The first thing that struck her wasn’t what he asked; it was what he said. Mommy and Daddy only came up now when something was deeply upsetting. When he was feeling puny and small and so very young. The rope she’d used to keep her heart together unraveled, letting a thousand shards fall and scatter in those long quiet seconds as his eyes begged her to say that everything was going to be alright.
Zach knew he was giving away the secret that he could see…things. He wasn’t sure exactly what they were (although he had a vague idea), but he knew his mother saw them, too. He’d overheard conversations between his parents, and sometimes she got a strange, faraway look in her eyes, but not like she was really looking far away. More like she was looking further in. He knew that look. He’d felt it on his own face when the colors appeared.
They used to always be there, those colors. Happy yellows, vivid reds, peaceful blues. He wondered, when he looked in the mirror, why he was the only person he saw who didn’t have a colored shadow-self. He just had a plain shadow that showed up in bright light. Everybody else’s were always there; even in the dark they glowed like stars. And they all had a regular shadow like his, too.
As he learned to control what he saw, he learned a little of what they meant. At least, what they meant to his young mind. The colors were how people were feeling. He knew, because sometimes he could hear their thoughts, too. He wished he didn’t hear the words they used inside their heads. Their out-loud words were so much nicer, so much more polite. Those kinds of words only hurt your feelings when people really meant to or when they weren’t paying attention and talked without thinking. Not like what was in their heads. People were both meaner and dumber than he wished they were. Especially his teachers at school, who didn’t understand about the colors and how distracting they were.
They thought he just wasn’t paying attention. They couldn’t possibly know how much attention he actually was paying, and how tiring it was to watch them. So they thought horrible things about him and wished he wasn’t in their classroom. He’d learned, after many times crying in his mother’s arms when he couldn’t explain how he knew that his teacher hated him, to ‘hear’ the current lesson, all at once, from the teacher’s mind on those days when the colors were all around and pulled his eyes away.
He’d stopped seeing the unbidden colors of his parents first. He practiced on them, since they were around him the most. It was also with them that he learned to bring the colors back when he wanted to see them. For some reason he could never understand, he’d never overheard their thoughts. He thought that maybe it was because he didn’t need to.
Sometimes it was as exhausting to not see them as to try to see them on purpose. Now, for the most part, he only saw them when he wanted to, when he pushed himself and felt his awareness slip a little higher.
But not this last time. His father’s powerful blackness rode roughshod over every attempt to block it. And it was different than the others he’d seen. It was no color shadow, this; it was a black cloud that sometimes, especially when his dad was tired and sleepy, nearly obscured his face.
He knew there was only one person who could explain it. He’d had plenty of opportunities to ask his mother about what he saw, but it took more than a week of watching the swirling black fog before he worked up the courage to finally ask.
“Mommy, why is Daddy always in a black cloud of little bugs?”
So, he sees it, too. I’ve wondered if he inherited my grandmother’s gift. Sometimes it’s such a bloody curse.
Oh, great, and now I’m starting to swear in my own head in British. Is there any facet of my life he hasn’t invaded? Bloody hell.
Which explanation do I give first? What it is that he sees, or why it’s there?
Quit stalling, Kori.
Pick up the pieces of your heart and tell him. He just might be the glue to help put you back together and hold you that way.
But we were going to tell him together; I should wait for Mark. Maybe it’s best to start with the what that he sees. I hope that, by the time that explanation is over, Mark will be here and we can tell him the why.
Kori plopped down next to her son on the couch. She forced a smile to the corners of her mouth, hoping to reassure him and lay aside the questions of what the cloud meant.
“You see the colors, too, huh?” she asked in what she hoped was a disarming tone.
Zach glanced down at his hands before answering. “Yeah,” he responded softly, then looked his questions again into her shattered heart.
She swallowed around the boulder in her throat. “I’ll bet you want to know what they are, don’t you?”
