Everybody's Daughter

by Michael John Sullivan

  “Everyone, please stand,” Dennis said.

  Michael rose like a robot as Susan sang along with the choir, her voice a pleasant interlude from his hidden turmoil. After the service ended, they walked out into the frigid air.

  Black Friday clearance specials enticed shoppers to the streets while the firemen decorated Main Street in anticipation of Santa’s arrival after the town’s Christmas tree lighting.

  As they followed the hearse in a black limousine, Mrs. Farmer dabbed a few tears away with a pink tissue. She held onto Michael’s arm as they arrived at the cemetery. The rows of headstones chilled his spine as he helped her out of the car.

  Dennis led them up a hill to a spot near a copse of trees. A cold wind smattered him in the face as the trees’ vacant branches crackled back and forth. Dennis concluded the service with a prayer and the casket was lowered into the ground. Mrs. Farmer wept as Michael wrapped his arms around her for comfort. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said.

  They remained quiet on the trip back to Northport as Mrs. Farmer stared out the window. Michael was lost in his own thoughts.

  Why are we here? What is the purpose? Am I here now for Mrs. Farmer? Is this the reason why I was able to get back and Elizabeth hasn’t? Maybe God has a plan for Elizabeth there? What is the plan? Can you tell me, Lord?

  He was distracted by the sights and sounds of the town’s holiday celebrations. Men hoisted lights up onto the roof of the firehouse while vendors handed out hot chocolate and cookies.

  After bringing Mrs. Farmer back to her home, Michael asked Susan to take him to the church.

  “You’re not going to go postal in the basement again, are you?” she asked.

  He didn’t respond, distracted by a motorcycle speeding away from the church parking lot. “Where’s he going?”

  “Who?”

  “Dennis. Follow him. I need to ask him if I can have the book.”

  “Can’t we wait?”

  “No. He does this every Friday afternoon. He disappears sometimes for the rest of the day. I have to see the book now. I don’t have time to search around for it and I don’t know where he keeps it.”

  “I’m not going to be able to catch up with him on that Harley.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “All right. Do you know where he might be going?” Susan asked.

  “If I knew that, then I would just give you the address.”

  She gave him an irritated look. “Call his cell.”

  “He won’t hear his phone driving that noise machine.”

  Dennis drove onto the Northern State Parkway. It was only a couple of exits before he got off and pulled into a crowded parking lot. The black and white lettering – Mental Health Institution – stood out against the tall, five-sided stale yellow brick building that overshadowed two other small structures. Dennis utilized the narrow parking space up front while Michael whirled around the lot twice before finding a spot.

  “Wonder who he’s visiting here?” she said.

  “No idea. Stay here,” Michael said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You sure you …” Before she could finish the question, Michael barreled through the main door.

  The reception area was serene with soft music playing in the background. A woman wearing a bright red headband was answering the phone behind a black, wooden desk. She flashed a big smile as she hung up. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I was supposed to meet my friend here, Dennis. I saw him come through this way. Can you tell me where he’s gone?”

  “Oh, you mean Pastor Dennis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please sign the sheet and I’ll give you a visitor’s pass.”

  Michael became visitor number 328. He stuck the sticker on his jacket.

  “Through those glass doors you’ll see a bank of elevators on the left,” the receptionist said. “Take it to the second floor. Pastor is visiting his friend in room 217.”

  As the door opened, he heard weeping sounds coming from down the hallway. He took a few feeble steps, bothered by the profound squeakiness of his sneakers. The number 217 was painted in black above the door frame. The crying was more audible as he slanted his head at an angle to look inside. Two men were holding each other, standing, and appeared to be grieving. He recognized Dennis’ long hair.

  “My son, I hope you can forgive me,” Dennis said.

  “Pastor, it wasn’t your fault. Please let it go. I was looking for someone to blame. It’s why I said that. But I’ve taken responsibility now. It’s been a long time since I’ve accepted it.”

  “I know. It’s just that at this time of the year it bothers me more. You are a wonderful friend. I thank you for your forgiveness.”

  The embrace ended and the men stepped back from each other.

  Michael’s knees felt like jelly and he almost dropped to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. He thought his heart would race right out of his chest. He clenched his hands into fists and stormed to the elevator. He rushed past the front desk in the lobby. “Is everything all right?” inquired the receptionist.

  He didn’t answer and instead sprinted to Susan’s car. “Go home. Now.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Is something wrong with the pastor?”

  “I have to talk to him alone.”

  Susan saw the determination and seriousness in his stance. She didn’t question him any further and left.

  Michael stood near the door with his arms folded and watched the sun start to give up its strongest light of the day. It was an hour before Dennis strolled past him. “Hello, Pastor.”

  “Michael?” he said as he spun around. “You scared me. What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, Pastor.”

  He tapped Michael on the shoulder. “What’s with calling me Pastor?”

  “Pastor, you haven’t answered my question.”

