His voice, still clear as a bell in her memories, “Make a wish, Rache. Hurry up. Make a wish.”
Rachael winced and shook away the memory, causing her body to teeter on the ledge. She caught her balance, fighting against the wind, and then looked down at her bare feet. French manicured toes gripped the cement ledge of the twelve-story building’s rooftop.
Into the night air, she whispered, “What did we do, Jules?”
She did not need him there to know what his answer would be.
…They are only dreams.
We did nothing, Rachael.
We did nothing wrong.
He would say the words, but he would be wrong, or he would be lying, and she would argue that two people could not have the same dreams, the same nightmares, cast with the same strangers, and ending with the same outcomes. What they were experiencing could not be dreams. They were memories, horrific memories of their time in Kings Hollow. Memories of the horrible things she had done. Memories, which had somehow been buried deep in their psyches, gestating and now struggling, relentlessly, to be reborn as fact. Memories, coming back to them both, in small fragments and glimpses, any moment they let their guards down.
At first, Julien had been as confused by these visions as she, but as Jessica grew, he began to lie and insist, there were no dreams, and that he did not remember any part of it.
Julien, the scar on your chest?
Scars up and down your leg.
Jessica?
Julien, I did this.
I did all of this…and then I brought you back, as I brought her back.
…and, with you…with her, came fragments of that time…back to haunt us.
She tried to explain that he had been gone. That for two long and traumatic years, she had been alone. Alone and reliving these terrible events in her dreams, and gradually, these nightmares became obvious truths, and as she came to accept them, she came to the conclusion, she had to return to that property and bring him back.
She should have been happy, she had Julien now, again, but while she had righted one perilous wrong, there was still another left unmended. A wrong she could not bring herself to right, yet she could not bear her penance either.
Their child grew and, in time, Rachael bore the brunt of Jessica’s games, her nasty little tricks. Julien went to work, he lived a life outside of the apartment, but for Rachael, she lived imprisoned by their daughter. She could no longer trust taking the child out in public. If the little girl did not get her way, there was no winning the argument. Rachael had no control and the outcome was often terrifying. Perhaps Jessica’s actions were born of innocence and perhaps she was simply too young to understand the dangers she put them and others in, but for all of her precious smiles and heartwarming giggles, that sweet, angelic, cherub face; a face that looked so much like her father’s, there was nothing that could console Rachael when, like a puppet in her child’s hands, she walked them into moving traffic, propelled solely by Jessica’s longing for ice cream across the road. Or when she, a grown woman, violently shoved a small child off the top of a slide at the park, because Jessica wanted her turn. Or the time at the bank, when Jessica decided her mother had said, no to her frivolous requests, one too many times, and Rachael had been compelled to stab herself repeatedly in the thigh with a pen as the bank manager and patrons watched in horror.
Incident after incident, one more devastating than the next, Rachael had no governing over her own physical actions when Jessica set her mind on something; Rachael became her puppet.
Julien insisted she was making more of the incidents than they warranted, denying and sweeping her claims under the proverbial rug, as he so often did, and sometimes causing Rachael to wonder if she might just be insane.
Jessica behaved for her father. He could refute the truth all he wanted, accuse her of performing these terrible acts of her own volition then pretend that wasn’t what he meant to imply, but Rachael saw the look he would give their little girl when she was about to do it. He was well aware of the dangerous ability their child possessed, yet somehow he had more control over her than Rachael. Enough to allow him to pretend and convince himself there was no danger, at least for now.
Rachael inched forward on the ledge, her arms rising up to shoulder height. The muffled sounds of New York City went silent as her concentration focused. The wind picked up and as she leaned into it, she wondered if it might carry her. At first, her movements felt slow and heavy, giving her time to change her mind, and then she felt the cold cement part, first from her heels, next from her arches, and lastly, from the balls of her feet, and for a fleeting few seconds, she was free in the night sky.
