girl is stalking me again.”

  “Sounds good honey,” his mom says before taking a bite of chicken and chewing very slowly.

  Kesil sighs again. Nothing. Dinner usually follows this oblivious pattern, so much so that most nights he skips it and just eats leftovers when his parents go to bed. It is only then, in his solitude that an eerie but welcomed peace settles in his home. For some reason his parents will not divorce. They just move through life, day-after-day, like mindless robots. Nothing excites them and very little riles them up anymore; except for the occasional fight ending in one leaving and spending a couple days at a hotel in the next city. Kesil has been in detention for three months straight but not grounded for that or any of the stunts that landed him the prolonged and consistent punishment. Playing the petulant troubled teen feels beneath him but he is also at a loss of what else to do. He tried straight-A, golden boy, successful jock, falling in love, missing curfew (at least they seemed somewhat worried then) but nothing seems to break them from the monotonous frame. It has been weeks since Kesil saw either of his parents crack a smile.

  He vows silently to himself to never accept a job that requires a suit on a daily basis. Surely chemicals from poly-blend wool have been seeping into his parents’ cells for years and these are only the first visible symptoms of some strange zombie disease.

  Suddenly, Kesil remembers the dream from two nights ago. He dutifully recorded it, but pushed it to the back of his mind soon after.

  “Mom, dad?”

  “Mm,” they reply in unison, not looking up from their plates.

  “I had this strange dream last night and it—”

  “You had a dream?” his mother blurts as the cacophony of a fork hitting a plate assails from the other side of the table.

  “Let him speak Deena! He was going to tell us about it, weren’t you son?” his father says eagerly, straightening the fork that had fallen on his plate.

  “Oh Kevin, I was only surprised! Go on honey, tell us! Every detail, don’t leave anything out! Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  Suddenly, Kesil’s parents are two wholly different people. They wear expectant, bright and excited expressions with…smiles! Kesil sits on the edge of his seat and begins to tell them everything. He tells them how he found himself running from someone, or something and only once he reached a big oak tree did he notice Chrissi Camden had been running beside him the whole time. He told them he watched the girl read her own headstone and sob, and then turn to him.

  “And then?” his mother asks, a little forcefully.

  “Well, then I woke up. Or she did. I’m not sure, it was so real not like a dream at all but like we were both in another place entirely, together,” Kesil explains as he remembers the minute details of the bizarre vision.

  “Was there anything that seemed small but significant? It is the little things that usually end up being the most important,” his father says.

  A yellow glove, Kesil remembers. He shivers at the thought. Chrissi. He glances out the window before him and across the street at the Camden’s house, and then he looks at his parents, both frantic, hungry for more information. He feels like he should not tell them about the bright, yellow glove emphasized that night. But he also does not want the evening to end.

  “Well, no, I don’t think so,” he says slowly, but catching a glimpse of disappointment on his father’s face he doesn’t want to let the attention go just yet, “Like what?”

  “Well, in one of my own prophecies I saw—”

  “Wait, prophecy? Like telling the future? You said these were just dreams common in our family,” Kesil interrupts his mom, startled, looking desperately from one parent to another. A mammoth just landed in their dining room. His mom stammers and finally finds words.

  “I didn’t mean prophecy, no, I meant dream. Silly me, it’s been a long day. That’s all. I meant—”

  “Oh shut up Deena! Just don’t talk anymore. You will ruin everything! If the boy wasn’t shown anything specific it’s just a strange dream about a petty crush,” his father chastises, getting up from the table and taking his half-empty plate to the kitchen.

  From “son” to “boy” in ten minutes, Kesil marvels at his father’s fickleness. His mom squeezes his hand then stands up and follows his father. They argue in aggressive whispers behind the swinging kitchen door. If Kesil tries he can make out every word, but he is so dumbfounded and, once more, indubitably disappointed. He reveled in their attention for a few moments; now real life had snuck back in with frightening speed and new revelation.

  His parents have a big secret.

  A secret that scares him. A secret that includes him, his family, and the quiet but strong-willed girl across the street. Leaving his empty plate, Kesil saunters upstairs to his room. He closes the door behind him, sits at his computer and opens the file on the desktop titled, “Dream Entry 1”. He adds every hint his parents dispelled during dinner, saves the changes, and moves the file to a password-protected folder. Laying down in bed the last line he typed glows behind his eyelids, “Chrissi Camden is a clue.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It is Sunday afternoon, a day Chrissi would normally revel in, albeit with the impending doom of school the next day. But as she lies on her bedroom floor, eyes closed in a desperate attempt to block out the rest of the world, all she can do is think about her secret, her dream, her grandmother’s cliché advice about the journey of life, and how it all could change her whole life! Phil is still skeptical and she can tell he is tuned in to her every word, waiting for any hint of a clue to her secret. He is so intelligent, she worries it is only a matter of time. But her mother might never forgive her for telling their secret to someone else. Chrissi would be grounded for the rest of her life, shut away like Repunzel! An abrupt image of becoming the old crazy lady on the street captivates Chrissi’s thoughts. She’s living in the house kids only approach on a dare, sitting in an old rocker, knitting and arguing with Phil, “I can’t tell you Phil!”

