“She only said her mother died when she was young. She pretty much clams-up about that part of her life.”
“She was very angry when it happened. She wasn’t much older than Moiraine. Well, her mother died in an automobile accident.” As John continued to talk, I could hear the emotion in his voice. “She was coming home after a late shift at the hospital. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed the median. He hit her head-on. They said she died instantly. It was a mercy, I guess.” He flipped through a couple more pages in the photo album. All too few of those photographs showed Char’s mother. “Charlene was angry; she never had a chance to say goodbye. It took quite some time before she smiled again.” John flipped through a few more pages then closed the book. He stood from the couch and went into the kitchen. The sounds of him puttering around in there could be heard.
While John is about his task, I looked around. The room is filled with all the beautiful furniture John had made for his home. In awe is the only way I can express my thoughts about the craftsmanship he displayed in his work. What is it like to build precious treasures with your own hands? It must be satisfying to pick out each piece of wood and to shape it, to mold it, to make it into what will be a dresser, or a china cabinet, or a bed. The sense of fulfillment gained when each piece is cut and placed together is beyond my comprehension. It seems to me when you put a great deal of energy into a creation; you invest a portion of your own life into it. Maybe that part of your life is returned to you when the construction is complete. Was God’s life-force returned to him after creation?
If only I could create something even half as well with my own hands, then I could say I am a man. Once I tested my skill at making something with my hands, it did not go well. During eighth grade, I made a little wooden box in shop class. It wasn’t square, the lid didn’t close, and the staining was uneven. In other words, it was a piece of crap, not worth the lighter fluid needed to turn it into a small fire. When I went through my mother’s possessions after she passed away, I found it along with every birthday card, Mother’s Day card, and all manner of objects I had given her over the years. They were in a big cardboard box marked with a big red heart around the word “Memories.” My mother must have believed I had invested some of my life into that crappy box.
Miss you, Mom.
My heart aches because she never met Charlene or held her grandbaby, Moiraine. I miss the advice she would give too. Her advice was never pertinent to the situation at the time. But years later, after I learned a thing or two, I realized the true value of those words. What advice would she give me? A bolt of lightning struck me. Crack! If I can summon ghosts, why don’t I summon her? An odd queasy feeling came over me. No, calling up my mother is wrong. I don’t know why, but I know it is. The odd feeling passed as I completed the thought. Well, considering all the strangeness in my life of late, it only rated a six-point-five on the strange-o-meter. So, there are only some ghosts I can call up? All the rest must have unlisted numbers, or I don’t have the right long-distance calling plan.
Am I only imagining calling up specters of the past? Why do I still doubt what I did?
“K R A P has the answer.” Then drumming began… “…they’re coming to take me away ha-ha. They’re coming to take me away he-he to the funny farm where life is beautiful all the time…” The song faded in my memory.
Listening to Dr. Demento growing up was a mistake. Nothing good ever came of it.
I called Ralph, and he came. If I had imagined it, the phone number he gave me would not have worked. I would never have gone to “Saxie’s Jazz Joint.” I would not have gotten a rifle. It is real. I guess it makes me a spirit medium. Not everyone can say that. It’s a skill which is very rare. I must be a medium-rare.
Groan.
The jokes are bad, but my cooking is divine.
John came into the living room and derailed my train of thought. He placed two glasses on the coffee table and opened a bottle of Jim Beam. He poured a measure into each glass. “It occurred to me we have never had a drink together.”
“Oh, thanks, John, but I don’t drink. My father was an alcoholic. Even at Char’s and my wedding reception I had sparkling apple cider instead of Champagne for the toast. It is a promise I made to my mother. I would never drink. Keeping my word means a great deal to me.”
“Good for you. Nasty stuff that demon rum, or,” John picked up the bottle and looked at it, “Bourbon, or whatever your poison happens to be.” John grabbed my glass and poured its contents into his glass. “I only drink it for medicinal purposes, you see.” John gave me a wink. He lifted his glass to me and downed the double shot. He placed his glass back down on the coffee table. He looked me in the eye with a force which surprised me. “When are you going to let her go, Nate?”
