It had worked, eventually, with the bedtime tantrums. In the months before he had been kidnapped, Alex had slept with the door closed every night. Maybe it would work again.
"I love you, Alex. You know that. I need you to trust me."
"OPEN THE DOOR!"
"I'm not going to do that."
"OPEN THE DOOR!"
"Alex, the answer is no. You need to find your own way. I can't help you with that." The depth of his fatigue actually made it easier to keep his calm, to stay detached.
"DAD-DEEEE!"
"Go to sleep, Alex."
"DAD-DEEE! NO, DAD-DEEEEEE!"
"It's time for bed now."
59
Ian went into the living room, tried the same failed strategies there as he had the night before. Eventually his detachment frayed, and he winced at every new shriek like it was a cattle prod. They drove him into the kitchen, where he stared at the basement door for several minutes, flinching, before going through.
He and Alina had sought refuge in the basement before - when Alex was an infant, learning to sleep through the night. Sometimes he'd been hungry, sure, but sometimes he had just been defiant, and in an effort to get him to start recognizing the difference, they would let him cry for up to twenty minutes at a time.
They'd always go into the basement for that, where his cries would be somewhat muffled. The trips below were Ian's idea, because his wife seemed to be going mad from sleep deprivation, and he wanted to shield her from the yawning, bottomless demands of motherhood as much as he could.
You stay here, he'd tell her. In twenty minutes I'll go up. I'll take care of him. Just try to get some sleep.
Her haggard eyes would accost him - You can't care for him. He needs to be breastfed. It's my job. - and he would stare back, or even say out loud, One bottle of formula every couple days is not going to kill him. We can't let him run us into the ground. We both still need to sleep, and you especially.
She had gotten so mad at him, sometimes! The literature had convinced her that every time she let Alex cry or let him drink formula, she was shortening his lifespan or destroying his brain cells. But later, when Alex had started sleeping through, she had thanked Ian. For being there when she was too exhausted to think. For standing up for her.
The stairs lurched beneath him, and he tripped. He shot a hand out to grab the railing, but momentum twisted him around and knocked his feet from the steps. He ended up stretched like a man on a rack, his feet brushing the cheap carpet, his arm bent weirdly to hang on.
"God dammit," he whispered. The floor was thinner than it used to be, or Alex's voice was stronger. His shrieks were barely muffled at all.
60
Walgreen's sold earplugs. He bought a pack and drove home. Just as it had been Saturday night, the air outside the house was still. As he locked the door behind him, Alex's shrieks started up again as if they had never stopped.
Ian closed his bedroom door and put in two of the plugs. They expanded in his ears like a rush of water over his head, bulging against his flesh and filling his head with echoing stillness.
He crawled into bed and buried his head under the blankets, clenching his eyes shut. He could still hear his son.
After an hour he gave up, ripped out the plugs, and went again to his son's door to entreat him to stop. It didn't work, but a little later the sun rose, and Alex's screams wound down to sobs, then to moans, then to silence.
61
Sunday night he handed out candy, but when the trick-or-treaters stopped, Alex began.
Ian stayed up all night, reeling, and finally found one place in the house where he could barely hear Alex: the shower. He used it at 4 am, dressed, then left for work. He parked at the far end of the lot, set his cell phone alarm for 7:55, and slept for two and a half hours.
The callers he got all had nasty viruses or registry issues; no one needed a simple driver update or an advertised program install. Their questions scraped against his brain like sandpaper.
Once, he nodded off with a caller on hold. He jerked awake in such a panic that he nearly toppled out of his chair.
At lunch, he sneaked out to his car for a nap. He awoke even groggier, his head throbbing. The advantage to this was that his headache would not permit him to doze between calls.
He drove home in a stupor, and fell asleep on the couch until Alex's screaming woke him for the night.
62
"Mah niggah!"
"Hey."
"What's goin' on?"