His hands gripped her shins just above the ankles. The wind caught her side, twisting her in midair within his grasp. Directly above her daughter’s bedroom window, she felt the right side of her upper back strike the brick facing and then, with a dull crack, the back of her skull.
Twenty-three months later - Present Day
Julien sat up in bed, dazed but awake. He spun around on the creaking mattress to look for her, but she was not there. The bed remained undisturbed beside him, as it had for nearly two-years now. He stared at the pristine pillow where Rachael’s head would have rested. He looked away then slid out from beneath the blankets to sit over the edge of the bed. In the darkness, he fumbled for his Zippo on the nightstand.
4:27 a.m.
He sat there with the sensation of her legs slipping through his grip, still resonating on his palms. He shook off the vivid memory of Rachael on the rooftop, his effort to save her, yet another tragic event in their lives, and now, merely one more recurring reenactment to add to his repertoire of intrusive nightmares.
As always, after the dreams, he felt the familiar sensation of panic tighten the muscles in his chest and an intense pressure beneath the shiny scar to the left of his sternum. He looked down and ran a finger over it, smooth and hairless, almost plastic in texture, and similar in appearance to the dozen or so scars marring his leg. None of which were nearly as troublesome as the wounds left on his psyche, yet, night after night, the memories seeped into his dreams and he would awake with pain, both physical and emotional, as if it were happening all over again. He was convinced it would never end and that they were getting worse. More frequent, more intense, more crippling.
He got up, left the bedroom, and then paused briefly to peek at Jessica in her bed. In the faint glow of an oversized moon, the blue jay withdrew its beak from beneath a wing then, as if to dismiss him, it turned away with an abrupt hop on a thin dowel stretching the width of its cage.
Julien quietly walked away, fumbling through the dark apartment, bracing himself with one hand on the wall as he navigated around toys and compensated for his worsening limp. He paused at the bathroom sink long enough to down three Advil and a palm full of water then headed for the balcony. Outside, he sat at the patio table and lit a smoke in the crisp fall air. He was content to have slept four-and-a-half hours; an hour more than his usual nightly routine. By now, he knew there would be no use in attempting to return to bed, only to toss and turn, and fight the taunting memories. He slipped back inside to gather his briefcase and returned to the patio, where he spent the quiet, morning hours getting a head start on his day’s work and watching the sun rise over New York City.
CHAPTER THREE
Julien followed Lily’s hand through the air as she placed a plate down on the table before him. A mound of mashed potatoes drowning in brown gravy, a heap of stuffing loaded with chunks of sausage and symmetrical cubes of soggy toast, green beans swimming in a thick, milky sauce, topped with crispy, fried onions, a steaming roll, oozing with golden butter, and stack of white turkey meat, sliced to perfect ovals by the electric carving knife she brandished in her other hand.
Matt’s mother diligently dressed her husband’s plate as his father told stories about his long gone days in Vietnam. Julien missed the punch line, which sparked a rush of laughter around the table. He smiled, pr
etending to be with them. Truthfully, they were all too eager to receive their meal to care much about the old man’s exaggerated tales.
Julien could never get used to the abundant portions of food American’s loaded on their plates. Meals were not small in France, but they were enjoyed slowly and in increments, perhaps to fool themselves into believing they were not over-eating. In France, a holiday meal might last five hours or more, whereas, in America, plates were large and gone in twenty minutes, the celebration coming to an end in the blink of an eye; nothing left but several sink-loads of dishes and pots to scrub.
He glanced at his daughter’s plate, which was not much smaller than his own intimidating heap. Lily stood beside Jessica, cutting her food into child-sized bites while the little girl, enthralled by her milk, etched out shapes on the cold, frosted glass with the tip of her tiny finger. He looked back to his own plate. He took a fork in his left hand and a knife in his right, and then speared the stack of sliced turkey. He dragged the knife through the meat. Crimson blood, dark and rich, bubbled from the crude incision, quickly flooding the gaps between the items on his plate. He closed his eyes then opened them again. A chicken, lying on its side, its neck outstretched over his plate, its throat slashed by the knife in his grasp, gushing blood, overflowing onto the white tablecloth beneath his resting wrists. The bird’s eye shot open; its icy stare fixed upon Julien with relentless intensity.
