by Sean Platt
The guy six seats from Milo seemed to be studying his reaction to every story. Milo kept his face straight, and expression fixed. He barely moved except for the occasional itch he had to scratch beneath his bandages.
The man was in his late 30’s early 40’s, slight and with glasses. Hardly threatening, and certainly not scary. Still, Milo couldn’t ignore the scrutiny, or the creep in his glare.
Mrs. Hawthorne’s confession about Mr. Heller gave Mrs. Dalquist the confidence to say she saw almost the same exact thing. Except her words rang with a hollow thud. Milo could tell from the room’s expression — she was a regular leach and no one believed a word that she said.
Milo didn’t think that was true about Sam, a man who had lost his brother three years before. He saw something similar, though different. His brother was playing the same playlist on his iPod repeatedly, over and over, and over. His brother was usually a monkey, always swinging from tree to tree; repetition his foe. That was why he’d been married four times, after all.
He didn’t listen to playlists, especially when they were two songs long.
The thing that bothered Sam most, he confessed with a shake of his head, was that he couldn’t for the life of him remember what either of the two songs were.
Milo wanted to stand up, walk to the front, and tell the room about Beatrice, but he was having a hard time working up the courage. He was about to raise his hand when the guy six seats down whispered, “Don’t say a word.”
Milo bristled.
The man stood, crossed four chairs, then sat two seats from Milo.
“It’s Cody,” he whispered. “Don’t say a word right now, not to these people. We’ll talk when this is over.”
And here he is, without his tinfoil hat.
The rest of the sharing took a million years, with no new revelations and the stories mostly sad. “Cody” slipped from the auditorium as the last speaker stepped to the stage.
Milo went outside and saw Cody standing by the bike rack.
He looked up at the sky, hating the island for its dark clouds, chilly breeze, and the distant thunder forever rumbling the distance.
“So you always look for grieving kids to talk to in chat rooms?” Milo said. “You some kinda pervert?”
Cody ignored him, looking into the shadows as though hunting the dark, and rubbing his arms like they were covered in ants.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But I had to talk to you, or someone like you, and couldn’t exactly use my real name.”
“Why not?” Milo said.
“Because I like breathing.” He leaned into Milo. “Look, I meant what I said the other day, before your accident with Other Mother.”
Milo’s eyes widened at the words other and mother, used together and with an implied capital. “How did you know I called her that?”
“I know a lot,” Cody said. “A shit ton more than I want to.” He swallowed. “More than you want to.”
Milo said, “I want to go home. So unless you’re about to enlighten me with something concrete, I’d rather you leave me alone.”
Cody said, “Understood.” Then, “My name’s not Cody. It’s Don Bellows. Like a lot of the folks in there,” he jerked his thumb toward the auditorium. “My loved ones disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”
“What happened?” Milo said.
“Most of the disappearances are a person at a time. My entirely family disappeared. Gone, overnight. My wife, Lucinda, and our twins, Mark and Ryan.”
“Fraternal or identical?” Milo asked, as if it mattered.
Don looked up from his sleeve. “Identical.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they all went missing three years ago, and nothing made sense. No bodies, no ferry rides — they have a camera 24 hours, you know — nothing. So I started investigating all the weird shit on the island. And there’s plenty.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe all of the layers in this onion.”
Milo was willing to buy into conspiracy but Milo’s patience was paper thin, and the guy was giving off some weird stalker vibes. Milo glanced around, suddenly aware that nobody else had left the auditorium yet. If Don wanted, he could easily pull a knife or gun on Milo.
Don was too busy scratching at his arm beneath his jacket, however, to make Milo too concerned.
He looked at Don’s arm. “You okay?”
Don stopped scratching, then looked at Milo and said, “Sorry, one of the symptoms.”
“Symptoms of what?”
“Well,” he shook his head. “It’s something like Morgellon’s, I imagine, though I don’t know that for sure. And if it is, it’s only like Morgellon’s in some ways. It’s also altogether different.” Don went back to scratching, like he couldn’t help it. “These . . . things in my skin. It’s the stuff they put in us.”
Something about the way Don was speaking reminded Milo of Beatrice staring at the snowy TV, and all the many weird ripened stories he’d just heard in the Hamilton auditorium.
Milo wasn’t strong enough to stand up to the power of suggestion, so he started dragging his nails across his own arms, too. “What are you talking about? What’s Morgellon’s?” he said.
“You’ve got it, too? The itching?”
Milo shook his head. “It’s nothing. Probably just itching from the healing wounds.”
Don lifted his shirt and jacket, displaying a long line of red welts dotting the length of his arm; armies of scars where his torn skin had healed over.
Milo’s stomach flopped like a fish.
Above them, clouds parted and returned their wet to the ocean floor.
“They’re doing this to us,” Don said. “Everything is connected.” He looked up as the first of the exiting survivors opened the door to the auditorium and began to flow out.
Milo was done. “You’re not saying anything,” he said. “And I’m not willing to stick around to get drenched and jerked around.”
