by Glen Krisch
“That can’t be true. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.”
Poppa nodded, as if to acknowledge some inner dialogue only he could hear.
Leah and Curtis, hand-in-hand, came up to the porch after leaving the service.
“We’re going to get the casserole in the oven,” Leah said.
“Thanks, dear,” Poppa said.
Jack’s upper lip curled. “Make sure you don’t burn it.”
Leah rolled her eyes and went inside.
“Don’t worry,” Curtis said. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
“Well, bro, that doesn’t put my mind at ease.”
Curtis laughed, not realizing he was serious. Jack had never trusted Curtis from the time he’d met him.
“It wouldn’t do any good to tell her I’m not hungry,” Poppa said.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Jack again tried to picture Nan overcome with depression. Couldn’t get the puzzle pieces to fit together.
Something didn’t add up. Either he didn’t know his grandmother as well as he once believed, or his grandfather was spinning tales about her emotional state.
Poppa waved goodbye to Ezra Philips and his wife, Debra, the only non-family members Jack recognized. Before his retirement, Ezra had been a professor of Biology at Grand Valley State University. When his path crossed with Poppa’s during his lecture circuit days, after To Heal the Land became a runaway bestseller, they became fast friends. No other outsiders had come to Nan’s burial, which Jack found odd. Nan had always been so gregarious, so full of life.
A chill from the rain brought Jack back to the here and now.
Cold rivulets coursed down his scalp, his neck, his torso. He kept his eyes closed and tried to recall more details from a day he’d once wanted to put well out of mind. He was on the middle of the Little Whisper, a storm lashing the woods and drumming water upon the boat, but he could still hear the creaking porch swing as Poppa slowly moved to and fro, could taste the burnt tomato and macaroni casserole of long ago.
Grief-stricken, Leah had accidentally burned the casserole. And Curtis had acted his Curtis-like self and allowed it to happen, even though he said he wouldn’t.
The rain-battered lake sounded alive.
“Nan … what happened that afternoon?”
A shiver rolled through him, and Jack opened his eyes. On the front bench of the boat, no more than two feet away, stood a full bottle of dark liquor. Rain had soaked and ruined the label. He lifted the bottle, heavy and real, as more of his sanity slipped away.
The label came apart under the slightest pressure.
The shore seemed so far away, miles upon miles, as if he were now stationed in the middle of Lake Michigan. In the distance, tiny sparks of light filled the summer house windows.
“So be it.”
Jack twisted off the bottle’s cap and sniffed the contents. His eyes watered and his sinuses cleared. Whatever it was, this liquor was strong.
Jack tipped the bottle, the liquid fire pouring across his tongue to splash the back of his throat. He swallowed, though instinct wanted to heave the poison from his system. Warmth spread throughout his body, instantly slurring his faculties. His brain fogged and he felt sleepy, despite the storm’s increasing intensity.
A flash of light as Jack blinked, a flash of movement. He blinked again, and just before his eyelids touched, he glimpsed glowing light within his reach, within the boat itself.
Human-shaped.
He opened his eyes to an empty boat.
Jack swigged again from the bottle, the telltale burn ravaging his sensibilities. He didn’t blink this time, merely closed his eyes to half-mast, and through this limited view, through tangling eyelashes, a shape resolved and came into focus sitting across from him on the bench seat.
“Nan?” he muttered.
When he opened his eyes wide, she faded from view.
He again squinted, bringing her into focus. The Nan he remembered, wholesome and warm. She wore a simple flower house dress that fell to her knees, and a smile as wide as he remembered. He wanted to leap across the boat, to embrace her, but every time he tested the limits of his vision, her image blended into the dark expanse of storm-wracked sky.
“I don’t have much time,” she said.
“Nan, oh, I missed you so much.”
Tears filled his eyes, immediately diluted by the rain.
She leaned forward, imploring, and reached for his hand. “I didn’t want to leave you.” Her touch was so frigid that he felt the urge to pull away, but he didn’t, not wanting to lose contact. “I need you to see. I need you to understand …”
A gentle pressure radiated from her hands into his. It travelled his arms, a cold wave chasing away the liquor’s blanketing warmth.
The pressure reached his heart, travelled higher still, settling in his brain. A taste of tangy mustard on his tongue, ham, fresh bread. He was again sitting on a stool at the island counter and enjoying the homemade lunch. He remembered the plate. Poppa’s food. Nothing good would come of Nan bringing him his lunch. She stood near the counter, the prepared plate ready to go. If only Jack could get the plate to Poppa … that simple gesture. He hurried from his stool and picked up the plate, thought of running past Nan, but she was there, in his path.
“Oh, thank goodness you noticed his plate,” Nan said, reaching for it.
He clenched the plate so hard he imagined the ceramic shattering into a million pieces, but Nan’s hold was incredibly strong, supernaturally so.
Her eyes narrowed. “Let go of the fucking plate. You don’t understand!”
“I can’t let you do it, Nan. I can’t.”
