He had no regrets over being at home with Emily, none at all. This was a once in a lifetime chance, and she was his light in the dark. Yet still, sometimes, he wanted to feel appreciated, not like a maid or indentured servant. He wanted to feel that what he was doing was important, and more than that, that it was noticed. He wanted to feel that he wasn’t just a slave. But they had made the decision together, Lillian and him. And it was done.
He swallowed his resentment and kept searching the garage. To the right of the table, hanging from a hook in the rafters was a green, external frame backpack designed for long trips, covered in a myriad of state park patches. Beside it on a wooden shelf was an aluminum camp stove and five bottles of propane. He picked one up, checked to be sure Emily was still beside him, and gave it a shake. Emily reached for the bottle wanting to help.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“’Mon. Pweeese, Dada. Pweeese. I help.”
“How about this?” He went to where they’d stacked several cases of Costco water and handed her a couple of bottles. “You’d be a big help if you carried these for Daddy.”
“Uh huh.” She took four bottles in her arms, hugging them tight and wobbling side to side as they went back into the kitchen. “Whoa whoa,” she howled, acting as if she were going to fall over.
Ryan gave a joyless grin and set the candle, stove, and propane on the counter. He took the bottles from Emily, filled a pot with water, connected the fuel to the stove and put the pot atop the blue flame. He ripped open the bag of rice, exposing slender grains of basmati to the air for the first time in ages, took a questionable sniff and then waited. There was no scent, good or bad. He took this as a positive sign.
“Cookin’ rice, that’s right, we’re cookin’ rice,” he sang with no specific melody. “So we can eat and sleep and get some rest.” He eyed the bottle of single malt scotch on the counter and had a moment of prescience. That bottle and he would be together in the near future. “Mmmmhmmm. Nom nom nom. Cookin’ rice, for dinner.” He tossed a dash of salt into the pot, brought it to a boil, added the rice and covered it, reducing the heat to keep it from boiling over.
Emily cried off and on, rubbing her eyes and pouting. Dinner was not happening quick enough for her liking. A couple of times she moved to run off into the dark and play, thought better of it and turned around as soon as she hit the edge of the candle’s reach.
Next up, Ryan found a mostly clean sippy cup in the cabinet, poured a couple drops of bleach into it, shook it up, and rinsed it out. After he was sure the bleach was gone he filled the cup with water and a dusting of Kool-Aid mix he found nestled against a petrified Twinkie.
“Here you go, babe.”
She took the cup and drank greedily, not bothering to smile around the nipple. He filled her cup once again, and drank a bottle of water himself. He noticed the howling of the dogs had finally ceased. That was something. Night had come in fullness and they’d gone off to rest, or in search for easier prey. He wanted to do the same but a place to sleep had to be found first. Then, after he closed his eyes and rested, he’d wake from this nightmare and go back to business as usual. The life of an exhausted stay-at-home dad.
“What do you say we take a look around the house?” he suggested.
Emily stared up at him, eyes wide and clung to his leg. “It’s dark. Light.” And it was dark, very dark. Only the light of the candle and burning, blue propane allowed them to see anything at all. The shadows, as the light danced and the tiny flame flickered, made specters out of every angle of countertop, old box of crackers, or derelict toy left in the room. The wind kicked up again and a gentle breath howled its way up the entry hall, buffeting the candle. For a moment he thought it might flicker out and leave them grasping in the void.
Ryan took up the candle, using one palm as a wind shield. He patted his pocket, checking to be sure the lighter was still there. “It’s okay, Emme. Daddy’s with you. There is nothing in here that can hurt you.”
As they explored the depths of their no longer familiar home, the shadowy spirits writhed and wriggled, making their presence known, “You are welcome in the land between life and death.”
Chapter 5
Ryan and Lillian had been lucky enough to get scholarships and student loans to fund their advanced academic pursuits—a PHD in Computer Sciences and a double Master in Microbiology and Psychology. Between them, they had nearly sixteen years of core classes, undergrad and graduate school, countless electives and five internships. Their minds, as one, could solve the most complicated social and abstract issues facing humanity in the 21st Century. Climate change? No problem. The energy crisis? Easy enough. Religion? Sure. Economics? Forget about it. But when school was done and it was time to become a regular, everyday over-educated middle class citizen, the cost of buying a home in St. Louis was no less of a shock. For all the knowledge they had guiltily pursued, they knew little of living in the “real” world.
This was their wakeup call.
Long ago they’d decided if they were going to go to school for as long as they’d planned, that they were going to get out of life what they wanted. They wanted a colorful existence, possibly have a family, and of course, their home be centered somewhere within the realm of cool. Years earlier, revitalization had come to the Delmar Loop district of St. Louis, gentrifying several areas that had once piqued their interest. So they started looking.
During the early stages of house hunting, all they managed to uncover were overpriced brick homes sorely in need of an HGTV makeover. Dilapidated structures that reeked of old socks, burned pasta and mothballs. In the meantime, they lived with Ryan’s parents, the late twenties, post-grad mooches they were. While Ryan worked for Innovative Software and Technical Development as a software engineer, Lillian counted diff plates at night for a small medical research lab just outside of town. They saved all their money, ferreting away nearly a year’s salary in less than eight months. And then, they found it. The house. The one. The place they knew they wanted to live for the rest of their lives.