Julien dropped the utensils. The startling clatter brought everyone’s attention his way.
They cannot see this...
Only I see this…
They do not see this.
Matt glanced around at the concerned expressions on everyone’s faces.
“Everything okay, Jules?” He looked down at Julien’s plate, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Julien opened his eyes again and slowly looked up at Matt then back to his plate. The perfect oval slices of pristine white meat, split partway in two by his knife, sat harmless before him. The sound of Jessica’s overstated chewing brought him back to reality. The little girl grinned at him as she gnashed on a wad of stuffing, peeking out between her teeth and cheek.
He leaned in close to her and whispered, “Jessica, mouth closed.”
At six-years-old, he expected better manners from her.
Jessica obediently stopped gnashing, closed her mouth, and returned her attention to her food, mumbling softly to herself.
Lily ran a loving hand over the little girl’s long hair, as everyone began devouring his or her meal. Julien’s incident now forgotten.
Julien ate, all but the turkey, choosing instead to make good of the side dishes. He forced himself to join their conversation, mostly dominated by both family patriarchs. Matt’s three children sat at a smaller table behind them.
Julien’s mind wandered to earlier that day, when he overheard their youngest boy approach Lily in the kitchen.
“Why does she get to sit with you?” Nicholas whined.
Lily shushed him, “Because she’s a guest, that’s why…and because she needs a little extra help.”
Lily’s stern whisper meant the conversation was over and Nicholas sulked away.
Julien was relieved his daughter would be at his side, more for his own comfort than for Jessica’s.
Cutting through the clatter of utensils, banter and Christmas music, Julien’s cellphone rang. Embarrassed; he thought he had switched the phone to vibrate when they arrived, he fished for the device and apologized, quickly silencing the ringer.
The caller I.D. read, Philip, which he mouthed to Matt.
Matt’s quizzical expression and rapid nod encouraged Julien to take the call.
Julien excused himself and moved quickly to the kitchen, answering the call along the way.
“That’s our boss,” Matt explained to the others.
His father-in-law, always concerned with Matt’s employment stability, openly disapproved.
“On a holiday?” the old man grunted.
Matt shrugged, “Maybe he wants to say Happy Thanksgiving?”
His mother chimed in, “That’s very nice of him, Honey.”
Lily held up a serving spoon, “Does anyone want seconds?” She glanced around, but found no takers.
Her father held up his glass for an impromptu toast, “To a Great meal, Sweetheart.”
The others agreed unanimously.
“The turkey came out so moist,” Matt’s mother added, as she had at the end of every holiday meal since Lily and Matt began hosting the gatherings.
Lily stood up and resituated the meat on the serving platter. She began carving what remained of the bird, much of which she would divide and send home with the parents.
“I guess I should use these bones to make soup,” Lily thought out loud.
Her mother-in-law agreed, “Yes, don’t let it go to waste.”
“Look Jessie! Look what I found.” Lily sat back down, holding up a large, glistening wishbone in the little girl’s direction.
Jessica’s eyes grew wide, her lips parted to form a perfect O. Nicholas rushed between them.
“Can I do it with her Mom? Can I?”
“Sure,” Lily smiled.
Jessica brought her hand up to take the bone.
“No!” Julien charged the table, grabbing the bone from Lily.
He handed it to Nicholas and gave him a dismissive pat on the back, practically shoving the boy in the direction of his brothers then quickly changing the subject.
Julien turned to Matt, “That was Phil.”
Lily’s mouth agape, “I wanted to…”
Julien looked to Lily, “She’ll choke. She puts everything in her mouth.” He turned his attention back to Matt, dismissing Lily, “He just heard from Cox.”