His expression softened a little, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah. I think I already know. Well, sort of.” Zach smiled shyly, a little embarrassed by what had been his deepest secret.
“I guess the easiest way to say it is that you’re seeing what people are feeling. Usually it’s their emotions that you see. Different colors mean different things. I don’t know that you see them the same way that I do, the same colors for the same emotions, I mean. You see, honey, I don’t know if what I see is an actual energy field or just my perception, translated to something visual to help me understand it. To me, yellow is happiness, red is strong passion for something, blue is peace or contentment or acceptance, and green usually shows when someone is upset about something.”
“That’s how they seem to me, too. Yellow really glows around happy people. And red, too. JT’s always got red somewhere, doesn’t he, Mom?”
She chuckled. “Yeah, he does seem to.”
Zach looked at the floor. “But Mom, what’s the black mean? And how come the regular colors just look like outlines around people, but the black around Daddy is like a cloud? Sometimes I almost can’t see through it.”
It was her turn to fall silent. Random excuses screamed through her brain. Stall him. Explain but don’t explain, skate around the truth until we are all together.
Hurry up, Mark.
She looked down at her hands, watching her thumbs play restlessly over each other. Dammit! How do I tell him without telling him? She glanced back over at her son, inhaled deeply, then began what she hoped would be a satisfactory explanation. “Well, honey, I think we see through the other colors because they’re light and they kind-of glow. They surround a person, just like you see the black do. The black doesn’t glow, though, so we can’t see through it.”
“But what does the black mean?” His innocent blue eyes bore into hers.
Ah, shit. Time to dance a little more. “Well, honey, in a nutshell, it means something is terribly wrong. Someone is in total despair or sick or—”
Realization clobbered him with all the subtlety of a mac truck.
“What’s wrong with him?” he whispered as tears welled in his eyes. “Daddy’s dying, isn’t he?”
Zach watched the emotions flit across his mother’s features. She almost doesn’t have to answer; I know I’m right.
“Mom?” he prodded quietly. The tears spilled and ran sluggish trails down his cheeks.
Kori closed her eyes, inhaling slow and deep, the breath hitching in her throat.
Zach watched her and let his awareness slide. A burst of roiling colors appeared, as always giving him an adrenaline kick. His pulse quickened and he felt his heart squeeze a little harder in his chest. He had to remind himself to breathe; the surge would often leave him sipping air into his lungs and he’d lose his bit of extra sight as his vision fuzzed and his head would start to spin.
Red. She’s mostly red, feeling something strong. Scared? Worried? A little blue here and there. Whatever it is, she’s accepted it. Green swirls, she’s anxious. And there’s the black speckles, like pepper, over everything. It’s bad, whatever it is. He felt a flash of guilt at peering into her but swept it away; he had every right to know whether or not he’d have a father by springtime.
She was sitting with her eyes closed, taking long, deliberate breaths, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. He watch
ed in amazement as the black bits winked out by the handful until only a few remained. She opened eyes shot with red and looked at him.
“Honey, I’ll be honest with you. Your dad’s very ill. I’m sure you’ve noticed how much he’s been sleeping lately, and all the pills he has to take.”
Zach was caught up in watching her colors dance. Her voice washed over him, the statements registering dimly. With her words the colors drifted and changed, an energy oil-slick under a puff of breeze. The red muted and shifted, leaving smaller wisps but not disappearing. Her field became more blue and green as she swallowed her pain.
He realized she’d stopped talking; what did she just say? He cast into his mental depths and pulled her comments to the surface: His dad was very ill, that’s why he’s been taking so many medicines and sleeping more and more of the days away. So far what she’d said rang true, but he knew what she had chosen to share with him was far from the entire truth.
He focused on her eyes instead of her aura of energy, and asked, “But Mom, what does that mean? If he’s so sick that his colors have all gone black, shouldn’t he be in a hospital to get better, instead of here, doing this?” He shifted his gaze again to watch the colors dance, wondering what they’d reveal with her answer.
