“Perhaps,” the lead doctor had told reporters, “Mrs. Roseworth is deeply troubled.”
The article explained how that quote was prominently featured in the ad campaign for the eventual movie that followed. Next to the paragraph was the poster for the film adaptation of the international bestseller, The Senator’s Wife, showing a beautiful British actress in her mid-sixties—who’d mastered a southern accent enough to land her an Oscar nomination—standing in the snow, thrusting out a pistol and holding tight to a red-haired boy while a looming shadow of a massive alien fell upon her.
In quotes at the bottom of the dramatic scene were the words, “Perhaps Mrs. Roseworth is deeply troubled.”
The official government report was equally as damning. It prominently listed the cost of the occupation of Argentum as more than $10 million, resulting in no proof of any extraterrestrial life or abductions. It also cited repeatedly that neither Lynn Roseworth nor her companions, Roxy Garth and Don Rush, would agree to interviews with government investigators.
When reporters confirmed that Don had, in fact, been reported missing decades ago, and that the trail led to his sister, Barbara, who had already been revealed to be a UFO researcher, the condemnation by lawmakers had been swift and merciless.
“LYNN’S LIES,” read the subhead, as the article continued. Congressional inquiries followed, in which Lynn and her companions invoked the Fifth Amendment.
“What we are seeing is a sick, twisted ploy by this obviously troubled woman to use her grandson to inflame the public into believing something that simply isn’t true, and costing taxpayers millions of dollars,” said Senator Jake Hondal, the chairman of Senate Appropriations Committee, following the conclusion of the last hearing. “It is the belief of this committee that Mrs. Roseworth staged her own grandson’s disappearance using her equally troubled friends to pull it off. It is, in my opinion, one of the great scams of the 21st century. It is no wonder why Senator Tom Roseworth had made his decision.”
A photograph of Grandpa Tom at a podium, looking weary, was included. He was announcing his retirement from the Senate. After thanking the Democratic Party for inviting him to be part of the presidential ticket, and declaring his love for the country and Tennessee, his grandfather made a statement that sucked the air out of the room.
“And let me be clear on this: I believe my wife.”
It was the last public remarks the retired senator ever made, the article noted.
The senator and his wife both refused repeated interview requests, even when his middle daughter and former chief of staff, Kate Roseworth, once again ignited the controversy by announcing she would seek to fill her father’s seat.
Another photograph showed his Aunt Kate at the first press conference announcing her decision, her blond hair pulled back, glasses on her beautiful face. “As for my mother and father’s claims, I will only address this once and never again: I love my family. Nothing will ever change that. But I have read the government’s investigations. I have spoken to the director of the hospital in Colorado. Let me be clear: I do not subscribe to my family’s theories about my nephew’s disappearance. And I never will.”
“THE ROSEWORTHS’ THORN,” read the next subhead, followed by how his Aunt Kate barely won the election. And how, in the past decade, she slowly had become just as influential in Congress as her father, despite the fact that he never campaigned with her. Multiple sources confirmed privately that she was estranged from her family.
At last, a slice of truth in this article, William thought.
He grimaced at what followed. Another subhead: “WILD WILLIAM.”
He started to skim. The familiar photographs were republished: him drunk at fifteen, being carried out of a bar by his brothers; his face reflected in police lights after being pulled over for riding a motorcycle that later proved to be stolen by a friend; and the tabloid favorite shot of him nearly naked, sleeping in that college girl’s bed.
His fingers laced behind his head, he began to pace. The tingling had already started in his fingertips. He tried to ignore the trembling, the heaviness in his chest.
Inside the fridge was the remainder of the Rolling Rock. He was so thirsty that he could slam three or four easily. The other option was the horribly beat-up and dirty pair of running shoes by the door.
Drunk or run? Drunk or run?
He had about a minute to decide before the panic attack was in full swing.
