A good guy? If he was such a nice guy, he would be searching for Heather.
He knew how much Heather meant to her. To have him ignore her pleas infuriated her.
Just how could he be sure she hadn’t jumped in the hole? How could he be so certain?
Then a sensible side of her spoke up—the logical one.
Why do you have thoughts about killing your husband? Why do you wish he would die in a car accident? That it had been him rather than your Gus?
Hanna knew her sister had been in an abusive relationship for many years, until she found courage enough to put an end to it. The fall out was her ex threatening to kill himself and succeeding.
Thank God, they didn’t have any children, she thought to herself, picturing how much worse it could’ve been if they had. The pressing question was her sister. Where was she? Nobody was helping her. Not even the police.
Hanna washed her hands in the sink, after pulling the weeds out of the front yard. As she left the house to visit her mother, across the street, she had no way of knowing, today was her last.
III
Morgan, Momma has to talk to you.”
He was asleep. He rolled over on his side.
“Morgan? It’s morning. You have to get up.”
“Why?” he mumbled, still half asleep.
“It’s morning. We need to get you in the habit of soaking up vitamin D. So rise and shine.” Meredith said, pulling away the venetian blinds.
“Why are you doing this to us?”
“Who’s us?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about?” Upon closer inspection, Meredith realized her son had not awoken, and was still mumbling in his dreams.
“Morgan?” she said, worry starting to set in. “You have to get up. I need to talk to you about what you did in the bathroom. It’s dangerous to be standing up on the sink like that.”
It was then Morgan said something that froze her heart. It missed a beat, seemed to suspend itself in the air, until it came crashing down from her throat. Meredith heard her son talk about her husband as if he was alive. Her son’s bedroom seemed to close up on her, the walls converging, snuffing the air out of the dimming drywall panels. She could’ve sworn it was getting darker, even as the sun climbed higher.
“Dad,” Morgan muttered. “Who do I protect?”
“Honey?” she said, stopping short of shaking him awake. “Dad’s not here, anymore. How many times do we have to go over this?”
“Why her?” he said faintly. He tossed and turned, raising his arm, and then placing it back to his side. “What did she do wrong?”
“Who are you talking about? Morgan, get up. Snap out of it!”
“Dad, don’t do it. I’m scared.”
“Morgan, please,” Meredith said, pulling away the sheets. She gripped him by the ankle and pulled.
“Get off me,” Morgan grunted. “Get off me. I command you in the name of—Mom?” His eyes flew open at the same time, and he slowly subsided into silence.
“Hey… hey…” Meredith said, affectionately. She tousled his hair. “It’s over now. You don’t have to worry. Momma’s here.”
Morgan pulled himself up in a sitting position, back to the headboard.
“Did you have a nightmare?”
He remained silent.
“What was it? What were you dreaming about?”’
He pulled his knees to his chest. Still no answer.
“I heard you calling for your dad. Why?”
“I don’t remember,” he whispered.
Meredith didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream. “Enough of these silly games. Were you awake just now?”
“No, why?”
“Because somebody had come in while I was showering and had written something bad on the mirror. Why would you do something like that, baby?” Meredith asked, smoothing the sheets, and pulling them back up in their original position. “You know I pray to God.”
“I didn’t do that, Mom. Daddy did.”
“But Daddy’s dead,” she said, patting Morgan’s legs. “Remember how I told you—”
“Daddy’s here.”
“Yes, I know,” Meredith said, feeling sad. “He’ll always be here, looking over us. Remember I told you that he’s here in our hearts.”
“No, Mom,” her son explained. “He’s here.”
Meredith glanced around the room. “Where?” Just then, the radio clock came on—at always nine in the morning—to blare Disney radio hits. But the dial was moving by itself, going from one frequency to another, and under that wavelength of disconnected crooning amongst variety of singers, she heard a whisper, someone (or something) moaning in a low hushed tone.
“How are you doing that?”
“I’m not,” Morgan said, staring at the radio.
“Then who is?”
“I told you. Dad.”
The voice that emanated through the airwaves was a voice all too recognizable with her. It was her husband, Nick who had died in a car accident, an accident she still didn’t know the details to. Unmistaken and clear, the voice had the same unruffled quality she’d known for eleven years.
Honey…
Meredith’s eyes grew wide, round like two craters.
... die… we die together…
She pulled the cord. The radio shut off, but the static hissing continued.
“Stop it now! Stop scaring me.”
“I’m not doing anything!” Morgan said. Then his face grew serious. “It’s the hole. The hole has bad things inside.”
The radio faded out and plunged the room into silence.
“What’s inside the hole,” Meredith whispered, eyeing the broadcasting transmitter.
“It’s not a hole.”
“What is it?”
“We meet them there. Like a meeting, mom, like at school.”
“Who’s them?”
“Us,” Morgan said, furtively. A smile played on his lips. “We meet us there.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“There’s no way to close it.”
“Close what?”
No way to stop it.” Morgan said, softly, shaking his head.
“Stop what?”