“Zach,” she began, taking his warm hand in her trembling, icy ones, “A hospital wouldn’t be any better than him being with us all the time. The medicines would be the same, he’d sleep just as much. But at least when he’s with us, he gets to see us instead of grungy hospital walls and a boring TV. He gets to experience new things with you, and he was adamant about doing that. And he gets to eat stuff he likes instead of yucky hospital food. He’s better off here than he is in a hospital.”
Her glow had become more blue; she believed in what she was telling him, and had come to accept it as the right thing to do. But neon green shot out like solar flares on acid. He thought she looked like the pictures of Medusa from one of his schoolbooks. What does that mean? “What’s wrong with Dad? And can’t they fix it? I thought doctors could fix anything.” His tears threatened again, despite the adrenaline surge.
“They can’t fix everything, babe. Not everything,” she whispered.
Zach was staring at her oddly again, and his tears spilled freely as he realized the true implications of both what she’d said, and more importantly, didn’t say. “Mom, what color’s lying?”
“Who’s lying?” Mark’s tired-sounding voice came from behind them.
Kori’s heart skipped. The couch faced away from the bedroom and she hadn’t heard him emerge. Kori wondered how long he’d been there and hoped he’d heard enough to take over.
Kori twisted to face the doorway, flashing him a tiny, sad smile. No matter the circumstance, she was always happier when she saw him. “Nobody. Zach was asking me some questions, and I think it’s time we had that talk while we’re just the three of us, alone.”
Mark walked into the room, his gait slow but steady. Kori scooted into one corner of the couch and drew her legs underneath herself. She patted the center cushion, indicating to Zach with a sideways nod to move to the middle of the couch. I hadn’t realized it, but he hasn’t had much of a limp recently. I wonder if it’s from spending so much time on his back and resting his damaged leg, or because everything in his body aches now as the toxins build up in the joints.
Mark sank slowly into the other corner, turning a bit so that he looked toward his son. With an expression that was mildly anxious but otherwise unreadable, Zach looked from one parent to the other and back again.
“Zach,” Mark began, then his voice faltered. Shit. He cleared his throat, looked at his son deeply, then tore his eyes away before Zach could see the water building in the corners. I thought I was ready for this. Mark dragged a hand over his face and sighed heavily.
“Zach,” he began again, “you know I was injured by a man who was driving drunk, right? I know you were too young to remember, hell, you were only a few months old at the time, but you do know why I walk the way I do, why I hurt a lot of the time, and why I’ve been home with you and your mom was the one who worked, right?”
Zach nodded, his eyes solemn.
Mark continued. “You also know I take several different medicines to help with the pain. Sometimes quite a lot of them.”
Again the boy nodded.
“Well, as much as those pain medicines helped at the time, in the long run, they hurt me even more.” He paused, letting this new piece of information settle in. When Zach’s look of deep thought morphed again into confusion and curiosity, Mark went on.
“Every year, I have to have a test called an MRI done. You’ve gone with your mom and me to a couple of those, remember? That’s like an x-ray but for soft tissues. The medications I take for pain can do damage to my internal organs. Serious damage. And the doctor needed to watch for signs of that damage happening to me.” Again Mark quieted, allowing time for Zach to ask questions. Or to jump to conclusions that, by now, must be fairly obvious.
His father really didn’t have to say anything else, and Zach’s special insight wasn’t necessary to know what was coming next.
How long? How much longer will you still be my Dad?
If you’re telling me this now, then I don’t think it’s for very much longer. I wish I could see your face better, then maybe I might be able to tell. No, that’s not true. I can see it in the black fog. It’s coming soon.
Too soon.
You can’t die, Daddy.
You can’t leave.
You were supposed to teach me how to drive. Who’s going to show me the right way to shave? I need you here to threaten to kick my ass if I don’t behave. I need you to tell me about girls. And then about women, even though you say you don’t understand them.