Those words hit me square between the eyes.
John let the question sink in for a moment, then said, “She is my daughter, and I love her same as you love Moiraine. After her mother died, she was my whole life. Now all I have in my life is my darling granddaughter. Nathan, you have to say goodbye to Charlene. You have to let Moiraine say goodbye. I don’t have the years left to wait for our little girl to heal from the scars of words left unsaid. Letting her say goodbye will start the mourning.” Tears are flowing down his face. They traveled down the many deep creases there. “Lord knows I prayed Charlene would recover. I prayed harder than I have ever prayed in my life.” John bent his head down for a moment and rubbed at his eyes. This man is still mourning the loss of his wife, Marlene, and now the loss of his daughter. All those years, he didn’t say goodbye to his wife tore at his soul. Will this be how it is for me if I don’t say goodbye to my love? “Nathan, God answers all prayers.” He looked away, then turned back to look in my eyes again, and said, “Sometimes his answer is no.” He paused again, then said, “No parent should ever outlive their child.” The dam burst. His crying turned loud. I realized he is already mourning the death of his little girl too. What words do you use when no words will do?
I moved over to him. We hugged. We held each other wrapped in our grief. Suddenly he stood, grabbed the glasses and bottle, and carried it all back into the kitchen. There was a long awkward silence broken only by the sounds of John’s tinkering. Eventually, John came back into the living room. As he passed me, he placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. He sat back down. Looked me in the eyes again with the same intensity, and said, “She’s a stubborn woman, Nate. Oh, she is like her mother that way. Maybe even a little more so. She will hang on to you and Mo until you tell her it’s okay to go.”
“I can’t, John. I can’t say goodbye to her. It would be tearing out the better part of myself if I said those words.” If only I could tell John I had already said goodbye to one member of my family, my son, he might understand better. No, this is my burden to bear. Hearing he had lost a grandchild would break him even more. Inhaling a deep breath and blowing it out slowly, I tried to relieve the pressure building, then said, “I can’t.” I turned my head and looked anywhere but at John. He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t thought myself. But it stung all the same.
“I’m not one to mince words, Nathan.” He took a breath. “What a load of horseshit, and you know it. You are being cruel and selfish. She is not there. She hasn’t been there since she got off the operating table. All that is left of her is a shell. Her spirit still clings to the shell. My God man let her go.” John stormed out of the room.
Getting up too, I walked to the window. There is nothing I can see through the glass. My vision is turned inward. I don’t like what is revealed to me. The sign the monster affixed to my chest blazed across my vision proclaiming “Coward.”
I am afraid. I’m afraid to lose my wife. I’m afraid I failed my family. I am afraid to raise Mo by myself. Fear, my whole life is about fear. The only thing I am not afraid of is Mark Galos. Oh, and he is a thing too. He is a fiend; a fell monster most foul, and evil. He was a man once, but he tore up his human card the day he end
angered those children at the corner. When the time comes, I know I will face the monster. And it’s as clear to me as anything ever has been. When I face the monster, I will die. I have seen it a thousandfold times a thousandfold in my dreams. It sounds silly, but I know it to be true. To my core, I know it to be true. Only one other time in my life was I this sure of my future. I am resigned to my fate.
John came back into the living room. He had the bottle of Jim Beam again only this time he had only one glass. He poured a tall drink and took a long swallow. “Nathan, I don’t want to fight you on this. This is a private family matter. But I will fight you if I have to. If it means getting a lawyer, I will. I’ll fight dirty too. You think on that.” What does he mean “fight dirty?” He poured another shot into the glass and downed it fast. “Nathan, I think you should leave before I say something I can’t take back.” The temperature in this house dropped a few degrees. “I don’t have the stomach for any more talk.”