And it looked like shit. Shit with shingles.
Over the next few months, with the help of Ryan’s family and a few friends they’d made along the way, they gutted their dream house—a five bedroom, two story, arts and crafts style home with a front porch and brick, built circa 1915 on the only fifth-acre lot on the street. Being that it was a foreclosure, and in terrible condition even before that, the price was only a fraction of what it should have been fully restored. And so restore it they did, tearing down interior walls, replacing the plumbing and wiring, and working from the skeleton back up, to build a lasting dream together.
In their early marriage, they shed much blood from mis-hammered nails, sweat the result of working till 2 A.M. with jobs the next day, and tears of exhaustion, investing their hearts and leaving a piece of their souls to imbue this place. No matter how much time passed, so long as this place stood, a part of them would always be alive.
This place was home. It would always be home.
As Ryan worked his way through the living room, around their now-dilapidated microfiber couch and a set of torn leather arm chairs into the master, he could feel those parts of their souls pulsing. He could feel Lillian watching him from within the peeling wallpaper. Her influence was everywhere, in everything lurking just at the edge of candlelight—a picture frame positioned on the wall beside the entertainment center, a curtain hung before a window. Yet none of this brought him comfort. The stench of this place, the darkness that had swallowed it, adulterated the purity of their actions. Everything felt wrong. The wind howled against the house, making it sound much as it had that fateful day a haggard real estate professional showed them this beautiful wreck for the first time. But this time, he would be running off the rats without help.
Something slammed upstairs, making him jump out of his skin.
Emily shuffled forward. “Mama, eat eat, gone,” she said. “No like. Light, Dada, light.”
&n
bsp; “I don’t have any light. Just the candle.”
“Light.” She urged him to follow her orders by shoving on his leg. “Shew. Shew. Light.”
“We don’t have any light, baby, look.” He flipped the switch in the master bedroom. Nothing happened. “No light. Just the candle.”
“Candle? Light.” She lowered her head and pouted. “I want a light, Dada. I want a light.”
“Me too, but we don’t have one.”
“It’s my light.” She strained to flip the light switch, coming nowhere close to the switch plate.
He sighed and tried not to let her ill attitude erode his fragile countenance. They had to find a place to sleep, that came first. Eat some food, go to bed, work it out in the morning. Unless it’s a dream. Then celebrate. Perhaps with more wine.
The master bedroom felt damp. He ran a hand over the old sheets and found they were wet. Insects had eaten away part of the comforter and pillows, leaving them riddled with holes. Wind curled around the house and rustled what was left of the curtains, causing the candle to flicker. One of the windows in was busted. Ryan led them back out into the living room and closed the door. That was no good.
He led them upstairs, where the air felt dryer, and was forced to fumble in the dark with the baby gate at the summit. “Come on,” he groaned, the latch protesting. “Last time I get a cheap one just to save a few bucks.” The gate clicked open and he stumbled forward, his right ankle starting to hurt. “Geez, it’s gonna swell.” He closed the gate again, winced at a stab of pain.
They took a peek in Emily’s room. As far as he could tell it was clean and dry by comparison. Emily wanted to stay and play, but he led the light away and she followed like a moth. He stuck his head inside the office, wan yellow light bathing his computer desks and a photo of Lillian—comically stretched out across the desks from just after they’d moved in like a model against a high-end car. Nothing had been disturbed and the air, dry. That was good news.
The banging returned, as did the raking claws of tree branches on shingles. The wind picked up as if a storm might be moving in. Emily demanded to be carried. He fumbled with the baby gate once more, this time having to hold the candle’s base between his teeth to free a hand. After a moment he said screw it and left the gate open. He descended, Emily slung over his shoulder with the candle in his other hand. He could now smell the cooking rice and it made him hungry. Setting the candle back on the counter, he checked the rice’s progress, stirring the pot to be sure it didn’t stick. He’d burned a pot to oblivion once by leaving it like that for too long.
“Almost done. Then we can eat.”
He sunk to sit on the kitchen floor, despite the sticky filth and blown in dead leaves, and gave Emily refuge in the harbor of his lap. He brushed her hair with his fingers and kept one arm tight around her middle, feeling her every breath against him, rising and falling like waves in a swell. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep, replacing her babbles with that of the sound of sawing logs.
Wind howled outside, trees rustled and creaked, the propane stove hissed and the rice bubbled.
He felt himself getting sleepy, every muscle weighed down with the events of the day. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest. Just a moment.
A slam! woke him from unconsciousness. He nearly leapt to his feet in search of a weapon but Emily was fast asleep against him. He smelt something acrid from above his head on the kitchen island, scooped Emily up and checked.