“You must, and you will, Jackson!” She tugged on the plate and muscled it from his grip. The flowery scent of her perfume—Unforgettable—had soured on the air, tasted stale on his tongue, spoiled even. She glared at him before turning away to deliver the lunch.
He trailed after her to Poppa’s office.
Numerous research books surrounded Poppa in unstable towers. A ream’s worth of papers was strewn around the desktop, while some had tumbled to the floor. Wadded throwaways littered the floor near the trash can in the corner.
Poppa sat with his palms pressed flat into an opened book in the middle of his desk. He rocked forward and back, but his hands never left the book, as if an odd magnetism kept him glued to the pages. His eyes rolled in their sockets, fluttering, spastic.
“Honey, here’s your …”
She dropped the plate, which shattered near Jack’s feet.
He’d never heard the plate break before. Not the first time it happened, nor the time Nan first brought him back to this tragic day.
She ran to Poppa’s side and took him by the arms. Reluctantly, his hands tore away from the pages. He was muttering incoherently, foam gathered at his lips.
“Oh, God, don’t you take him from me!” She kneeled at his side, hugged him fiercely. “You will not have him!”
“Nan, don’t,” Jack said, knowing in some way what would happen next. “Don’t do it!”
She was unaware of his presence. Completely oblivious.
“Dear lord, I’m not ready for you to take him,” she prayed.
Poppa’s head lolled and she managed, barely, to help him to the floor. She grabbed the phone from the desk and dialed 9-1-1.
No dial-tone, Jack knew.
She put the phone to her ear, jiggled the receiver.
“He always unplugs the phone when he’s working,” Jack said.
She didn’t hear him, then, perhaps not even now.
She dropped the phone and went over to Poppa. He looked to be in the middle of a full-on seizure, his body gyrating against the floor, hands curling against his chest.
“Please … just take me,” she pleaded, tugging on his arm, as if urging him
to stand.
“Nan, no!” Jack shouted, but he was powerless to change the past.
“Take me and leave him be.” Nan’s flowery perfume had turned completely, taking on the scent of death; it soaked the air, heavy and pungent.
The wooden slats on the windows vibrated and thrashed against the sash, as if caught in hurricane-force winds. The mess of papers littering Poppa’s desk and floor swirled into the air.
Jack blinked, and then everything was back in its place. No papers were any more out of place than normal for Poppa’s work area. The plate was no longer shattered across the floor. It sat on top of a pile of books on the desk, the sandwich half-eaten. Poppa sat stiff-backed behind the desk, his head lowered as he followed his finger across a page in the book he was reading.
“Thanks for lunch, Francie,” Poppa said. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Nan, dead-eyed, turned away from his desk. She merely grunted a reply as she left the room, heading for her terminal fall down the deck stairs.
Jack wanted to wrench Poppa around, to take him by the shoulders and scream for him to stop her. When he tried, he couldn’t move within a handful of inches of him. Poppa continued to study, to follow his finger across the page, only pausing long enough to turn the page.
“She’s going to die!” Jack shouted to no avail. “She sacrificed herself. She’s going to do it again, and you’re sitting there. Just sitting there!”
Jack lunged at Poppa, using every ounce of energy to try to propel himself forward.
Pressure built behind his eyes, darkening his vision. He blinked, struggled against time and history. Rain peppered his face, cold and bracing. Thunder rumbled through the surrounding woods. The boat once again drifted beneath him, the gales heaving it across the choppy water.
Jack understood, both what had happened on the day of Nan’s death, and what he would need to do now to save her. He wondered if he were brave enough to make that sacrifice.
Jack sat up, the boat unsteady beneath him. His fingers gripped the liquor bottle’s neck. “You can’t have her!” he yelled into the rain. He pulled his arm back then heaved the bottle into the dark water. “Take me instead!”
The lake gave no reply. The rain continued to pepper his face. He swiped his hand across the beard stubble on his cheek. As he went to sit on the bench seat—resigned once again to failure—his foot slipped in the puddling water at the boat’s bottom and the back of his leg clipped the bench seat, and he tumbled overboard.
He heard a chorus of children’s laughter as he broke the surface. As he gasped for breath and flailed for the boat, something took hold of his legs, his arms. Something insistent and strong. It pulled him under, and once under, the darkness filled him.
CHAPTER 27
Krista stood next to the Volvo, ready but full of apprehension to leave for the ferry. She spun the keys around her index finger, liking the rattle and crash when she caught them after a full revolution. She couldn’t look her husband in the eye.
“I know you feel like you have to do this,” Neal said. “I totally understand, but I want to come with you. You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” she said. “But I need you here. Jack isn’t himself lately.” She spun the keys around her finger again. “You said so yourself. He’s out on the lake, alone. He’s troubled. By what, I don’t know, but I’d feel better if you stayed to keep an eye on things.”
He took hold of both her hands, pulled her close. “Leah’s here. She’s reasonably level-headed.” He tried his most charming smile, but it wasn’t working.
“Leaving her to watch over four kids and Poppa? That’s downright cruel.”
Neal shook his head but seemed to understand. He’d taken the news rather well, but that was typical of her husband. He would support her no matter the endeavor.