“Research for yourself,” Don said, handing Milo a flash drive. “There’s some docs on here to get you started. And some advice on how to do research undetected, well relatively undetected. And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what you find.”
“Do you think I’m still in danger?” Milo asked, not really sure he was buying what Don was selling just yet, but too curious not to ask.
“Not at the moment. If they wanted you gone, you wouldn’t have come out of the hospital.”
People began to walk past them, on the way to the parking lot.
“I should go,” Don said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Don walked toward the parking lot. Milo unlocked his bike, watched the people filing out, though making sure not to make eye contact with anyone who might recognize him. As Milo began to ride home, he noticed that Don had kept walking, through the parking lot, and into the woods beyond.
Where the hell is he going?
Milo wasn’t about to follow. Instead, he biked home — scared, alone, and itching like crazy as the sky began to open up.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — Jon Conway
Wednesday night…
The four of them sat around the small circular table in Cassidy’s kitchen, while Cassidy tried not to look embarrassed about the size or shape of her miniature house. Jon could see her stealing glances at the peeling paint, probably thinking that her square footage was probably less than Jon’s smallest guest bathroom in his L.A. villa.
Jon’s smallest guest bathroom was about the size of a small closet, and he could have given a giant squishy shit about the size of Cassidy’s house. He was happy to be sharing a meal with the Hughes family, even if it was forever missing a vital member.
Truth was, the Hughes and Conway families were now forever linked.
Jon and Emma sat across from Cassidy and Viv. Dinner started with nothing but scowls from Vivian, but once Jon managed to keep her laughing through fifteen straight minutes, she lost the flare in her nostrils and settled somewhere between her granddaughter’s glee and her
daughter’s cautious affection.
“I don’t remember the last time you made anything this delicious for me,” Vivian said, smiling at Cassidy.
“That’s not fair,” Cassidy said. “I make you dinner all the time.”
“I never said you didn’t make me dinner. I said it was a long time since you made something this good. Most of the time it’s microwave or nothing, and you know it.”
“That’s not true,” Cassidy’s face started to flush.
“Yes, it is!” Vivian howled. “Even on Mother’s Day last year, when it was your turn to take me out somewhere, you said, ‘sorry Ma, I’m broke. It’s Lean Cuisine or nothing. Your sister made pork chops.”
Cassidy stared at her placemat. Jon couldn’t tell if she was smiling or scowling, but he figured it was an even blend of each.
“I remember that,” Emma said. “They were good.” She laughed, said, “The other white meat,” then laughed to herself again, as though recalling something funny. Jon exchanged a glance with Cassidy, and felt a sinking in his stomach. He was minutes from telling Emma that he was her father. A million butterflies fluttered in anticipation.
Presenting the award for Best Supporting Actor at the Oscars.
His first red carpet.
His first acceptance of Best Actor — Golden Globes, not Oscar.
Telling Sarah he’d cheated on her while in California.
Nothing compared to the sort of anxiety stirring in his gut as he glanced at his daughter.
Daughter! Me, of all people! I still can’t believe it.
“Who wants ice cream?” Cassidy asked everyone, though her eyes were aimed at Emma.
“Me!” Emma yelled.
Vivian said, “As long as it’s not that Moose Tracks crap. Stuff is way too sweet.”
Emma said, “Mom said you shouldn't say crap.”
Vivian smiled, “You’re right. Sorry, dear, I meant to say shit.”
Emma burst out laughing and the others followed suit until everyone was cracking up.
Cassidy returned with Breyers chocolate chip — Jon’s choice. He preferred ice cream with ingredients you could count on one hand.
They all shoved ice cream into their smiles and let it melt in their mouths as they laughed and shared their favorite and funniest Sarah stories.
“Mom,” Cassidy said, taking bowls to the sink, just as they planned. “Would you mind helping me with the dishes? Jon wants to show Emma a magic trick.”
“A magic trick?” she looked up at Cassidy. “What makes you think I don’t want to see the trick?”
Cassidy narrowed her eyes in her best don’t challenge me, Mom look. Vivian cackled and said “sure thing,” then turned to Emma and added, “Watch his hands. The tricks are always in the hands.”
Jon stood, said “Thanks ladies,” and held his hand out to Emma. She took it, smiling as he led her from the kitchen and into the tiny living room.
Jon knew some basic magic, taught to him by Jimmy Stardust, an FX guy Jon worked with on the Eternal films. He’d already prepped a simpler trick since his aim wasn’t to impress Emma so much as let her figure the trick out for herself.
He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket, pre-sorted with red and black. Jon had gently bent all the red cards so their faces were slightly concave, and all the blacks so they were slightly convex. He shuffled the deck as Emma kept her eyes on his hands.
He set the pack face down on the table, then looked at Emma and said, “Is the top card going to be red or black?”
She stared at the deck for several seconds. “Red,” she said.
Jon smiled. “Wrong,” he said, turning over the nine of clubs. “How about now?”
“Red.”
“Wrong.” Jon showed her the two of spades. She smiled.
“How about now?”
“Red.”
