by Chris Raven
I leave the bike at the cemetery entrance, and I take down from the handle the plastic bag in which I carry the roses’ bouquets that I bought. Traveling like that didn’t do them well. A couple of stems have broken, and they no longer seem as fresh as in the florist, but I could not think of another way to take them on the bike. I take them out of the bag and I try to tidy them up while I get in the cemetery, looking for the area where the village children are buried. It’s easy to find. The tombstones are white and smaller. In addition to flowers, in some graves you can see stuffed animals and dolls. After a few seconds of being here, I already feel sick. The pain of all those untimely deaths seems to impregnate the air.
While I walk, looking for the graves of Anne, Dave and Bobby, I recognize other names: Rose Davis, Michael Brown, Ethan Williams, Emily Moore, Peter Anderson... I know that I saved them from their captor, that now their spirits are free, but I would have liked to arrive in time to avoid it... Many of them died when I was not born yet, but I still feel responsible. I can hear Eloise’s voice in my head: “You and your stupid obsession of blaming yourself for all the evils of the world.”
I start taking roses out of the bouquets, leaving one on each of the tombstones. Then I see it: Anne’s grave. In the middle of the cross, you can see the same picture they placed next to her coffin during the funeral. That smile and those bright, cheerful eyes disarm me. I had not forgotten her, but the passage of time had blurred her image in my mind. Seeing her traits again makes me remember how much I loved her, and that memory hurts. There is no consolation for this pain. Not fifteen years nor a hundred can make you forget your first love. The day she died, a piece of my heart died with her. She stayed inside me, necrotized and rotten, preventing me from moving on with my life as a normal person. I’d like it to be healed, but on the other hand, I’d consider it a betrayal.
I kneel and leave the prettiest bouquet on her grave. Without thinking about what I do, I slip the index finger on the picture of her face, waiting for Anne, from the other side, to receive my caress and so, that she knows that I think of her. Then I take out my mobile phone, I look for a song in the player and, when it starts to ring, I sit on the tombstone with the gaze lost, and I light a cigarette, leaving it to be the soft notes of Wish you were here to express how much I miss here.
When the song ends and I get up, I realize that I am not alone in this area of the cemetery. There’s a woman next to another of the white graves, looking where I’m; frowning. I guess she doesn’t think it’s very respectful to play music in the graveyard or smoke a cigarette sitting on one of the tombstones. I stealthily dry a couple of tears that have managed to escape my eyes and collect the other two bouquets to go look for the graves of Dave and Bobby.
As I pass by the woman, I recognize her. It’s the mother of Nathan Patterson, the boy Dunning and I didn’t manage to save. She doesn’t look at me anymore. She pretends to be too busy putting fresh daisies in the vase that adorns her son’s grave. In an impulse, I extract a rose and place it on the tombstone.
“I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Patterson.”
She turns to me and looks me up and down. I guess she doesn’t know who I am. We only met once, while her husband was admitted to the hospital accused of kidnapping two kids. You can’t blame her for not having been very focused on such a situation. However, after a few seconds, she nods when she recognizes me.
“You’re the guy from the hospital, the one who was with Dunning.” She waits for me to nod before she keeps talking. “You knew what was going to happen to Nathan. You told me to call my sister and ask her to keep him away from the lake. How did you know?”
I am speechless while praying that I may be swallowed by the earth. There’s not a single logical answer I can give this woman for her to remain calm and let me go. I deny with my head, but she gets to less than a step from me and yells at me:
“How did you know?”
“I saw it in a dream.” I lie to her, turning my gaze away not to face the despair of her eyes.
Before my astonishment, she moves away a few steps, she covers her face with her hands and begins to cry, desperate. I am paralyzed, not knowing if I should approach to console her or take advantage to leave.
“I dreamt it, too.” She confesses. “I spent weeks dreaming of his death. I saw him floating in the lake... It was so real... I woke up crying, covered in sweat, and I had to run to his bed to see that he was alright. My husband told me that they were only dreams, that it was not important, that nothing bad would happen... I should have protected him.”
The sobs become so strong that she is left without air. She leans forward, clutching the belly that once carried that child inside, as if she felt his absence inside, and she falls on her knees beside the grave. I can’t hold it back anymore and I kneel to her side to hug her. I don’t know what I could say in this situation, so I’m not saying anything. I just hug her, so she feels that there’s someone around. That’s all I can do for Nathan.
By the time I get the woman to calm down and leave the flowers on Bobby and Dave’s graves, it’s already past six-thirty in the afternoon. I know I’m going to be late at the motel and my mother is going to get hysterical, but since I spoke to Nathan’s mother, there is a doubt that has settled in my soul and that doesn’t allow me to leave Swanton. I have to talk to Camille Anderson, Peter’s mother.
I leave the cemetery, I pick up my bike and I start pedaling to the lake so fast that in just a couple of minutes, the muscles of my legs seem to burn. I ignore them completely and I keep pedaling. I go so fast that I even overtake some cars, which honk at me as if they were offended by the fact that a cyclist overtook them. Although I do not carry speedometers on the bike, the limit on this road is thirty miles per hour. My mind warns me that it would be better to slow down a bit if I don’t want to break my head, but I don’t pay attention.
