The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver

by Shawn Inmon

  When Tommy stopped, his father took a tentative step toward him, arms out. Tommy stepped back. “No. No way. You don’t get to abandon us, leave us to fend for ourselves, for how many years? Five? Then come riding back in on your white horse?” Thomas’s voice, high-pitched anyway, climbed a dangerous octave. Hold it together, Weaver. Thomas looked out to the driveway. Parked beside Zack’s Camaro and Anne’s old station wagon was a glinting new Cadillac. Then he glanced at Zack, sitting in the recliner, looking out the window, his face inscrutable.

  “Son. Tommy. Don’t be like that. There’s a reason for everything. Someday you’ll understand.” His voice was the deep, masculine, smooth tone of the successful salesman.

  Bullshit, Dad. You’re what, pushing forty? I lived a decade past where you are and never understood. I guess you liked that family better. At least you stayed with them until you died.

  “I will, huh? That's crap, James. I’ll never understand why you left us. You and Mom didn’t want to be married anymore? Fine. You wanted to run away and play house with a new wife and kids? Who gives a shit?”

  “Tommy!” exclaimed Anne, but Thomas continued.

  “But what about us? Do you know how good Zack does in school? Do you know what a great athlete he is? How much everyone likes him? He is just like you, except he’s not an asshole.”

  Color drained from James's face. “That’s enough!” Control asserted itself. “Look, son. I’m sorry. It’s obvious things aren’t going well here.” He cast a glance toward Anne. “It stinks to high heaven of cigarette smoke in here. For God’s sake, Anne, you’re a nurse, you should know better.” He turned back to Thomas. “A dead teenage girl and visits from the police to interrogate my sons shows me things have gotten completely off track. Believe me, I’ll be around more.”

  “You know what, James? I don’t ever want to see you again. If it weren't for all this, you wouldn't even be here. I’ll tell you one last thing, though. You might want to get a checkup. You’re already carrying the stuff around inside you that’s gonna kill you. I won’t go to your funeral this time, either.”

  “Tommy! Please don't be this way!" Anne's voice was almost a wail.

  "Tell James that, Mom," snarled Thomas. He pushed past his father, threw open the sliding glass door, and slammed it behind him hard enough to make it bounce back a few inches. He heard Anne say, “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have called you.” Her words faded away as Thomas leapt off the porch. He glanced into the Cadillac to see if the keys were inside, but they were not. He ran around the side of the house, got on his bike and pedaled away, wanting only to be away from his home.

  Finally, half a mile from the house, Thomas let the bike come to a stop. Tears of anger streamed down his face: at his father, Michael Hollister, himself.

  He rode through Middle Falls for hours, keeping to the side streets. On an impulse, Thomas rode out to the falls that gave the town its name.

  If these are the middle falls, where are the beginning and ending falls?

  He listened to the water's gentle cascade, twenty-five feet onto the rocks below. Oregon had far more impressive waterfalls than this: Multnomah, Bridal Veil, Toketee, Latourell were but a few. Tourists didn’t trek from Northern California or even Eugene to see Middle Falls, but in the darkness closing around Thomas, they were some small comfort.

  I’ve done it again. Ruined everything. I don’t care how many lives the universe gives me, I’m going to find a way to fuck it up.

  He stood over the falls for a long time. Suppose I climbed over this railing and stepped off the edge.

  Would that kill me, though, or just break my neck, and make me a quadriplegic? Another problem for Mom to have to take care of. I might wake up in the hospital instead of back in my bedroom again.

  He stood there a long time, contemplating.

  I’ve got to stop taking the easy way out at some point. Gotta quit running away from the pain.

  Then there's Mom. In the other life, I quit on her. I just ripped my father a new one for quitting on us. Now I'm looking at quitting on her again.

  This has to end. I am done running.

  Thomas swung a leg over his bike, put his weight on a pedal, and rode back toward town. Just over halfway home, he realized that he wasn't far from the small church, and he steered toward it. Its front door was slightly ajar. Golden light poured out into the darkness.