“Believe me, I want you to come with me, but I need you here. All of us do. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”
“Two days?”
The question was loaded. Two days was a significant amount of time when considering Poppa condition. Did he even have two days?
When she first brought up visiting Two Rivers Correctional Facility, Neal had tried to argue that she should chase this line of questioning down the road, when they weren’t so up against the clock. But she’d been insistent and, of course, Neal had supported her in the end.
“I love you,” she said. Her feelings were stronger than those three simple words, and they only strengthened by the day. She wished she could express how important he was to her.
“I love you, too,” he said and kissed her forehead.
“Bye, Mom,” Clara said from the porch.
Krista waved to her daughter, stunned at how much she’d changed since their arrival. Clara feet were dirty and bare, her hair unbrushed and wild. There wasn’t a book under her daughter’s arm, or in her hand, which seemed incongruent from reality. They hadn’t told her, or anyone else besides Leah, where Krista was heading. Even so, Clara had a knowing look.
Krista hated keeping anything important from her family; she whirled the keys around her index finger so hard they flew away.
Neal caught the keys in midair, like some kind of magic trick. He smiled broadly and gave her hands a squeeze when he handed them back. “Looks like a storm is coming, so drive safely. And call me when you get to Wisconsin.”
“I will.” She pecked him on the cheek and climbed in behind the wheel of the Volvo.
He leaned over the doorframe. “Don’t worry about anything here.”
“I’ll try my best.” She clicked her seatbelt into place. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Neal closed the door, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked back toward the summer house.
Neal and Clara stood side by side on the porch. Krista returned their waves before pulling away. For some reason, a weight lifted from her shoulders, although nervous butterflies fought a flash of guilt as she wended away from the summer house.
Am I glad I’m leaving my family behind?
No, she realized; it wasn’t who she was leaving behind, but who she would soon confront that excited her senses. Not that she was excited to see Edgar Jenkins, but if she could finally put to rest the questions regarding Breann’s final location, it would be well-worth the trip.
The Volvo hugged the country roads that curved away from the Little Whisper. Though she had a short drive to the pier in Grand Haven, it would take four hours to cross Lake Michigan, so she wouldn’t be able to make it to the prison before visiting hours ended. Knowing this, she had already booked a room at a Super 8 near the prison, though she doubted she would be able to sleep. How could she sleep when she was about to see Edgar Jenkins?
She tried to occupy her mind with the radio. Chatty talk did nothing to quell her thoughts. Neither did pop music, which usually compelled her to sing along—as long as she was driving alone—after a couple songs. She stabbed the power button off in frustration.
A torrent of trees whirred by as she sped along, the reflection of their grasping branches bending as they slid across the windshield. The sky darkened, and soon a steady rainfall obscured the road.
Krista and her siblings had been too young to follow the trial of Edgar Jenkins. She only learned about him after a man named Applewood, an FBI agent out of Wisconsin, came all the way to Grand Rapids—in the middle of a snowstorm, no less—to question Leah, Krista, and Jack. While Nan hovered nearby, nervously toying with the hem of her apron, Applewood had shown them a high school graduation photo of a bright-eyed young man. Though Applewood was an old man, with a heavy paunch and unkempt gray mustache, his voice was soothing and warm. Krista remembered wanting so badly to be able to answer his questions: Had they seen this man loitering around the beach at the Little Whisper? Had they seen him along the stretch of shops downtown?
The photo had conjured no memories for her or her siblings.
Krista could still picture Edgar Jenkins sitting at a haughty angle, his baby blue Polo shirt crisp and unwrinkled, his smile captivating, his eyes piercing but without a trace of malice. Even now, as she drove out to confront him, she remembered the ugly paisley couch on which she sat when she first saw his photo, could still feel the presence of Leah shaking her head no, and Jack too young to understand the weight of the situation.
She could never rid her memory of Applewood’s look of dejection after none of the kids were able to provide any useful information. The man looked defeated.
Later on, Nan had answered the children’s questions of what his visit had been all about, why the detective had been in such a hurry and with seemingly little energy. It had shocked Krista at the time, and had lingered, placing the term ‘child killer’ on someone who had looked so innocent, so All-American.
Edgar was finally caught six months after Breann’s disappearance with enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his life. He’d taken the secret of her disappearance with him, and he’d remained mum on the subject ever since. Krista thought he would take those secrets to the grave, but reading Poppa’s manuscript was proof enough that he just might crack.
Rain battered the windshield in drumming waves as Krista slowed at the ticket booth. She waited until the ticket seller acknowledged her before she lowered the window. Lightning flashed, revealing the ferry moored at the bottom of a slight decline in the road beyond. Red taillights winked as cars wedged themselves onto the ramp and aboard the ship.
“One way or roundtrip?” the woman asked without making eye contact. She looked bone-weary, as if she were wrapping up a forty-eight-hour shift in the tiny booth.
“Roundtrip. I’ll be returning the day after tomorrow on the morning ferry.”
“$129, please. Good thing you got here when you did. The last boat leaves in fifteen minutes.”