Finally, I distinguish the house of red walls in which Camille lives. I go out of the road and get inside the gravel road that leads to her door while I squeeze with all my strength the brakes of the bike. The squeak and rain of pebbles that I raise make Neville, Camille’s gray cat to bristle and snort before jumping out of a window and sheltering inside the house.
Camille is next to the door, watering some pots. When she sees me, she leaves the sprinkler on the floor, comes up to me and, without even letting me get off the bike, hugs me so strong that it leaves me breathless.
“Thank you for helping me get my husband’s body back. The sheriff told me everything. He told me that you were not a city clerk, but that you were helping him in his investigation of the drowned children in the lake. You should have told me the truth from the first moment.”
“Understand it; I didn’t know how you were going to take it...”
“I would have taken it well. I have always thought that there is something dark in that lake and that it should be investigated. Have you discovered anything yet?”
For a few seconds, I think I could tell her the whole truth. I think Camille would believe me and maybe it will help her to know that her son finally rests in peace. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to give so many explanations and I can’t risk her thinking that I’m crazy. I need answers.
“We’re still in it, but you know... With Dunning’s death, it’ll take a while.”
“Yes, what misfortune.” She interrupts again. “You know what happened to him? In the village, they say he went crazy...”
“Do you know Eloise Carter?”
“Yes, of course. I sing with her in the church choir.”
“Well, she can give you all the explanations you need.” Before Camille opens her mouth again, I raise a hand to stop her and ask her for some time. “I’m in a lot of haste and I need to ask you something very important for me. Did you ever dream of Peter’s death? Did you see in your dreams that he was drowning in the lake?”
Camille’s face gates completely pale. She remains quiet, with her mouth open. When she manages to react and
tries to walk, he sways a little sideways.
“Are you all right?” I ask, frightened.
“No, I’m dizzy. Help me sit down.”
I grab her arm and take her to a rocking chair that is at the left of the door. When I leave her seated, I walk in without asking for permission to her house, I run to the kitchen and fill a glass with tap water, accompanied by the snorts of Neville, who seems to want to tell me that I am not welcome. I go back out and I offer Camille the glass. She drinks it in a single shot and then looks at me. Her eyes no longer seem so lost and the color is coming back to her face. I’m relieved that I didn’t provoke her a heart attack with my questions.
“Yes, I dreamed of him.” She finally replies, with her eyes thrust on the reflections of the lake’s water. “I dreamt it many times, but, all this time, I tried to convince myself that it was just a fluke, that I could not have done anything to prevent his death.”
“Have you ever told your husband?”
“Yes, I did.” She turns to me. “One night I woke up crying, terrified, screaming that Peter had died. My husband woke up beside me, very frightened, and he was hugging me until I calmed down, telling me not to worry, that nothing wrong was going to happen to Peter, that he would take care of protecting us. Poor man...”
For a moment I can imagine what Peter’s father should have been through, threatened by that spirit, but without finding the courage to do what he asked and save his son. And, also for a moment, I understand my father a little. What he did was terrible, but he did it for me, to save my life. Who am I to judge what a father could do to save his son?
“I have to go now. I’m sorry I woke in you such bad memories. Will you be all right?”
“Yes, son, you can go.” The woman tries to outline a soothing smile. “Why did you ask me these things?”
“Eloise will explain it better than me.” I answer while I pick up my bike. “Call her.”
I’m getting back on my way. The muscles in my legs complain about the new effort I’m demanding from them. I’m sure my legs will be so stiff tomorrow that I won’t be able to move, but right now that’s the least of my worries. I have to talk to my mother. I have to solve this doubt that extends inside me like gangrene and that threatens to rot all my good memories, all the anchorages that kept me safe, my identity... I have to ask my mother if she knew it.
XVII
When I arrive at the motel, I find my family waiting for me at the door of their room. Brad is sitting on the entry step, absorbed with his mobile phone, but Lissie and my mother welcome me akimbo and frowning. I see they’re already taken their bags out and left them piled up by the door. They seem to be in a hurry to leave Swanton.
“You’re forty minutes late.” says Lissie, pointing to her wristwatch. “Where’s your luggage?”
“We are not leaving yet,” I answered without giving her further explanations and turning to my mother. “I have to talk to you for five minutes. Do you still have the keys to the room?”
“Yes, we haven’t delivered them yet in case something happened to you and we had to stay. You had us worried.”
“Well, let’s go inside.”
“Whatever you have to say to her, tell her now and let’s get out of this fucking town at once.” Lissie stands in front of the door, trying to stop me from passing through.
“I want to talk to mom alone. Let me through.”
Lissie crosses her arms on her chest and opens her legs, challenging me to move her aside. I grab her tightly by one arm and I move her aside with a push. I’m sick of her childish behavior.
“What are you doing, Brutus? You have hurt me. I’m sure I’ll get a bruise. Mom, tell him something.”
“Mom, open that door and we’ll go inside. Now.”