  “Ah! So you admit there is something to tell?” a toothless, old Phil retaliates.

  “Sixty years and you feel accomplished in THAT deduction?”

  Phil’s old face scrunches up in anger and he opens his mouth to release his 60 years of frustration…

  Chrissi’s eyes snap open. She shakes her head vigorously, breaking up the reverie of her imaginative future.

  “Stupid dreams,” she sighs. Deciding she needs fresh air, she stands stiffly and heads out to the hallway. “Mom! I’m going outside for a bit!” She dashes downstairs before her mom can poke her head out of her studio in the room down the hall and lecture her on practicing.

  Sunlight floods the threshold as she wrenches the front door open. The warmth of the September sun is refreshing on her skin. Chrissi shuts the door softly, hoping her mom does not hear and make her go to the backyard. She has little in
terest in practicing today and misses the familiar security of her spying tree. But instead of climbing it, Chrissi sits on the front stoop, in plain sight. For a moment she entertains the idea of sitting with her tree, enjoying its company. She leans back on her hands and watches a couple of joggers, two women, one of whom dons a polyester track suit, pink from head to toe with one purple stripe down the side of the pant leg. The other wears a green suit of the same kind. Chrissi tries to stop a look of disgust as they pass by her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, to the left, she sees a vehicle approaching. As it comes closer she realizes it is the mailperson. She glances at her watch, 3:34. Usually Frank, their weekend mailman, doesn’t make it to their block until 5 or sometimes 6 o’clock in the evening. He likes to take his time, chatting it up with as many willing passersby as he can. He loves to gossip. Before Chrissi can stand to go inside he is too close and she knows he sees her. She relaxes again taking a deep breath, preparing herself for a 30 minute discussion about absolutely nothing.

  The mail truck pulls up between the house next door and Chrissi’s. She sees the back of a figure much smaller than Frank’s robust frame. After opening the neighbor’s mailbox and peering into it for a moment, much too long to be couth, the figure turns and heads towards Chrissi’s mailbox. She wonders if she remembers him putting anything in the neighbor’s box. He impulsively picks up his pace and begins to sort of skip. Chrissi raises her eyebrows in concern as this strange individual comes closer and closer. She can make out some of his facial features, a goatee so long it comes to the middle of his chest. At his chin, she notices, the goatee has a slight part, as if hair refuses to grow in the center. His side burns become one with his goatee forming a unique type of beard. When he finally reaches her box, the quaint mailman looks up and makes eye contact with a perplexed Chrissi. His grey-blue eyes are piercing and she can’t look away. Then, he smiles brightly, winks, opens and shuts the box and walks back towards his truck.

  Stunned, Chrissi finally gets her legs to move and rushes down the front walk to the box. She expects to see the man getting in the truck, or at the most driving passed her, he would have to for his next stop. But when she reaches the box she looks down the street to her left, then to her right. Nothing. He disappeared! Truck and all!

  Chrissi stands on the curb beside the mailbox turning from left to right again in disbelief. She remembers he opened the box, but does not quite recollect if he placed anything inside it. Slowly she turns toward the box, a little fearful, and reaches for the door. She jerks it open and steps back, not knowing what to expect. Cautiously peering inside, Chrissi sees a single stark white envelope. She pulls it out and walks back toward the stoop.

  The envelope is blank, no address, and no name, not even any return to sender information. It’s heavyweight and iridescent, definitely high quality. Sitting back down, she pokes her thumb inside a corner and runs it along the top edge of the envelope. Inside is a matching flat, white card. She pulls it out, mesmerized by the mystery of the events in the last few minutes.

  She sighs, the card is blank.

  She flips it over hastily, anxious for an answer and fixates on one word in black, bold letters: GO.

  Her next breath catches in her chest and she is filled with an overwhelming and irrational feeling that she must tell Phil everything. Something strange is beginning to happen, she can detect from the dream that didn’t feel like a dream at all and now this message from a quaint stranger. Questions swirl in her mind, is this note from the stranger or is he simply a messenger? Is the journey Granny spoke of really metaphorical? Does any of it have to do with the curse and secret she has had to keep all these years?

  Whatever the answers to her questions, Chrissi knows one thing: she no longer wants to do this alone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Chrissi runs inside, slams the door and darts upstairs, passing her quizzical mother in a blur. Going straight to her desk, she opens a blank page on her computer and begins to type. She is going to tell Phil everything, she decides mentally. Finally, tonight, but she needs a plan. Her cheeks flush at the remembrance of her orange juice debacle with Phil in the backyard. She will not be caught off guard again or taken away by fear of confrontation. She will be clear, concise, and confident.