“No such thing as Thanksgiving in London,” Matt reminded the others then explained that the campaign they were currently working on was for a company based in the U.K.
Lily stood up, “Well, I wouldn’t have let her choke.”
Julien ignored her and focused on Matt, “Apparently, we’re going in the wrong direction. He asked if we can come in tomorrow to work on this. The presentation will be Monday morning.”
Lily sighed, “So much for the big family weekend and picking out our tree,” she said and began gathering their plates in a huff.
Nicholas whined, “Nooo!”
Lily shot him a disapproving look and he turned his attention back to the wishbone.
Matt scoffed, “He’s giving us until Sunday night to re-do the entire campaign. Is he kidding? All the graphics…? The video? Half the team’s out of town. It’s a friggin’ holiday.”
Matt’s mother swatted his arm, “Matthew, the children…”
Matt ignored her, “I guess, if I call in the art department first thing in the morning…”
Julien interrupted, “I should go,” he urged Jessica out of her seat and apologized to Lily, though he was happy to have an excuse to break away.
He continued, “I need to get to work on this. I hate to run off right after dinner, Lily, please, forgive me.”
Matt looked to his wife, who narrowed her eyes and clenched her jaw, “Go. Go ahead….” she said, without an attempt to hide her disapproval.
The rest of the table broke into disappointed groans.
“No Matt, you stay with your family. I’ll deal with this. Tomorrow we will meet at the office in the morning,” Julien insisted. “No reason for you to ruin your holiday.”
Lily glared at Matt defying him to argue.
Julien patted Matt’s shoulder ending the discussion.
“Get your coat, Jessica. Lily, the meal, it was perfect,” Julien gave her a fast kiss on each cheek. He raised a hand and bid farewell to both sets of parents.
Lily lurched from her chair, “The pie! I’ll send you home with pie.”
Seated at a vanity before a large round mirror, Arlette Vandermark methodically brushed her hair. Her eyes transfixed on her haggard, frail reflection, in the rainbow colo
red glow of a Tiffany lamp to her left. Behind her, Dr. Carl Lind entered the musty bedroom. A loud creak sounded from the floorboards beneath his step. Arlette paid him no attention as he passed by in the mirror; she continued to groom.
Lind removed change from his pockets and dropped it noisily into a Mason jar on a tall dresser. He approached Arlette, and in an attempt to comfort her, he reached for her shoulders.
Arlette’s distant gaze now disrupted, she whacked the back of his right hand with the hard wooden hairbrush.
“Get away from me,” she grumbled.
Without uttering a word, Lind backed away and obediently left the room.
Arlette brought an aged hand up to her cheek, allowing her knobbed fingers to slide down over slacked, crinkled skin and caress her boney jawline. She looked into her saddened eyes with an expression of empathy. To Arlette, her current reflection was not her own and it would only be a matter of time before she was looking at herself again.
She sighed and looked away in disgust, placing the hairbrush down beside a photo frame. The antique, silver mount housed two photos, side-by-side. One, a 5X7 portrait of Sarah, taken at a Sears’s studio in Albany, two years earlier. The other, a slightly blurred, distant photograph, snapped with a cell phone camera through the chain link fence of a schoolyard, just weeks earlier; a photo of Jessica Grenier.
The ladder splintered with a loud crack and Julien woke in a panic, clutching his thigh and crying out.
“Get away from me!” he heard himself demand as he came awake.
In an instant, his fear morphed into a feeling of foolishness and he huffed in disbelief of his stupidity.
Irritated, the television volume blaring; he hoped the noise had kept Jessica from hearing him yell. He searched beneath the blankets for the remote control, found it, and quickly decreased the volume before tossing it back down on the bed. A replay of the evening news cast a glow on the room. A reporter rambled details about a body, a small child, found buried in the woods on Staten Island.
WISHBONE II: ...Some Wishes Should Never Be Made Page 3