"I... I'm sorry to ask, I know it's weird, is there any chance I could stay over there tonight again?"
A heartbeat. "Tonight?"
Ian bit back the urge to apologize again. "Yeah." The road was swimming as he drove home; he blinked at it, trying to make it hold still.
"God... you do know it's Tuesday?"
"Yeah."
"Ah, man. Tonight... Jake's staying here tonight, we've had it set up for like a week now."
Absurdly, tears boiled into Ian's eyes. "Oh."
"I'm sorry, Ian, I wish I could. Those dreams coming back?"
Ian blinked again. "I... yeah, I guess so. They're waking me up, every night, waking me."
A concerned sigh. "Oh, man."
"I can't... I haven't slept in days, he just... keeps screaming." From a distant cavern in his mind, Ian wondered if this had been saying too much. It didn't matter. His brain felt like a leaking orange juice carton on the fridge shelf. The words had just seeped out.
"Ian... god, you sound terrible."
"I'm so tired."
"Man... listen. I'm really sorry about tonight. Just... try to get some sleep, okay? Maybe take some, like.... sleep medicine? Or something? It might help. I never dream when I'm on that stuff."
"Yeah." Ian thought about a hotel room again, but he couldn't afford it. He could call his mom, but she would freak. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Okay."
"And..." Derek hesitated. "Look, I hate to say this, I know you hate the idea, but it might help to talk about it. You know, or see someone who can help you. There's got to be something."
"Yeah." He was headed home, where Alex would be screaming.
63
"Ian." The world beneath him quivered and he jerked awake, casting left and right, trying to figure out where he was.
Justin waited for Ian to get his bearings. Behind him, Sheila was looking back from her desk, her lips pursed like she'd found a maggot on the carpet.
"Shit," Ian said, hoarsely. "Sorry, I'm sorry."
"Can you come into a quiet room for a minute?"
"Yeah. Yeah." He started to set his phone to After Call Work so he wouldn't get calls, but it was already set. Shit, he almost said again.
Justin led him to a quiet room and closed the door. As they sat down, Ian started.
"Justin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I've just... I've been sleeping so bad. I can't get any sleep at home. I keep having these nightmares." He felt like a worm, groveling to this man.
"Ian, you can't sleep on the job."
"No, no, I know I can't -"
"We have to write you up for this. It's gonna go in your file."
"Yeah. Of course." What could he say? "Okay." He had expected to be fired.
Justin's pen scratched across the paper, all in neat little caps.
WED, 11/3/10. IAN COLMES WAS SLEEPING AT HIS DESK ON ACW. I HAVE ADVISED IAN THAT HE IS ON WRITTEN NOTICE AND ANOTHER
Justin paused, at a rare loss for words.
INCIDENT MAY RESULT IN TERMINATION.
He signed his name in impeccable cursive, and handed Ian the pen. Ian's sprawling scribble went on the line that said, Employee Signature.
"Take the afternoon off," Justin said as he stood. "Go home and get some sleep. Take it easy."
Ian wondered if he would get paid for the rest of the day. He was out of vacation time for the year. But he didn't ask. The image of his couch - or, oh god, his bed - glimmered like an oasis.
Justin paused at the door. "Ma
ybe give SER a call. I've heard they're really good."
Smartlink Employee Resources. Ian had seen the fliers. They could get him some free mental health care. Probably a couple hours. That should be enough, right? Fix everything.
"Okay. Yeah." Ian nodded. "Thanks."
64
It was cold outside, the first really cold day of the season. He trudged through the parking lot under a grey sky, head bowed against the wind, as brown and yellow leaves chased each other over his shoes.
He had to stop for gas. The wind gusted as he climbed out of the car, making him shiver. He remembered being young, and running around in autumn without a coat on. He had relished the cold, then, but the fire of youth had burned out sometime since, and now the wind sliced right through him.