“What’s done is done. Unless—” He glanced up, tired and drained. All the energy seemed to have been sapped from his body.
“Unless?” Meredith implored. “Morgan, tell me how you did that. Did you hurt the others at school? Was what the principal said true?”
Morgan broke down and cried. Big, sloppy tears wet his cheeks, polishing his skin with a reflective luster. In that moment, Meredith loved him the most. Those tears signified hurt and pain, a child who was lost and needed steering in the right direction—a child who needed his mother.
Jesus, she thought, as she hugged him close to her, stroking his hair. “That man from across the street. He told you to say these things, didn’t he?” she asked.
“He’s my protector,” he responded.
“I don’t like it. I don’t want you near him.”
“He’s sensitive.”
“I don’t care if he’s sensitive or not. Mr Embry’s not a man I want you befriending. He’s not good for you.”
That was the last thing Meredith said before she left his room. She tried to keep the swelling fears at bay, but her mind kept going back to the marks around his neck. Three distinct lines, scratches, enflamed like rings. They were scratch marks, the same kind that cut across her forearms. One for the father, two for the son, and three for the Holy Spirit.
IV
Something was brewing in Sheppard Singh’s mind. Allah had abandoned him. In pursuit of the American dream, the father of an only daughter and a deceased wife whom he had killed, he had set his sights on everything monetary. He worked long hours, slogged through tenuous business affairs.
All for what? For the financing of a corporate dream? None of the money actually made him happy. In fact, it did the opposite and made him resent those without
it. Now, his SUV had disappeared and with it the important things he had been keeping in the glove compartment. His daughter wasn’t a liar; he knew that.
The government was out to get him. He felt them closing in. He was certain he had caught a couple of spies photographing him, covert agents tailing him in the city limits and scoping out his premise during the nights All because he had written some stuff against the Americans, against the corporation and big businesses. How he’d love to blow it up.
Amazing how fast the government came to the aid of terrorists eavesdropping but never hunger or education. He looked out the window. The helicopters were rotating overhead. Convoys of trucks were in position.
“Daddy,” Tina said. “I heard Isis in the hole.”
“Not now,” Sheppard mumbled, looking out at the street from the apartment balcony. He watched law enforcement personnel congregate around the complex and other secret service agents shouting out orders for the public to get inside their houses.
“Daddy, do we have to leave?”
“No,” he said. “How can we without transportation?”
“We can take the bus or a taxi,” Tina piped up.
“We have money that will last us a week. The rest is frozen in the bank account. The government has been spying on us. They searched our emails and listen to our phone conversations,” he said, staring at the hole. “They’re very bad people.”
“What will they do to us?” Tina asked.
“I won’t let anything happen to you, little one. Nobody will harm you, God willing. If Allah wills it, it will happen. Do you believe that?”
“I believe, Daddy.”
“Then good,” he said. “Do as I say.”
V
Mandatory evacuations were in order. As Hanna walked past Morgan and Embry chatting with the rest of the crowds, she turned the corner. She headed down the street where the boy’s mother resided.
Her cell phone rang. It was her mother. They talked pleasantries as she knocked on the door.
VI
“Who is it?” Meredith said. Looking through the peephole, she noticed the same woman who stared at her from the house across the street. She had second thoughts about opening the door, but when Hanna spoke about her son, she was compelled to answer.
She unlocked the front door and drew it open. Two women stared at each other. An uncomfortable silence filled the air.
“Come in,” Meredith murmured. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
VII
The last time the two women met was six years ago, when Morgan was no more than eight weeks old. Even then, her child exhibited a quaint aura about his overall being. He rarely cried, and those eyes appeared to stare straight at her soul. They settled in the seats—Meredith, on her loveseat, and Hanna, on the sofa—as they eyed each other. Meredith had brewed tea, for her guest as well as herself.
“So your son—” Hanna started.
“Don’t bother,” Meredith interrupted.
“What’s his name?”
“It’s Morgan.”
“After his father I take it.”
“And you must be Gus’s mother?”
“Looks like you’ve done your research,” Hanna said.
Meredith didn’t know if she was being sarcastic or not as she blew on her cup.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Hanna asked.
“No, I don’t,” Morgan’s mother said, glancing down. She tried to compose herself, the nerves in her right eye twitching. “I—I saw you watching me through the window.” She looked up.
“I watch you every day through the window,” Hanna sipped the green jade elixir. “Whenever the time need be.”
“Well, you need to stop.”
“Am I bothering you?”
“No, you’re bothering my child.”
“At least you have a child,” Hanna said.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Meredith started.
“Besides, from the looks of it, your boy has taken a shine to my husband.”
“Your son. We never meant him any harm. I know how you’re feeling—”
Hanna’s brow furrowed. “Do you, now? Just what do you know? Have you had your child taken away from you?”
“I know what it’s like to lose a family member. You’re not the only one.”