Something strange must be noticed in my voice because they stop protesting. Lissie stands apart, rubbing her arm while making exaggerated gestures of pain. Fortunately, my mother ignores her and opens the room. When we enter, and I close after me, Lissie regains her courage and her desire to mess with me, because she gives a couple of strong blows to the door while yelling at me.
“You’re an imbecile, Eric.”
I open again and surprise her with her hand up, ready to keep pounding the door until judgment day. My parents taught me since childhood that I shouldn’t hit girls, but I always thought that this rule should not apply to sisters.
“Stop being a real pain for five fucking minutes, Lissie. You’re not the center of the universe. Assume it.”
I close the door in her nose again and turn to my mother. She is standing in the middle of the room, with the keys still in her hand, looking at me as if trying to find out what alien organism has gotten into her sweet son.
“What is it, Eric? Why are you like this?”
I take a few seconds to try to calm down and sort my ideas, but I realize that there is no soft way to deal with this conversation, so I decide to get to the point:
“Did you dream that I died drowning in the lake during the summer of the year 2,001?”
“No, that’s silly. Why are you asking me that?”
The good thing about having been living for twenty-seven years with a person is that you know it wonderfully. When my mother lies, she crosses her arms and deflects her gaze down and to the left. That’s exactly the position she has now.
“Don’t lie to me.” Though I try to stay calm, I realize I just yelled at her.
“I don’t remember, Eric... I suppose I would have dreamt about that sometime. With the things that were happening to the children of the village, it was normal to dream something like that. Surely every mother in town had that nightmare once.”
“I’m asking you if you dreamt it before the murders started. Tell me the truth. You saw me dead, floating in the lake, you woke up terrified, drenched in sweat, crying... is that so?”
She refuses again with her head, but she bites her lip, trying to contain the tears that try to betray her and escape her eyes. She’s not going to tell me the truth. It’s time to get the artillery out.
“I know dad killed them.”
“Did you tell your father? Is that why he committed suicide? Was it you who made him kill himself?”
Here we are. As if I didn’t throw enough shit into my conscience, now my mother comes to try to blame me for my father’s death. I’m tired of feeling guilty about everything, of living apologizing. I feel that the rage accumulated all this time boils inside me, threatening to make me explode.
“I just asked him about it and he hung up and shot himself because he could no longer stand what he had done. He had been drinking all his life to silence his conscience, and there came a time when he could no longer, in which he realized that it had gotten opened the barrel in which he had been hiding his shit all his life and there was no way to cover it anymore for it to stop smelling. I didn’t push him to kill himself. He just realized that his son knew he was a fucking kid killer and he didn’t have the guts to face it.”
“Don’t talk like that about your father. Everything he did, he did for you, for saving you.” She stops me with her eyes brimming with tears.
I look at her without knowing what to say. At no time has she denied it. She hasn’t even tried to pretend the news surprised her. I know I don’t need to ask her, that her attitude has already answered me, but I still want to cling to hope, I want her to tell me that she had nothing to do with it.
“Did you know it from the beginning?” My mother is silent and looks down. “You had those dreams, you tried to investigate the origin of the curse... You were in touch with the spirit, that is why he told you he knew you just before you shot him down. Did you know? Did you know that before dad started killing? Did you know that while the son of a bitch was killing my friends and you didn’t do anything?”
“Of course, I did something.” She moves towards me and is placed less than one step from me, yelling. “I forced him to do it. Your father didn’t want to kill them. It was he who asked me to g
et those stupid books out of the library to try and find another solution. He was resisting as long as he could until the spirit gave him an ultimatum. I wasn’t going to let you die. I didn’t care if I had to kill three kids, ten or the whole town...”
I move back a couple of steps, I stumble on a bedside table and I’m about to fall to the ground. I cannot believe that this woman is my mother, that she can speak so coldly about the death of three children, that it seems to her that what they did was correct, and she does not repent. I only have one thing to ask her:
“Why them? Who chose the victims? Was it accidental?”
“It wasn’t. Your father went out for a walk around town to find a boy who was separated from his parents, some easy victim. When he came back, he locked himself in the room crying. He said he could not, that he was unable to choose a child knowing that he had to kill him. So, I gave him three names.”
“Why them?”
“Well, Dave was easy. His parents had a sibling the same and Dave was weak, and he was always sick. Bobby was even easier. It was hardly visible, but he had a slight mental retardation. His mother was always talking about it, how much money they were spending on specialists, how worried they were because Bobby could have a normal future, what was going to happen to Bobby when they were gone... We did them a favor.”
Each of her words is a dagger piercing my heart. I can’t believe my mother is capable of releasing such a fascist speech without her face being blushed with embarrassment. Right now, I think that I don’t know her, that I’ve shared my whole life with a stranger.
“And Anne?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice from breaking.
“She was a bad influence on you.” My mother crosses her arms on her chest and raises her chin, proud of her decision. “She was a rebellious, disobedient, crazy girl... Her parents spent the day complaining about that the fact that, with only twelve years, she was already difficult for them to control her.”