There was an old coat in the trunk - left there since last March, when he'd torn it off one day in a sweat. That was before Alex was taken. How long before? he wondered, but couldn't remember. Long enough that something like the first warm day of spring had still been notable.
He popped the trunk to grab his coat, and saw the Ouija board.
REACH OUT TO GHOSTS, the package read. CONTACT LOST LOVED ONES!
Hokey bullshit. A scam made for suckers. He threw his coat on and slammed the trunk. But as he watched the dollar display on the pump rocket upwards, he kept thinking about it.
CONTACT LOST LOVED ONES!
Maybe it will let him talk. Maybe he'll be able to just tell me what he wants.
It's bullshit. Jesus, I thought you outgrew this shit when you were twelve.
I did. But obviously I got something wrong.
It's fucking stupid. Don't be an idiot. If you want to do something about this, do like Derek said. Get some fucking Tylenol PM. Call a shrink. Call SER.
He slapped the gas dispenser on to the pump and climbed back into the car.
He was so tired.
65
The Ouija board's box slid on to the kitchen table with a whispered thunk, and he turned away from it at once. He hung up his coat and grabbed a pop from the fridge, something with caffeine, and stood staring out the kitchen window into his little backyard as his thoughts chased each other in circles.
He was ashamed of the thing sitting on the table. He wanted to bury it in the closet, like a rented porn video, but of course that was ridiculous. There was no one to see it but him.
Then again, maybe that was enough reason to do it.
In the backyard there was a swing hanging by a pair of rusty chains from a broad tree branch. It had been part of the house when they had bought it, and when he'd gotten old enough, Alex had loved it. Now it was twisting with the autumn breeze, banging against the trunk, its chains jingling like a poorly made wind chime.
The thing was, the board was the only way forward that he could keep a secret. The other options - all the other options: talking to a psychic, trying to perform a séance, shit, even taking an FMLA leave - involved telling someone what was happening. He wasn't ready for that. He didn't know that he ever would be.
Finally he made up his mind and marched away from the window, toward Alex's room.
Outside, the wind blew and the dead leaves danced.
66
Wait outside the door and listen, some part of him said. Make sure he's not in there. But he steamrolled this warning, grabbed the knob and threw the door open. It was his house, he'd go over wherever the hell he wanted.
Boxes, stacked two and three high. Faded white walls, flecked with bits of tape and old nail-holes.
It had to be done in here. He was sure of that much.
He flipped the switch, but the light was dead. That was okay. It was dim, and the overcast day didn't help, but he could still see.
The boxes were heavier than he'd expected, but he moved them out of the middle of the room. He and Alina hadn't labeled them. He still remembered the day they had packed it all up. Alina had started in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, after mentioning that it had to be done several times over the preceding months. She had come in here and worked silently, periodically walking out with a full garbage bag or a plastic dish.
She hadn't said anything, but she hadn't needed to. Waves of condemnation had rolled off of her. I can't believe you're making me do this by myself. Hurt, anger, frustration: all the hallmarks of their new relationship.
Finally he'd caved. He really didn't want her to have to do it alone. It was a horrible job. He didn't wish it on anyone, least of all her or himself. Why he had to respect her wishes (to do it NOW), but she couldn't respect his wishes (to wait), he didn't know. It didn't matter. She was doing it, and he either had to be there for her, or abandon her.
He stood and stretched his back. The boxes lined the walls now, crouched in the dimness like blocks of stone. Uncarved statues, waiting to watch the show.
He settled on the floor in the middle of the room and slid the board from the box. There were no instructions: just the board, and a simple planchette. Who needed instructions? Everyone had seen The Exorcist.
All the Ouija stories Ian had heard growing up involved inadvertently contacting something evil and bringing it into the user's house. Even when he had believed in the possibilities of afterlife, he wouldn't touch a board for exactly that reason. Now, concern for that outcome barely flickered across his mind.