“Ooh, I like that,” he said, “sticking to your guns and playing the odds. That worked. This one is red for sure.” He smiled, then flipped over the seven of hearts.
Jon wasn’t sure how long the trick would hold Emma’s attention, but he was hoping it would be at least long enough for her to feel the victory of figuring it out before he shifted her world with a sentence or two.
They were halfway through the cards when Emma pointed at the deck and said, “They’re all bendy. That’s how you know, right? Hearts and Diamonds one way, spades and clubs another?”
Jon nodded, smiling. “You’re good at figuring stuff out,” he said. “That’s a great quality to have.”
He leaned in closer, making sure Emma was looking into his eyes. “If you can do that, you can figure out most of life.”
“My mom used to say stuff like that.”
“Your mom was a smart woman,” Jon said. “I’m not always so good at figuring stuff out, myself. That’s why I loved being with her so much.” He pulled Emma’s right hand into his. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, and like she was going to pull it away, but it was only a moment before she let her five fingers settle into the nest of his palm.
“Do you know I loved your mother?” Jon said.
Emma shrugged, then shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “Though I figured you might have, and you had to know her pretty well.”
“Why did you figure that?”
She shrugged again. “I guess because you’re here. You would have to care a lot since you came to the island. You’re a famous actor and everything, right? Plus I know she used to cry sometimes after she watched your movies, even though she didn’t know I knew.”
Jon said, “You’re better at figuring stuff out than I am.” He winked, then squeezed her hand tighter. “I just figured something out myself a couple of days ago. And it’s something I have to tell you.”
Emma’s eyes looked up to Jon, waiting.
Jon sighed into a long, lingering, and nearly endless silence. Finally, he ripped off the Band-Aid.
“I’m your father.”
Emma said nothing, only nodded. After a minute of silence, Jon said, “Do you understand?”
Of course she understands. Asshole.
Emma nodded. “How come you didn’t know before?”
The last thing Jon wanted to do was condemn Sarah for never telling her daughter, but he was staring at a truth he’d never shaded before. “I just didn’t,” he shook his head. “I left the island before I found out, and didn’t know until I came back.”
“How come you know now?”
Jon leaned against the cushion and sighed. “Well, I guess I first knew when I saw the way you wrinkled your nose while you were stashing your cookies. But that was just a guess. I knew for sure once I started asking questions.”
Emma’s face changed. She looked like she might cry. “Did Cassidy know?”
Jon nodded.
“How about Nana?”
Jon nodded again, then said, “But they weren’t doing anything wrong by not telling you. It wasn’t like I was here and they were keeping it from you. I didn’t know, and I’m sure your mom would have told you the truth when the time was right.”
Awkward silence buttered the air. Dishes clattering in the kitchen were practically thunder.
“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “Not that I’m your dad, I’m thrilled about that.” The thin smile felt foreign on his face. “But I’m sorry you didn’t know, and that you had to find out this way, so soon after everything that’s happened.”
He squeezed her hand.
Emma squeezed back, then said, “So what happens now? Am I still going to stay with Aunt Cassidy?”
Jon shrugged. “I’m not sure. This is all new to me. I think we should do what’s best, and what’s best for all of us is what’s best for you.”
Goddammit Jon. Don’t do it. Give the girl time to process.
He ignored the voice inside him. “Do you know what you might want?”
“Could I live with you if I wanted?”
Jon nodded. “Yes.”
“Would I have to leave the island
?” A tear painted her right cheek.
“Yes.”
“Would Cassidy stay here?”
“Probably.”
“How about Nana.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“Why can’t you and Cassidy and me live together? You already like each other, don’t you? Can’t you just do that?”
Jon bit his lip to keep from losing it completely. “That’s not up to me, Emma,” he said. “It’s complicated. That might not be what’s best for me, or for your Aunt Cassidy. And if it isn’t best for us, it won’t be best for you.”
Emma’s face held its expression for several seconds before it began twitching, hanging at the lip of collapse for a full minute before finally spilling into a sea of sudden tears.
Emma sobbed into her father’s chest, trying to push words from her throat that Jon couldn't understand. When she was finally breathing regularly enough to get her words out in a clear and unbroken string, Jon was chilled by their clarity.
“Why did my mother have to die?” Emma sobbed.
Jon pulled her tighter and whispered, “I don’t know, sweetie, I don’t know.”
He stroked her hair, staring at a small living room table and the well lit photo of Sarah and Emma together, probably the Easter before, with Emma wearing bunny ears and hugging a big basket of brightly colored eggs.
Jon closed his eyes, aching at the everything he would never have.
That they would never have.
CHAPTER 9 — Sarah Hughes Part 2
Hamilton Island, Washington
Friday
September 1 (the day of the shooting)
morning
The unmistakable — and unforgettable — thunder of gunshots crashed through the walls.
What the . . .?
“Oh God, someone has a gun!” Sarah said into the phone, loud enough for every ear in class to hear it. Then, even louder, “I think Mr. Heller has a gun!”
“What?” Nancy said as Sarah’s students started to scream, scatter, and run toward the door.