An awkward silence encircled them. Meredith placed the cup down on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “The accident that killed your son… My husband… He wasn’t right. His mind was…” she cleared her throat. “What I’m trying to say is that I know how you must be feeling. If there’s anything I can do-”
“May I use your bathroom?” Hanna said, getting up and blinking away tears.
“Of course. It’s just down the hall to your left.”
“Thank you.”
On her way back from the bathroom, Hanna stopped in the kitchen and picked out the biggest knife in the drawer. She packed it in the back pocket of her jeans, and returned to the sofa.
“I’m not here to talk about my son,” Hanna said, smiling. “What I have a problem with is your son’s constant visits with my husband.”
Meredith picked up the brew and drank. “And that’s a problem? How?”
“It’s unhealthy for Brian to be reminded of Gus.”
“Why do you think it’s unhealthy?” Meredith asked, sensing something awry with Hanna’s posture.
“Spending that much time with a kid that’s not his own, will have him half believing that child is his,” Hanna said. “That’s not what I want, especially with the state of mind he’s in. He’s not well.”
“I spoke to Morgan about this this morning. You think I want my boy hanging around that husband of yours? I see him smoking all the time, and let’s not talk about the smell of drink on him. It’s not like I can stop him. He’s a kid, a smart one at that. No matter what I say, if he wants to spend time with your husband, he’ll find a way.”
“Your son is reminding him of Gus. He’s an alcoholic. It’s making him drink even more.”
“That’s not my problem. Do you know what I think the real issue is?”
The shadows on the floor appeared life-like, almost human in form. As the light spilled in from the windows, it cast a strange oblong figure, pitch-black and hulking. The shadow stretched from Meredith, attached to her feet as it stretched across the room. Hanna tightened her grip on the knife.
“If my son was still alive, would this even be an issue?”
Meredith stopped drinking. “I think you’re making excuses for yourself.”
“If your husband hadn’t killed himself, and my son, it wouldn’t be a problem. Would it?” Hanna said, voice rising in anger.
Meredith shot a look at the front door, the coffee table, and then, back to the guest in her home—a guest that was unwelcome, and the more Hanna spoke, Meredith regretted her decision of inviting her in.
“Look I’m sorry for what happened in the past, but the past is the past. I can’t change it. No one can. If I could, I would. I said, I was sorry. What more do you want?”
Hanna stood up. “I’ve heard enough. I’m leaving.”
“No, wait.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have come here. This was a bad idea.”
Meredith stood up, also. “Please, stay,” she said, putting down the cup on the table. That’s when Hanna went for the throat. She pulled out the knife and sprung on Meredith. It was one quick motion, but Meredith’s reflexes were as sharp as the blade, and she leapt backwards out of range of the whistling blade that sliced through the air.
Hanna jumped over the table and landed on top of Meredith. The second and third slice made contact, opening flesh like peach skin. Meredith screamed, holding out her arms in a defensive posture, the knife slitting open her upraised hands. Blood spurted down on her face.
“Stop! Help! Stop it!” Meredith wailed, sobbing with tears. “Why are you doing this?”
There was no why. It just was. Her neighbor was killing
her.
“You fucking bitch!” Hanna yowled, full of anger. She worked frenziedly. “How can I fix it for you? How can you fix it for me? Get a taste of this blade, you cunt!” The knife slammed down over and over again. The blade struck her breasts, arms, abdomen as Meredith tried to wriggle out from the death grasp. Her lungs filled up with fluid. The white blouse she wore was drenched in blood. She could feel the life sapping out of her as the blade plunged deep, again, striking her collarbone and loosening the skin there so it dangled. Meredith howled, screaming one horrible roar and kicked out both legs, connecting Hanna in the gut. She went down hard. Meredith toppled backwards and crawled around the table to the sofa.
Fresh drizzles of blood rained on the carpet. She looked over her shoulder to see where her attacker was (back on her feet with the knife, advancing), splattering blood on the remote control, coaster, and insect-fog killer. Blood sprayed in splotches from her numerous wounds. A single drop of blood landed in the cup of tea, fading like water paint.
Meredith screamed, voice boiling up like a vat, as she gripped the fog killer off the table. She crawled around the sofa, hands to knees, fast. She felt Hanna grab her hair and pull. Her neck strained, muscles exposing, as she turned around, screeching at the top of her lungs. She pulled the tab off the canister and depressed the nozzle. The can of insect killer exploded open, fizzing out a streamlined shot of noxious vapors.
Meredith aimed the fogger directly into Hanna’s face. Hanna inhaled, before shrieking herself as she reeled back, wincing and coughing, pulling her arms up to protect herself. She counterbalanced and tottered, tripping over the table, and landing on her head. Meredith stumbled, staggering as she weaved past the furniture and dropped on top of her neighbor. She was going to kill me, Meredith thought, unable to believe it. The bitch was about to kill me!
Meredith bent down, incredulous vehemence corrugating her mind. Her hands played on their own, acting a winning performance. Then she took the fogger and smashed it over Hanna’s head until she passed out. Then, those same fingers pried open Hanna’s jaw and jammed the insect fogger into her mouth.
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