  Church services on a Monday night? Since when? This is around the usual time Carrie and I went there, and no one was ever there but us.

  He started to turn the bike away when he noticed that the parking lot was empty.

  Weird. Church open, lights on, no cars in the parking lot? He coasted up to the church, listened to the crickets for a few moments.

  Images flashed unbidden through Thomas’s mind—Michael attacking Carrie, knocking her down, straddling her, and choking her until she stopped moving.

  Carrie. A small sob escaped his lips.

  He laid his bike on its side and went to the front door. He peeked in, saw nothing but the neat rows of pews. The familiar smell of the place raised a lump in his throat.

  Carrie? Are you here, somehow? He took a few soft steps inside. A woman emerged from the room at the side of the altar, smiled, and said “Hello.”

  She looked sixtyish, none too tall, a little on the plump side, silvery-white hair mostly pulled back except for several strands hanging down her forehead.

  Oh, for Christ's sake. This is the last thing I need. A well-intended grandma trying to save my soul.

  “Can I help you?” She had an accent Thomas could not place.

  Thomas shook his head, found his voice. “No. I was riding by and saw the lights on. Usually, this place is all locked up and dark. I was just curious.” He turned to leave.

  “Why don’t you come in and sit down and rest for a few moments. You look tired. I know I am. I’ve been here waiting all day and night, and waiting wears me out like nothing else. I’m Emily Leon.” She walked toward Thomas, offered her hand.

  Thomas sighed. He met her, shook her hand quickly. “Thanks, but I really should be heading home.“

  “You’re Thomas, aren’t you? Thomas Weaver?”

  “What?” Thomas’s head jerked back. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “Huh? What?”

  “Shakespeare,” Emily said. “Hamlet.” She sat down in the nearest pew, patted a spot beside her. “Come. Sit down for a moment, then you can be on your way.”

  Thomas’s eyes narrowed, but he slid into the pew. Now she looked younger, but with eyes that harbored ancient secrets. “You still didn’t tell me how you knew who I am. And, who are you, exactly?”

  “As I said, I am Emily Leon. I am just a visitor here today. On a mission, I suppose you could say.”

  “A mission? Like, ‘saving African orphans’ kind of mission?”

  “No. More like a ‘saving Thomas Weaver’ kind of mission.”

  What the hell? Who is this crazy woman? I don’t need this shit.

  “Or perhaps this shit is exactly what you need.”

  Thomas’s mouth fell open. So, the old lady is a mind reader. Sure, why not.

  Emily’s expression grew more serious. “That's closer to true than to untrue, but let’s not waste time playing games. Let’s agree there are some things that cannot be explained and leave it at that.” Thomas said nothing. “For instance, a middle-aged man who tires of his life, tries to end it, and wakes up young, with a chance to do it all again.”

  This time his jaw fell wide open. He closed his eyes, ran his hand through his hair, and looked again. Still there. If I’m hallucinating, it’s a good one. And the Amazing Kreskin couldn't have pulled that off, no way.

  “No, Thomas, Kreskin couldn't have.” She reached out and touched his hand. “As you are probably realizing, I am not from around here.”

  Thomas nodded, sho
cked to silence.

  “In some ways, I am very different from you. If you knew everything about me, you might call me an angel. That’s what often happens when people meet one of us. In other ways, though, I am as ordinary as anyone else you will ever meet.”

  Don’t think I’ve ever met anyone less ordinary than you, lady.

  “Of course you have. But I have a job, and I like to think I am good at it. It is my job to watch over certain souls here on Earth. Including yours. And Carrie’s.”

  “Then you’ve been doing a pretty shitty job of it.”

  Emily closed her eyes for two beats, three.

  Holy shit, angel or not, that stung her.

  She nodded. “Perhaps. Sometimes I try to help, even though I know I shouldn’t. So often, things don’t turn out the way I intend. It’s The Universal Law of Unintended Consequences. As many millennia as I have seen, I should understand it by now, but I am still a work in progress. I am but an egg.”