* * *
After a six-mile run and a day spent mowing lawns in the heat of a Little Rock summer, he showered till he couldn’t stand the cold water anymore. He’d hoped the running would kill the anxiety, at the very least give it a decent wound. But with every heel strike on the dirt roads among the cotton fields—he didn’t dare run anywhere where someone might drive by—he’d think about the magazine article. Even after a freezing shower, the embers of worry still churned hot.
William knows he suffers from extreme anxiety, his longtime therapist had advised his parents. He’s still battling trust issues.
That emergency family session was supposed to be a turning point after he had to be rushed to the emergency room when he felt like he was having a heart attack and couldn’t breathe. He remembered the looks of fear on his parents’ faces, and it both crushed and comforted him. It wasn’t that they overtly coddled or spoiled him or his brothers, but they had stood on the cliffs of utter despair once and had never truly recovered themselves. After all, their youngest child had disappeared for nearly six months; and their middle child, Brian, who had witnessed the disappearance, had become despondent and mute. Greg, their oldest, had sunk into a deep depression.
Even when Nanna brought him back, Brian once again began to speak, and Greg emerged from his cocoon of despair, there was the reality that William didn’t know any of them. His only bond was to his grandmother and Roxy. Even though they too were unfamiliar people to him, Nanna exuded safety, and Roxy made him laugh. It took painful years to learn to trust, and eventually love, the strangers who were his parents, brothers, aunts, and grandfather.
It did not help that his memories of Colorado faded as he aged. Just fragments now, of ever-present snow, the anxiety of not even knowing his name. Of an old woman with a crooked finger who barked commands but gave strong hugs. A strange woman, not as old as the first, showing up and saying she was his grandmother. Running with her in the dark.
And what emerged from it.
Just a sliver of a memory, a shadow that struck him with such horror that he couldn’t breathe. Then, a moment later, a strong feeling of euphoria that replaced the fear with joy. Being jostled away by the nice old woman. The sound of gunshots. Eventually waking up in a stranger’s truck. The lights of the news photographers’ cameras stinging his eyes.
His therapist had advised that his mind was suppressing whatever trauma he endured and that, in time, he might find clarity.
He’d repeatedly, over the years, pressed for clarification of his memories. Nanna’s routine response was to say that she, too, was searching for explanations. When she had them, she would tell him.
Once he had lashed out at her, saying if she’d only tell him what happened in Colorado, reveal what she saw and had uncovered in her work since then, then maybe he wouldn’t feel so anxious all the time.
She’d worn a white shirt that day, the collar turned up, her sunglasses resting on the curls on the crown of her head. She’d looked regal to him, like a furious queen.
“That is my burden to bear and mine alone,” she’d said, pointing her finger. “I do not have the answers. But when I do, I will tell you everything. And when my time here on earth is over, you will carry the burden. But I take my vitamins and walk every day and I intend to be here for a long time. So for now, my gift to you is normality. Do not waste these years. At one point, you will long for them. Just as I do.”
William stretched his calf muscle, leaning on the counter, watching the crust of the frozen pizza begin to darken in the oven.
/> You did what you thought was best to protect me, Nanna. Now I’m doing the same for you. Truth be told, I’d give anything to be in your kitchen right now for Sunday dinner.
Mom would be helping add the fried onions to your orzo pasta. Dad would be on his phone, pointing out to Brian and Greg that the Cardinals still had a chance at a wildcard spot if they’d just beat the Reds in the series. Roxy would stand before the pantry for at least five minutes, complaining that it was impossible to find the Doritos with all the gluten-free healthy junk everywhere. Maybe Aunt Stella would FaceTime in from New York, letting everyone know for the hundredth time that the kitchen was bigger than her entire apartment.
The oven dinged.
Just because I dropped out of college doesn’t mean I can’t eat like a college student. William used a heavily stained oven mitt to pull out the pizza. But you’re safe, Nanna. As long as I’m not near you. And that’s what matters.