  Dennis avoided Michael’s glare. “I’m here to help a friend.”

  “Is this where you go every Friday?”

  Dennis stepped back. “Is that important to you?”

  “You might say so.” Michael took a few steps toward Dennis, his arms still folded over his pounding chest. “When someone passes themselves off as my friend and I see them hugging the punk that killed my wife, I’d say it’s important to me.”

  “Were you spying on me?”

  “No. I was here to ask you for the book. But I’m glad I followed you.” He clenched his fists. “Or should I call you Judas?”

  “You had no right to follow me and listen in on our conversation.”

  “No right? The pastor or so-called friend of mine spends his Fridays consoling the monster who ruined my life, took away Elizabeth’s mother and you say I have no right?” Michael raised his voice. “I don’t know what planet or even century you come from, Pastor, but I would say you are the lowest of the low.”

  Michael stood directly in front of him, his face hot with anger, inches away from Dennis. “I should punch you right now. I’d go to hell I guess for striking a man of God. But it might be worth it to do so.”

  He pulled out a coin and showed it to Dennis. “Maybe I should give you this.” Michael slapped the blood money into Dennis’ palm.

  Dennis closed his hand around the coin. “You need to forgive, Michael. You need to know that this person you have spent so much time hating made a mistake.”

  “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? We’ve changed the meaning of killing to a mistake. Well, let’s all hold hands, sing Kumbaya and watch the doves fly above us. That punk deserves to die.”

  Dennis shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. He has much love to give. He’s shown it to me. He deserves your forgiveness. He has given me his.”

  “Excuse me?” Michael threw his arms up in the air. “He’s given you his? And why do you need his forgiveness?”

  Dennis took
a deep breath. “I should have told you sooner. You deserve the truth.”

  “The truth seems to be absent here.”

  “Not anymore.” Dennis leaned against the building. “I know how terrible it was the night your wife died. Do you remember the article about the accident in the newspaper?”

  “I remember every horrid detail.”

  “Do you remember what Robert said?”

  “Yeah, he blamed everything and everybody that night. The weather, the road, how dark it was. The truck with the high beams on the other side that blinded him. So what? The cops never verified any of this.”

  “No, they didn’t. And couldn’t.” Dennis lowered his head. “The guy driving the truck was me. And I did have my high beams on. Maybe I did blind him. I wasn’t paying attention to the other side of the road.”

  Michael staggered a few steps back and didn’t respond. He glared for a few seconds and walked back to him, grabbing the collar of Dennis’ coat. “What? Are you saying you had something to do with my wife’s death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Michael tightened his grip, taking deep breaths, trying to control his rage. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to. But I wanted to help you heal first.” He could see Dennis’ throat working. “I wanted to support you and Elizabeth. Help you both move forward and –”

  “Stop with that healing crap,” he shouted. “Don’t say my daughter’s name, you lying hypocrite.” He pushed Dennis against the building and walked away.

  “Michael, I made a mistake,” Dennis called out. “I’ve asked Him for forgiveness. I ask you.”

  “Keep the coin, Judas.”

  * * *

  A few hours later Michael was back at the church. Exhausted but filled with adrenaline surging through his body, he hurried to the basement. Small pieces of cement still lay on the floor where he had swung his ax. He fell, sweeping away the debris with his hands. “Lord, help me. Show me the way back to Jerusalem. Help me bring Elizabeth home. I’m begging.”

  He stared at the old, gray floor, hoping for a miracle, holding his aching head, rocking back and forth like he did in bed as a child, trying to fall asleep at night.

  No miracle arrived. No sign was given.

  How can I change this? What do I have to do?

  He cupped his hands over his eyes for a brief second, then swung at the ground, yelling. “Open! Open now!” His anger echoed up the steps and into the church.

  “Michael,” Dennis said, catching his breath after running down the stairs. “I know I’m the last person you want to see but let me help you.” He held out his hand.

  Michael swatted it away. “Stay away from me.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Michael didn’t say a word, numb from all the honesty.

  “I’ll stay with you all night if it’s necessary.” Dennis sat beside him. “I don’t know why this has happened. But after reading about some of the situations the previous pastors have described, perhaps there are reasons for it. Maybe there’s a reason why both of us are together now. Maybe we were brought together for a higher purpose.”

  ”I don’t care about some stupid higher purpose right now. How can you even sit here with me?”

  “It’s the only thing I know how to do. It’s why I became a pastor. I’m trying to seek forgiveness like many.”

  Michael didn’t respond.

  “I’m trying to forgive myself like you are.”

  Michael stood. “Your problems are the least of my concern right now.”

  “I understand. But I believe we are being connected to each other for another miracle. There has to be a reason for all this.”

  “Are you saying you believe something more might happen?”

  “What I’m saying is I don’t believe your journey is finished.”

  There was a period of silence between the two for what seemed like several minutes. In reality, it lasted a few seconds. “How can I believe anything you tell me?” Michael asked.