  “Okay, sure. If you want to make things up to me, why don’t you spin us all back in time, so I can save Carrie. Wait. Even better, do you know where Carrie is? The soul I sat with in this church?” He paused. “The girl I love?”

  Emily drew in a deep breath and held it for a long time, but did not answer.

  “You do, don’t you? But, you’re not going to tell me, right? Of course. If you can’t do that, I’ll settle for you making Michael Hollister drive his car into a tree at eighty miles an hour.”

  “This will be hard to understand, but I watch over Michael Hollister just as I do you or Carrie.”

  “If you’re responsible for that batshit crazy weirdo, then there’s nothing left for us to talk about.”

  “I am not responsible for him, Thomas, any more than I am responsible for you. My job is to watch, but everyone has the inalienable right of free will. There are more worlds, just like this one, than you can possibly understand. On all of them, there is or was a Thomas Weaver. I only watch over one of them.” She leaned toward Thomas, laid a hand gently on his heart. “This one. This soul.”

  Looking into the kindness of her eyes, Thomas felt an odd feeling he remembered only in the moments after waking from a vivid dream.

  “I have a simple message for you, and I’ve traveled very far to share it.”

  “What?”

  “Thomas Weaver, don’t lose hope. Don’t give up. I empathize with you, but don’t let the darkness envelop you. If you start over again, you will be recycled away from this life and I will not be able to put right what I have mistakenly put asunder. I know you were contemplating that tonight.”

  “Being recycled and starting completely over sounds good to me.”

  Emily nodded, smiled sadly. “Do you know the most powerful force in the universe?”

  “No, but if you tell me the answer is in the Bible, I’m gone.”

  “You know; we all know, though humans spend much of your lives denying the answer. Here on Earth, you call it ‘love.’ It is the force that drives the entire universe. It feeds the machine of creation.”

  “Ha!” A bitter bark of laughter escaped Thomas. “John Lennon will be so glad to know he got it right—“All You Need is Love.”

  Thomas turned away for a moment. When he looked back, Emily Leon was gone.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  THOMAS TOOK HIS time pedaling homeward through the darkness. So she is The Watcher. And she knows who I am–who I really am. She proved that. Okay, so there’s a group of angels who sit and watch over all of us. Talk about shit jobs.

  Coasting down a slight hill, Thomas turned right onto Periwinkle Lane.

  If I can believe I’m a middle-aged man living in a teenager’s body, I guess I can believe she’s an angel. What did she really tell me, though? She knew where Carrie was, but she wouldn’t tell me. She said she watches over Michael just like she did Carrie and me. I don’t like that. What else? Not much, other than telling me not to kill myself again.

  Great. An angel shows up, tells me what not to do, doesn't tell me what to do. Clear as mud!

  Thomas stopped in front of his house. He glanced at his wristwatch, but it was too dark to read. The only light in the house was a single lamp showing through the living room window. He saw his mother, wrapped in her old housecoat, obviously waiting for him. He ran inside, but before he could say anything, his mother grabbed him and held him in a fierce sobbing hug.

  “Tommy, I’m sorry. I just felt so completely over my head, and out of touch, and I didn't know what to do. I shouldn't have thrown your dad into this. He’s not part of our family any more, and it made everything worse. And Tommy, most of all, it breaks my heart what happened to Carrie. The only way I can imagine how you feel right now is by imagining if I lost you or Zack. Can you please forgive me?”

  Thomas nodded into her shoulder and whispered, “Okay.”

  She held him out at arm’s length and scanned his face. “Now, where have you been?” It was not in the tone that evinced the right to demand an answer.

  Oh, nowhere. I rode around town, thought about throwing myself over the falls, then I met a weird old lady that was probably an angel.

  “Nowhere, Mom. I know you meant well, but I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. I rode around town, then out to the falls. On the way back, I stopped at the church where I used to meet Carrie.”

  Anne clucked softly and pulled him close again. "It's okay. If it helped you, and got you away from my mistake, then it's fine."

  “I’ve got school in the morning, I guess. Life goes on, right?”