The water had boiled away and the rice was burning. He clicked off the heat and did his best to stir one-handed. Emily, face covered in drool, limp in his arms, did nothing to make this easier. He readjusted her, went to find some clean-enough plates and set them on the island. He scooped out what rice was still good. He blew on Emily’s dinner, stuck a finger in it to test the temperature, and set it down.
“Emme. Sweet Emme,” he sang softly and rubbed her head. “It’s time to eat, sunshine. Time to eat eat so we can sleep sleep.”
She cracked open an eye, looked annoyed, and yawned. He took them over to the kitchen table, cleared away a pile of decaying bills, and found a seat, Emily in his lap. He sniffed several times and dug in. The two of them ate greedily, though the rice tasted awful. Ryan hoped it wouldn’t make them sick. It had smelled okay, and had been cooked more than long enough, but he wasn’t so sure it had been a super idea.
He desperately shoveled rice in his mouth, fork hand shaking. His view of Emily and the room was growing blurry.
Emily finished her plate, wanted more, and ate another serving. He did the same, eager to fill the time. The pot was empty.
“Good?” he asked, pressing his lips together.
She looked up at him but said nothing, her eyes red and features slack. Even in his lap she wobbled as if she might fall over.
“I think it’s time to turn in. What do you say?”
Despite a twinge of regret, he left dishes where they were, creating an even bigger mess. He led the two of them upstairs into Emily’s room, first stopping to procure the bottle of scotch. He fumbled to close the open baby gate and make it safe for her to roam.
He left her alone in her room for a minute, closing the door so she couldn't get out, and went to the hall closet. Feeling around in the dark, he searched for something kept in case of times like this, fingers soon digging into a soft roll of fabric. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of dust and dirt, of faint sweat and of burning hickory. It summoned all sorts of vivid memories, of dark fires and stick-roasted hot dogs, marshmallows and chocolate, of scary stories and skies bursting with stars, of cool nights kept warm by company.
He reentered the room, Emily clearly distressed, and laid the sleeping bag out in the middle. They used a few old towels as pillows. He set the bottle of scotch to his right, and Emily curled up against him on the left. It wasn’t long before she was asleep, her breathing having become slow and regular.
He opened the bottle and took a drink.
Lawrence had always given good advice. He wondered what Lawrence would say about now. Having lost his mother at a terrible time, he had a great deal to say about loss.
It’s easy to deal with grief if you can just keep busy. So long as the mind is fixed on something specific it can do well at forgetting the woes and imbalances of the world. That’s why teenage boys that don’t have girlfriends find other interests. Why adult men, when a friend or family member dies, go hunting or get drunk. That’s why we go out and find a new partner after a breakup. When facing the grief, the dark voids in our hearts, its cold seeps in. Let it seep in too deep, for too long, and we become not merely touched by it, but infected with it.
Next, Ryan knew, he would start not to feel, because feeling can only be done for so long. Pain is not something people want, not something he wanted; emptiness isn’t something we need. We’re social creatures, creatures of connection and passion, of desire and exploration. Ryan was one of these people, and Lillian had been one of these people. Ryan shook the thought away, tried to think objectively again, because thinking on a bigger scale meant he wasn’t alone.
And so, when we cannot alleviate the source of our woes, we let our mind do what it does best. We keep ourselves busy. Distracted.
He took another drink. There was nothing to be done.
The wind continued to howl, whipping the trees more harshly against the house with each more powerful gust.
And in that silent, empty moment, Ryan knew what was going on. This was no dream. It might have been debatable if it was a nightmare, but who would he debate with? Emily?
This was reality. The new reality.
He took up Lillian’s note and read it again.
Ryan, I don’t know how to say this, but by the time you read this everyone will be dead, even me.
He took another drink and let it burn his throat, a dark glow filling his body. He traced the letters with fingertips, envisioning Lillian’s face as she wrote her departing missive.
I want you to know
that I’m sorry I can’t come with you, but there was only enough space for two. Please, know that I love you and that the reason I chose you over myself for Emily, is that I knew you would be the better parent. You would do better to take care of her than I ever could.
His eyes began to sting. His shoulders jerked. He set the bottle down and corked it.
I love you both, please know that. I left a few messages on the phone for you. It might not even work by the time you find it, but if it does, watch them.
He laid there for a long time, listening to the wind whistle against his broken home and his broken life. He watched his beautiful daughter sleep, reflecting back at him the face of his wife. He could hear the howl of the dogs in the distance. Hear the sound of some other animal screaming in the trees. He could hear the slamming of a broken shutter not so far away, and a tiny rustling, rats scurrying through the walls.
Gently, he placed a kiss on his daughter’s forehead and caressed her chubby cheek with his fingertips.
“Good night, Emme. Good night, Lili.”
He blew out the candle and embraced darkness, squeezing his daughter tight against him. This was real, really real. He was all that could keep them alive.
Chapter 6
“She left again. She left in that fucking BMW and drove off with him.”
“Whoa whoa whoa, buddy, your kid.”
Ryan looked down at Emily who was quietly stacking Duplo Legos atop the rug before his big screen TV. She hadn’t seemed to notice the usage of the word, but she was impressionable.
The Two That Remained Page 4