  “Let’s put our animosity aside. You don’t have to forgive me. You can hate me and end our friendship. But for now, let me help you try to find Elizabeth.”

  Michael took a few steps toward the stairs.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand the diary,” Dennis continued. “I’m starting to see a pattern of sorts. I think I’ve discovered at least one.”

  Michael stopped as he put his foot on the stairs and turned around. “Are you trying to suck up to me now that I know the truth about you?”

  “This has nothing to do with what I told you about myself. We need to put that aside.” He held out his hand. “Truce for now?”

  Michael stared at his hand for a few seconds. He put his own hand in his pocket. “How will I know when it’ll happen?”

  Dennis put his arm down. “I haven’t been able to figure that part out. But there hasn’t been a night where I haven’t fallen asleep reading and re-reading it.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Michael asked, anger lingering in his gut. “I wonder what your motives are. Do you want my forgiveness?”

  Dennis’ eyes filled with regret. “You don’t have to trust me as a friend. But I can help you as a pastor. I believe your story and I know I can help you,” he said, his tone solemn. “I’ll go through the book again. While I do this, would you please do me a favor?”

  Michael looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “You have some nerve asking me for a favor. What do you want?”

  “Can you stop by Mrs. Farmer’s house and pick up something she’s giving to the church?”

  Michael clenched his jaw tight. “Do I have a choice?”

  “We all have choices.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Michael stood in the doorway of the living room, ignoring the cup of tea and biscuits Mrs. Farmer put in his hands.

  “Sit down, Michael.”

  “I can’t. I’m a mess, Mrs. Farmer.”

  “Please. Call me Cecilia.” She poured herself a cup of tea and dropped a cube of sugar in it. She looked up and he felt her intense stare as she stirred her tea. “I’ve lived long enough to see enough pain to know when someone is bottling up their agony.”

  “How are you able to stay so strong?”

  “I’m not.” She took a sip from her cup. “I’ve cried a great deal. But anger wears you down, takes away your energy.”

  “Then I have no energy.”

  “You should be angry, Michael. Your daughter is so young. I have no reason to be upset. We’ve had a wonderful, long life here. Now it’s time for me to honor George’s life by smiling every day.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “You just do.” She placed her hand over her heart. “He’ll always be here.”

  She smiled, her eyes filled with understanding. “I know George would be upset with me if I wasted precious moments, crying and being sad. I remember him telling me after he was gone to dress him in his dungarees, sweatshirt, sneakers, hat and winter coat and put him in the garbage can out front.” She laughed. “He told me to make sure to tip the garbage men because he was such a load to pick up.” She shook her head, smiling. “But he would also say ‘I’m worth the tip.’”

  She laughed harder. He wasn’t sure how to respond to the story. Taking a small bite out of a biscuit, she asked, “Has there been any news about your daughter?”

  “No. The police are still looking for her.” He blew out an aggravated breath. “I feel helpless.”

  She stood. “Stay here.” She made her way up the stairs slowly, holding onto the railing, each step defined with its own unique creak.

  He walked to the stairway and waited at the bottom to ensure she didn’t fall. He heard her rummaging through a closet, pushing boxes on the floor.

  “Do you need any help?” he called up to her.

  “No. I’m fine. Have some tea and a biscuit. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  He shrugged, wishing he could get back to the c
hurch and dig. He crept back into the living room, intent on examining George and Cecilia’s pictures. Many of them looked to be about twenty or thirty years old, including one of them holding hands on Crab Meadow Beach, much like he and Vicki used to do when they first got married. Why did we stop doing that?

  He turned to his right to glance again at the picture that hung on the far end of the wall in the dimmest part of the room. I have to look at this again. What is it? He put his fingers on the picture, feeling the texture and outline of the images. He turned his fingers sideway as he scanned the top, then the bottom. This is so bizarre.

  Men and women ran in a field filled with tall grass, surrounded by mountains. Many of them carried a small clothed figure. Their faces expressed horror as red lines dripped down. One man in the painting was dressed in armor, his head encased in a helmet and his arms holding a spear. There was another red line protruding from his weapon.

  Michael focused on the man in armor.

  He looks like a Roman soldier. Is it possible? No, it couldn’t be.

  “You are fascinated by that picture, aren’t you?” Cecilia said from behind him.

  “It’s interesting. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of it.”

  “I didn’t want to hang that picture. But George insisted. So I told him to put the darn thing all the way over there. He said it reminded him about the value of life.”

  Michael’s eyes stayed with the painting. “Did he ever talk about why he drew this particular scene?”

  “When I asked him the same question, he said he painted what he experienced.”

  His heart beat a little faster. “How could he live through something like that?”

  “I think he lived through it in his imagination.” She sat in her chair and poured some more tea for herself. “He was gifted that way.”

  “He certainly had an artistic gift. I think artists place themselves into situations whether fiction or non-fiction and paint or write their point of view so that people can feel as if they were there.”