After I walked to his front door, I stood there for a moment. My hand is on the doorknob then something stopped me. Something inside stopped me from leaving. This man is hurting. He is hurting over Charlene. He’s in pain still over his wife. How can I ease his pain? I turned around and walked back to John. Here goes nothing.
John stood. The weights of his sorrows are evident in his posture. He is all hunched over. “I thought I told you to leave my house,” John’s bitterness slapped me in the face.
“John, may I see the picture of Marlene you carry in your wallet?”
“Why do you want to see it?” He said all this as he was pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He took the picture out and handed it to me.
“What is her middle name?” After John told me, I studied the picture. “Deep breath, clear my mind, and recall the feeling I had when I called Ralph Daves.” I was about to call her when John piped up.
“Nathan, please, I need to be alone,” his tone is considerably gentler.
With a picture of her clearly in my mind, I called her name. “Marlene Louise Gustafson, your husband needs you.” As before, I put my will behind the call. Scanning the room, it is only us living folk. After the span of three heartbeats, standing before me is the shade of Marlene Gustafson, mother of Charlene, and wife of John. “John, I wish you could see what I do. Your wife is gorgeous.” Marlene smiled and blushed slightly.
“Boy, what are you playing at? Are you making light of me? Do you think I am some brain-addled codger?”
“John, don’t ask me why or how, but I can call up spirits, and I can talk with the dead.”
“I think you need to go. All this turmoil in our lives is making you nuts.” John started pushing me toward the door.
Marlene’s ghost spoke up. “John is not one who believes in what he can’t touch. Tell him I said we lost a child before Charlene was born. I miscarried. It hurt him gravely. We never told Charlene. There was no need for her to know.” I have more in common with this man than I thought.
As John is pushing me toward the door, I said, “John, she told me you lost a child, a miscarriage.” John stopped pushing me.
“How… How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“I don’t believe you. I can’t believe you.”
Marlene spoke to me. “I told you he can be a little slow. This should convince him. Tell him we didn’t start our honeymoon after our wedding. I told him we would be too tired afterward, so the night before our wedding I snuck out of my parent’s house and we …”
“I bet that’s a story he never told Charlene.”
“What about Charlene?”
“You started your honeymoon early. It was Marlene’s idea too.” John stopped dead in his tracks.
“I never told a soul. Is she really here? It can’t be!” Spinning John around slowly, I put my hands on his shoulders. “She is standing right there.” John began to straighten up. He is standing taller than I had ever seen before. “I see her. Oh God, Sweetheart, is it you?”
“You can see her, John?”
“She is right there.” John pointed to her. “How? Why?”
“Yes, John, it’s me. The how is him. The why: only God knows. Maybe God thinks you need me.”
John sat down, “Where did she go?” A panic entered his voice. He started to stand back up. I gently pushed him back down into the couch. “Now she’s back. Nathan, what is happening? My heart can’t take this.”
“This is all new to me.” I looked back at what had happened. When I had communicated with ghosts before, no one could see them. What is different?
My hands were on John’s shoulders. Once we broke contact, he could no longer see her. “I think I have to touch you.”
Marlene said, “John, sweetheart, you need to let Nathan see to “his” family as he sees fit. You can’t interfere. It’s not right. Just as my father had to let go of me and let me live my life so too, you need to let go of Charlene to live hers.”
“It’s so hard. I don’t want her to suffer.”
I was starting to feel a head rush and gnawing hunger. “John, I think you need to finish up here.”
“Sweetheart, you’re a decent man. You’re a better than average father too. I remember when Charlene was born. My mother wanted to keep you away. She said, ‘A newborn doesn’t need your filthy hands on them. Go do your work. I’ll tell you when you can see this girl.’ I never saw you both so hurt and so determined before. You gave her such a talking to. I don’t think anyone had ever put her in her place quite like that. You used words I didn’t know you knew. You did it all without raising your voice too.”