  Hours later she deletes an entire paragraph for a third time. As she slouches in exasperation, Chrissi realizes it is dark. She glances at the time, 7:03. She has several pages of details to share.

  “Now or never,” she resolves. She takes off her gloves and reaches for her cell phone. Like other miscellaneous objects in her room, Chrissi painted it matte black. Her mother isn’t very happy about “her absolutely depressing color choice”. These blackened items make Chrissi feel confident and powerful. After a bad day at school she chooses an item and exposes her flesh to the textures of ceramic, plastic, and metal. Just to remind herself she isn’t completely destructive. It feels like proving she is more than what her peers see her as and, sometimes, somewhat regrettably, she imagines the lamp, computer mouse, or faucet is Lesia herself turning into a black state of compost.

  Shaking away the oncoming aggression that automatically hits her at any thought of Lesia, Chrissi calls Phil.

  “Lo,” he mumbles through rustling as he nearly drops the phone.

  “Are you sleeping? Phil it’s 7 p.m.! You’re like 80!”

  “Chrissi?”

  “No.”

  “Huh?” Phil finally lifts his head from the Pre-Calculus book on which he had fallen asleep.

  “Of course it’s me,” Chrissi pauses in hesitation, not knowing how to start the conversation she never thought she would need to have. “What are you up to?”

  “…sleeping.”

  “Right,” Chrissi bites her lip in nervous energy, trying to remember her next words. She looks at her computer screen for the first line, but the text becomes a blur as her anxiety rises.

  Phil sighs, “Chrissi, did you want something?”

  “Yes,” she says without hesitation, then pauses again. She opens her mouth but no other words come out. She can feel her heartbeat speed up.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  “OK, well what is it?” Phil asks becoming excited in anticipation of what might be the answer to all his questions.

  “Phil…I have something to tell you that is going to sound…insane. But I promise it is true and I’m serious…I’ve never told anyone else before so I have no idea how you’re going to take it and it is so important that you do not tell anyone—”

  “Of course.”

  “—because this involves my mom, my Granny, my aunt—“

  “I understand, you can tr—”

  “—and honestly if my mom knew I was telling anyone she would literally explode!”

  “Chrissi!”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Phil rolls his head back in disbelief of the altruistic words he just uttered.

  “What?” Chrissi is flabbergasted. Of course she has to tell him. He has been onto her secret for weeks, maybe longer. It was driving them each crazy, her clinging and his sleuthing. Not to mention the urgency she’s felt to tell him since she opened that mysterious note.

  Phil sighs before explaining, “I don’t want you to tell me if you’re going to be on-edge every second we’re in public, worried I might slip up or that I will see you differently. Our friendship is more important than my pride of knowing everything. I realize this was just another puzzle I wanted to solve but this time the puzzle isn’t just an equation on a worksheet, or a historical anomaly, it’s you and your family, real people. So you can trust me either way. To keep it or forget it. It’s up to you.”

  Chrissi is silent for what seems an eternity to Phil. He hopes she knows he is sincere and it isn’t just a ploy to get her to tell him. A few nights ago his aunt and uncle brought out their Book and Phil and his uncle stayed up late discussing different stories. That was when Phil realized C
hrissi’s secret must be huge if she wouldn’t even tell him and how it is wrong of him to force her to divulge it. However, it was not until the words escaped his mouth that he realized how wrong he really was.

  “I’m sorry, Chrissi, for not trusting you.”

  Chrissi cannot find her words as her thoughts battle in her mind. Just moments before she was so sure, so confident. But now she is free. She does not have to risk her family’s wellbeing or becoming a science experiment. But her feeling of loneliness, confusion, and fear remains. She does not want to decipher stories from the Book or psychological journeys, or crazy dreams without the smartest person she knows. Phil. Her friend.

  “No, I want to tell you. Now.” Chrissi tells him everything: her deathly touch, her mother’s plan with the gloves, the dream, Granny’s confounding interpretation, and the letter from the strange mailman. “Basically,” Chrissi takes in a big breath, bracing herself for the most vulnerable confession yet, “I think I’m an alien.”

  Phil is silent and Chrissi immediately regrets her long pause earlier. The suspense, though, is deafening as every bad reaction Phil could possibly have blares through her mind.

  “That crossed my mind too. BUT!” Phil yells the conjunction emphatically, “I also think that’s wrong. Chrissi, I think you need to go on this journey. Roi is reaching out to you! It’s like this one story from the Book where this man—”

  “Whoa, wait a sec,” Chrissi interrupts, “there’s no trek Phil. Granny was just sharing her wisdom in metaphors. You know how she is.”

  “Then how do you explain the card that said, ‘Go’?”

  “Well…well it wasn’t addressed to me. Maybe it’s for my mom,” as soon as she says it Chrissi knows she’s grasping desperately for any other explanation. What she did not know was why.

  “Why is it so hard to believe that Roi is still alive?” Phil echoes her query.