  Anne forced a smile. “Yes, it does. I’ve got the early shift in the morning and I can’t miss another one, so I’ll already be gone when you wake up.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, Tommy. Go try and get some sleep.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  WHEN ZACK AND Thomas pulled up to Middle Falls High the next morning, they had to maneuver around several large news trucks with huge satellite dishes and logos like KEZI SkyLink and KGW Eyewitness News.

  “What the hell?” Zack said. “Haven’t seen those guys since the windstorm blew the roof off the gym three years ago.”

  Thomas felt sick to his stomach. I should have known this would happen. If it bleeds, it leads. Carrie, wherever you are, I’m sorry this is happening in your name.

  Ben, Simon, and Billy were waiting for Thomas at the edge of the parking lot. “We’re sorry, man," said Billy. "We heard when we got to school.” He laid a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

  “This sucks so bad, Tommy. I don't know what to say, but I’m around if you need to talk,” Ben said.

  “Now the vultures are here to pick at the bones,” Simon added, nodding toward the news trucks. Then he clapped his hand to his mouth, glanced at Thomas out of the corner of his eye. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s all right. I know you didn’t,” Thomas said.

  The three friends formed a phalanx around Thomas, somewhat like an undersized and complexion-challenged band of Spartans. It didn’t help. As soon as they got near the school, the pointing, nodding, and whispering began, worse than the day before.

  As they passed a tanned, big-haired reporter with fake eyelashes, Thomas heard her ask Amanda Jarvis: “Were you close to the victim?” He hurried on. Not sure I can handle Amanda telling the world she and Carrie were besties, when all she had ever done was make fun of her. Not sure I can handle any of this.

  Thomas and Billy put their heads down, perp-walk style, and went straight to homeroom. Every head turned when they walked in. Here, where everyone knew him, there were no more whispers or questions, just steady stares. Thomas ignored them and sat in his accustomed seat.

  I think I’ve gotta get out of here. There’s no way I can put up with this shit for an entire day. Zack will have track practice, but I can cut out and walk home.

  Michael Hollister walked just past Thomas, then paused and pivoted toward him. A small smirk played across his
lips. Their eyes met.

  He knows I know. Goddamn him, he knows.

  “Sorry to hear about your, umm, girlfriend, Weaver.”

  That was it.

  Thomas covered the distance between him and Michael in a blink, ramming his shoulder into Michael's midsection. Both went sprawling over two rows of desks, a cacophony of flesh hitting metal and wood.. Thomas landed directly on top of Michael, knocking the wind out of him.

  Anthony Massey whooped, “Ho, it’s on!”

  Michael’s eyes were wide with surprise. He tried to push Thomas away, but Thomas shifted position to put both knees on Michael's biceps, drawing a scream of pain: “Ow, get off, Weaver! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Thomas said nothing, but drew back a right and hammered it into Michael's face. It connected with a meaty, satisfying sound, followed by a left. Right, left, right, losing count. No matter how many times he hit Michael, it wouldn’t bring Carrie back, but as long as he was hitting him, it almost didn’t matter.

  Blood streamed from Michael’s nose; his left eye began to close up. Tears streamed down Thomas’s reddened face. Thomas laced his fingers into Michael's hair, pulled his head up off the ground, and slammed it into the floor. Again. And again, each time with a sickening ke-rack like the sound of a power alley home run ball leaving a white ash baseball bat.

  Thomas wouldn’t remember how many head-slams it took to send Michael’s eyes rolling back in his head, but that was when he wrapped both hands around Michael's neck. Every muscle in his arms was fatigued, so he straightened them and lifted his body up, putting all his weight on Michael’s throat.

  “Holy shit, Weaver’s gonna kill him! Actually kill him! Oh, man!” Anthony Massey again, doing the play by play.

  Thomas stayed on Michael's neck as the battered face went brick red, then deepened into purple. He was no longer resisting.

  Behind him, Billy said, “Tommy, don’t!” but Thomas was beyond hearing anyone. His lips pulled back from his teeth at the effort.