“Charlene was asleep. I didn’t want to wake her. I damn near told your mom never to darken our doorstep again too. It would have served her right. Try to tell me how to handle my family. Why…” The sign of realization slowly came to his face. “You’re right, Marlene. You always could get me to see things your way all the while making me feel it was my idea all along. I miss you.”
“I’ve always been here.” She said with a broad grin.
“John. You better say your goodb…”
A screaming headache was mine as I woke, but it is not a migraine. Two EMTs are hovering above me with all manner of medical devices attached to me.
“Sir, can you hear me? What day of the week is it?” Silly question.
“John, what time is it? Someone has to be at the house when Moiraine gets home.”
“Hush now, boy. It’s not for a few hours yet. You fainted. I called these guys straight away. Got here right fast they did. It must be a slow day. I’ll tell you, for a minute there I thought I was going to be the one to raise Moiraine. Those teenage years are enough to make a man lose his hair. And I ain’t got the hair to spare anymore.” John smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
“Sir, when was the last time you ate?” he asked this while looking in my eyes with one of those damn annoying lights. He had me follow his finger back and forth. I’ll have a finger for him if he doesn’t back off. “Sir, please, when was the last time you ate?”
“I had a breakfast of cornbread and sweet milk this morning. Why?”
“Mike, hand me the glucometer.” The EMT pricked my finger and squeezed it. I’ve been called a prick, but I have never been stuck with one before. “Are you diabetic?”
“No.”
“Your blood sugar dropped dangerously low. We should take you to the hospital and have you checked out.” He spoke into a radio, “We need the gurney in here.”
“No, no, and Hell no. I have a family to care for. Just give me a shot of something, and I’m good.”
“Are you refusing transport to the hospital?”
“Yes.” Mike, the EMT, started packing up and the other EMT, whose name I never got, pulled out a clipboard and began filling out some bureaucratic bologna.
“All this form says is you are refusing medical advice and will not hold me, the fire department, or the city responsible in the event of further injury and or death.” I signed the form
and started to stand. My head started to swim.
“John, do you have any OJ, apple juice, or any sugary drinks?”
He stood and went into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator open. “I have a Coke-a-cola.”
The thought sickens me, but any port in a storm. “Sure, thanks.” I’ll do penance later. The EMTs were all packed up and heading out the door. “Thank you, guys. Sorry, you came all this way for nothing. Is it customary to tip?”
“Cute, no, it isn’t. Well, we are out of here. Never be afraid to give us a call if you need us. But seriously you do need to see a doctor.”
“I’ll do it.” “No, I won’t.” Picture this; the doctor will say something like tell me what were you doing before you fainted? Well Doc, I was calling up the dead for my father-in-law…
“Here you go, Nate.” John handed me a Coke, and I downed it. Oh, I don’t like Coke with its spicy after-taste. After a couple of minutes, I was starting to feel like my old self, which is too bad. I wanted to feel like my young self.
The EMTs finished packing up all their gizmos and whatnots and left. I brushed myself off as I stood. “John, I hear what you are saying. I will tell her goodbye soon. It doesn’t feel right. Don’t ask me to explain it. It just doesn’t. I’ve tried calling to her as I did with your wife. Her spirit didn’t come. If she is gone, I think she would have appeared.”
“Nate, son, I’m a simple man and all these going ons with ghosts is beyond my understanding. I know what I saw. My wife, my Marlene, was here. It was no trick of smoke and mirrors. You called her name, and she came. So, if you say Charlene isn’t gone yet, I’m right there with you.”
After I took in a big breath and blew it out slowly, I said, “John, I make this promise to you. When it is time, we will all say goodbye to her together.” I held out my hand to John. He shook it. The man is right. Whether or not I can call up Char, we all need to say goodbye, grieve, and move on. What I need is to come up with a plan. Right now, though, I should go home and be ready for Moiraine’s return. Then I plan to make my plan, and the most important part of any plan is to have information.
The Forging Page 21