He'd already spoken with his son; he knew Alex could move things. He still didn't believe in demons, or any of the rest of it. But he knew something was happening with his son. He just wanted to talk to him.
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
Ian jerked his head up. Alex stood by the door in jean overalls. He was shorter, plumper, his cheeks stuffed with chub. After speaking, he popped his thumb in his mouth and sucked at it furiously.
"For what?" Ian rasped.
"For... for... the owl-it." His eyes were big and heavy. He pointed at the nearest electrical outlet.
It came back. Alex had been playing with the outlets. Somehow, he had found a fork. Ian had caught him.
It was the first time Ian had really let loose yelling at him. It had also been Alex's first spanking. Ian could count the others on one hand.
I'm glad you're here to say you're sorry. It could've hurt you really bad, you know that? Really, really bad, so bad you wouldn't be able to talk or call for help or anything. The outlet is not a toy, Alex. You need to leave it alone.
"It's not a toy," Alex agreed miserably. But he wasn't looking at the outlet now. He was looking at the Ouija board.
Ian felt his mouth run dry. His breath whistled in his lungs as if he'd tumbled into a freefall.
"It's not a toy," Alex said again.
"You mean this?" Ian asked carefully. He tapped the board with one finger. "You don't think I should use this?"
"It's not a toy."
Ian sat, slack-jawed, working it through. "Well... Alex, I don't know what else to do. You want to tell me something, I think, but I don't know what that is. I can't understand you. I'm trying, but I just can't understand, and every night you've been screaming, and I just can't keep doing that. Do you understand that? I can't."
Shorts and a t-shirt. "Donnie went off the road."
"I don't know what that means, Alex!"
The boy winced.
"Just... look, you are a smart boy. The smartest boy I know. And you know how to read, and write. You can show me." Ian pointed at the board. "I'll ask you, and you can tell me. Plainly. Okay? And if you don't know the words, or how to spell them, just..." He floundered, his palm up in front of him, grasping for ideas. "You know, just..." He tapped his head. "Read me. Can you do that? And I'll help you."
Three years old again, eyes heavy with remorse. "It's not a toy," he whispered, and was gone.
Ian ground his jaw, opened and clenched his fists, fought the urge to scream. Then he grabbed the planchette and slapped it onto the board, somewhere in the middle, where there were no markings.
"Alex, this is your dad," he said in his best, no-nonsense Dad voice. "Are yo
u here to try to tell me something?"
He waited, eyes glued to the planchette, fighting the ridiculous urge to move it to Yes himself. That's not how it was supposed to work.
"Alex, I know you can hear me. Answer me, now. Are you here to try to tell me something?"
Nothing. Of course, nothing. This was idiocy. He waited, counted to thirty, and another question occurred to him.
"Are you just here to hurt me? To make me sad?"
He stared at the board again, cold dread curling in his chest, certain that this time his son would respond.
"Are you just mad that Daddy let this happen to you?"
Nothing. He'd read something on the internet once about the power of true names, so he threw that out.
"Alexander Isaiah Colmes, you need to answer me. I won't even be upset. I just need to know."
The wind gusted outside, rattling the window and throwing the chimes on the front porch into a frenzy of mad jangles. The planchette didn't move.
"God dammit!" He hurled it; it ricocheted to the carpet in a splash of busted drywall.
"Fuck!" He lurched to his feet, leveled a kick at the board, missed, snatched it up, whipped it like a frisbee. It struck a giant gouge in the wall and tottered there for a second before slipping loose to the floor. Ian stalked across the floor, grabbed it again, and slammed it into a box over and over, screaming, "What am I supposed to do? What the fuck am I supposed to do?" Chunks of cardboard exploded like confetti. Then he lost his grip on the board and it flew backwards to glance off the ceiling. Popcorn ceiling bits rained down.
His head roared with pain as he panted; something in his elbow had popped and now throbbed dully.
"God damn it," he whined. "Just tell me."
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