The pizza clanged on top of the scorched cooktop. After slicing it in half and piling it on a plate, he walked over to the table, looking for the remote. The Cards game would have started by now.
His hand hovered over the power button. Especially after this carb coma and being broke-ass tired, the lull of the announcer would certainly slip him into a deep sleep.
The dreams would be waiting.
Nope. Not yet. Let’s put that off a bit, shall we?
He bypassed the TV to kneel on the floor by the stack of his latest haul from the library. Among all of the techniques his therapist had suggested to combat the anxiety, only two had truly stuck: running and reading. Of every material possession he left behind, he missed his paperback of Huckleberry Finn the most.
After scanning his options and shoveling down the pizza, The Sword of Shannara won the draw. He slumped into the couch, feeling the busted spring jab him in the familiar spot on his right shoulder. It would soon poke through the cloth and give him a wicked scrape. The pillow he’d bought for a dollar at Goodwill was serving as his shield.
Just as Flick Ohmsford’s descent into the valley began, the knock came at the trailer’s cheap metal door.
He strained his neck over to the table. Carlos’s notebook rested there where he had left it. Again.
“You’re killing me, compadre.” He climbed out of the rapidly collapsing couch and snapped up the notebook.
He slumped over to the door, turning the handle. “I swear I’m going to chain this thing to your belt—”
The light outside the door momentarily blinded him. Wincing, the first thing he could see were the professionally bleached teeth of a woman standing with a microphone pointed towards him.
“William Chance? The whole world has been looking for you,” she said, shooting the words at him as fast as major league pitcher.
She licked her lips. “I’m Stephanie Stiller with Hollywoodextra.com. We have been trying to find you for a long time. Let me say what a relief it is to know you’re alive and OK!”
His chest constricted so hard that the woman might as well have reached in and squeezed his heart, her French manicure puncturing the upper chambers. The heavy, humid night air rushed into his lungs as he tried to breathe.
“I only want to be able to tell your side of the story,” she continued, holding the mic closer.
Never slam the door. Whatever you do, don’t slam the door.
That was Aunt Stella’s guiding words after a tabloid videographer had snuck up to the front door of his parents’ home, barking questions on the tenth anniversary of his disappearance. Watch, Stella had instructed, pointing to the video online. It will play a million times on a loop if you get fired up. And for God’s sake, never, ever hit the camera. A slow, painful close of the door makes for bad television. And if you think of it, look sad. Makes people feel for you, and the network gets slammed by angry viewers. It’s why us honest journos never ambush innocent people.
“Please, William, I just need a moment—”
He’d heard the pitch a million times. The request was usually accompanied by, “I want to be fair to you and your family.”
After he slowly closed the door, he rushed to the windows, drawing the vinyl blinds, seeing the photographer outside zooming in on his every move.
Why does this keep happening? he’d lamented to Stella after a janitor at his high school was fired for carrying around a hidden camera. The man had later admitted that a magazine had offered to pay him more for those photos than he would make in a year. When is this ever going to stop?
Blame the genes from your parents, she’d answered, gently holding his face. This mug sells tabloids; it gets ratings, it gets clicks. Sad truth: If you weren’t six foot one with those dimples and built like a swimmer, they’d have lost interest a long time ago. Go eat more donuts.
The girl at the gas station. It had to be.
It was stupid of him to buy that magazine. She’d obviously walked back over to the rack, looked at the issue he’d bought, and quickly put two and two together. The words from the article snuck in like a sucker punch: One entertainment outlet has set up a toll free hotline and a cash reward for any information leading to his whereabouts—
He scrambled for his keys and snatched the phone from the drawer. Knowing the back door creaked, he slowly unlocked it and gingerly stepped down the wobbly wooden stairs leading to the ground.
Creeping around the back to the side of the trailer, he peered around to see the reporter talking excitedly into her phone. “He’s here! He’s inside! We got video!” She was practically shouting while her photographer chewed his gum.