I need you here.
I need you here to watch me grow up. He had sensed this was coming but that didn’t make hearing it easier. Inside, he was bawling like a baby, but outside he was too stunned to cry.
Daddy, you can’t.
It’s not fair.
I need you here.
I just need…you.
Mark watched the turmoil on his son’s innocent face. It shredded his heart, but Mark knew he had to continue. With a sigh of infinite sadness, he concluded the carnage of their son’s naiveté
“I think you know where this is leading, don’t you, Champ?”
Zach didn’t nod nor even blink.
Mark plunged forward; the point of no return had been passed many words and emotions ago. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. I’m dying, Champ. My—” Mark’s voice cracked and he swallowed hard. When did somebody park a Volkswagen in my esophagus? He blinked twice and coughed, feeling crushed and exhausted.
“The medications have destroyed my kidneys and my liver, and they don’t work right anymore, Zach. And before you ask, I don’t know exactly how long they might still be able to function. At least through Christmas, I think. But I don’t know if I’ll see springtime again, Champ.” Mark finally broke away from Zach’s unwavering gaze, unable to stand the pain in the eyes so like his mother’s. “I’m so sorry,” he finally whispered. “I let you down, and I can’t ever make up for it.”
Zach remained still as a stone, unable to cry. His head reeled. Expected or not, the hurt was terribly deep and strong. He couldn’t believe his dad was apologizing. He was the one who was leaving against his will, he was dying for crying out loud. He ground his molars to stop the hysterical laughter. They’ll think I’m nuts.
His parents watched him closely, the concern plain in their faces. They didn’t know he didn’t dare open his mouth; what would come out would be either the crazy laugh or the scream of a dropped baby. And once it started, he wasn’t sure he could ever make it stop.
They weren’t aware that he didn’t move because he felt paper thin and ready to shatter.
He felt a hand gently touch his shoulder, but still he didn’t stir. The hand slid down his arm to his hand; h
e let the larger hand hold his, making no move to return the grip.
How can they be so calm? How could they act as if I were the only one who would be upset? Life would not be normal for him for a very long time. If ever again.
Kori’s tears had slowed to a sniffle and she had a crashing headache. Telling him was far worse than when I confirmed the knowledge for myself. Maybe because it seeped into my brain slowly and I was forced to accept it before I proved it. Or maybe it was because I had JT to hold me and say he’d make sure I’d always be looked after. Even if my soul hadn’t sought his out the way it did, I know he’d be my pillar and my friend. But who has Zach got other than the two of us?
She reached out a comforting hand to her son and found him to be stiff and unyielding. Undeterred, she took his hand; he allowed it but did nothing to seek nor accept her consolation. She squeezed his hand anyway.
God, I’m tired. So fucking tired. I never would have thought words would wear me out like this.
Mark stifled a yawn. He’d become expert at hiding them recently, not wanting to let on to anyone how constantly exhausted he was. And it was a simple trick, really, quite easy to master. Let his teeth separate ever so slightly. His nostrils flared a tiny bit wider and his chin trembled only two or three times, then the yawn popped through his ears and it was over with no one the wiser.
He glanced surreptitiously at the clock on the wall. He never wore his watch any more. Not only was it a pain to be constantly taking it off for his frequent naps, but the band was alternately too tight from his swelling or too loose from the diuretics. Besides, a man with little time remaining doesn’t really want to measure it in minutes on his wrist.
He was only interested in whether or not it was time to take more pills. Vitamins, digestive enzymes, diuretics, diarrhea control… He measured his days in the stretches of time between another handful of tablets and capsules. He wished his pain medications could be part of them. They were the cause of his situation, and would only hasten his end, but (dammit!) everything hurt now, and they did at least dull the knifestabs in his joints. But taking even one was guaranteed to bring on the same agony as the night he stumbled into the tourbus and collapsed on the floor in JT’s tiny bedroom.
Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll) Page 37