Thankfully, his landlord didn’t spring for exterior lights, so he moved in the dark to the Jeep. He awkwardly climbed over the stick shift and shoved the key into the ignition.
Knowing the photographer could be focused in on him in a second, he fired up the engine and threw the Jeep in reverse.
He was barreling down the road a heartbeat later. He looked back to see the reporter frantically pointing in his direction.
There was simply no way they could catch up with him, especially given how he knew to navigate the back roads. Confident now that the top light on the camera couldn’t capture a single frame of him, he extended his middle finger and drove.
* * *
If the news crew had been able to keep up to see where he ultimately stopped, they would have drooled.
William ignored the government sign indicating that the Toltec Mounds Archeological State Park closed at dusk, pulling into the visitor parking lot. Arkansas wasn’t exactly flush with money, and the budget didn’t include constant monitoring of state parks. It meant for the teenage couple hoping to get laid, and anyone on the run trying to survive a panic attack, there was ample ability to do so in the privacy of one’s own vehicle.
You are not dying.
He killed the headlights and his eyes adjusted. Away from the meager lights of downtown Little Rock and thanks to a swollen moon, he could make out the hills.
Focus on them. Distraction helps. You’ve gotten through this before.
The first time he’d stolen his brother’s laptop, he’d typed in “alien abductions” in Google, and coverage of his own story, Area 51, and the Toltec Mounds in Arkansas were right at the top.
The websites claimed the hidden purpose of the mounds, and the reason for the disappearance of the ancient people who built them, were obvious. From the skies, the hills corresponded with certain clusters of stars. A map reflecting the heavens on earth.
How could a prehistoric society know to do that without guidance from beings from beyond? the websites wondered, and theorized that the mounds were designed to be landing sites for ships, and on their last return to earth, they took the worshipping people on the ground back to the stars.
Maybe not the best place to overcome an anxiety attack.
He reclined the seat, taking long, deep breaths. The reporter didn’t have much, but it was enough. Aunt Stella had long ago put him through a media boot camp to prepare for a lifeti
me of attention. Having moved from a local news station to write investigative pieces for sites like ESPN and Politico, she was deeply plugged in and understood how all the organizations operated. He knew the reporter wasn’t with one of the TV stations, so she would download the footage to a private video-sharing site and get it back to promotions ASAP.
He’d never heard of the TV show. Hollywoodextra, did she call it? Some junk like that. Given the scoop, he knew from what Stella had taught him that the promotion would run for days, using only the video of his face, providing no other location information so as to not tip off competitors. Stella had even educated him on the ratings months of the year, when sales generated their ad rates and the networks released their new episodes. Be especially cautious in those months, she’d warned. Overnight ratings have changed the game to some degree, she’d explained, but everyone still wants their blockbusters in November.
Regardless, he had two days, tops, to get out of town. As soon as that story aired, the hordes would come like an invading army.
He’d wait to return to the trailer at dawn. If he was lucky, they’d stake out his house all night, but eventually give up when he didn’t return. They’d come back quickly, though. He’d only have a short time to pack up what he could, drive to Carlos’s place to leave a note apologizing for his sudden disappearance, and flee.
The thought made his stomach churn. Where would he go now? The renewed media attention would make him even more recognizable wherever he went. When he’d decided to disappear a year ago, he’d simply hopped on the interstate. No reporters trailing him. He was gone an entire day before even his family realized he was missing.
As soon as this story aired, the entire world would know where he is, and if he weren’t out of town by then, there would be nowhere left for him to hide.
“Take a chill pill. Everyone needs their lawns mowed, and every town has a trailer park. Just take your pick,” he imagined Roxy advising, sitting in the passenger seat and hooking a rug pattern of a frowning pug. “I know this sucks, kiddo. But your Nanna went through hell herself to find you and bring you back. Find another small town, buy some Just For Men, and go brunette for a while. But for God’s sake, don’t go blond. You’ll look like your grandmother in drag.”
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