Introduction

Supernatural: adjective

su·​per·​nat·​u·​ral | \ ˌsü-pər-ˈna-chə-rəl

 

1: of or relating to an order of existence beyond the visible, observable universe, especially of, or relating to God, or a god, demigod, spirit, or devil.

2a: departing from what is usual or normal, especially so as to appear to transcend the laws of nature

  b: attributed to an invisible agent, such as a ghost or spirit.

 

(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

 

 

 

Dear Reader,

 

 Despite my two novels, my fondness for the short story format has remained. Several of the enclosed tales splash around the edges of the supernatural ocean; others cannonball right in. If you prefer to use other terms you might try paranormal, metaphysical, otherworldly, preternatural, transcendent, fantastical—all possibilities. Among a diverse cast of characters, whether they be ghosts, angels, demons, murderers, robots, or zombies to name a few, I am an equal opportunity writer and give them all a turn on center stage, whatever synonym you prefer. I have other, less unearthly stories, but those are for another time and place.

After lengthy procrastination, I have collected these twenty various tales written over the last decade, dusted them off, and put them under one cover. Should you have neither the time nor inclination to immerse yourself into a full-scale novel, indulge your curiosity with one of these shorter narratives. I hope you will discover a few stories that will whet your appetite and bring you pleasure and enjoyment. 

 

J C Laird

 

 

 

 

 

 

Connections

 

CONNECTIONS

 

 

Kesha smiled, her lips brushing his cheek before she resumed her seat. “I leave for a few days and look what happens.” She laughed, the sound light and airy. “You sure don’t do things halfway; it looks like you were hit by a truck.”

Jason managed a smile, in spite of his discomfort. “Actually, an SUV. I must look like Frankenstein with all these bandages, tubes, and wires everywhere.”  

Kesha was sitting next to his hospital bed. A beautiful, vibrant young woman, she was stunning with her dark, shoulder-length hair, flawless complexion, and chestnut brown eyes, eyes he knew could reveal a kaleidoscope of emotions. She was wearing black dress-slacks and a loose, dark red, off-the-shoulder blouse, exposing a tanned left shoulder and upper arm. Jason was accustomed to seeing her in blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes.

He grinned and shook his head. “Wow, you sure look good.”          

With a sparkle in her dark eyes, she dipped her head demurely. “Why thank you.  I thought since I had to come back for my favorite dirty old man, I would dress up for the occasion.”              

“Your favorite? How many do you have?” 

“Okay, so you’re my only dirty old man.”

He changed directions. “By the way, how did you get them to let you in? I didn’t think they were allowing any visitors yet.” 

“Well…” she said, drawing out the word… “you just need to have the right connections.”

“Works for me. So how was the vacation, the skydiving?” 

“It was absolutely fabulous. I was so stoked! You need to try it someday.” 

They both fell into an awkward silence. Jason couldn’t believe a nurse hadn’t come in by now. Maybe Kesha did have pull with someone. Finally, he mumbled, “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.”

She frowned. “And why wouldn’t I see you again?”    

“Because of the things I said the day you left.” 

For the last three years, he and Kesha had worked part-time at the University; college money for her, post-retirement money for him. They had talked often, not only of the present but sharing stories of his past and dreams of her future. Her boyfriend, a graduate student at the University, hadn’t minded the odd relationship between the older man and Kesha.

She interrupted his reverie, “You mean things like quitting your job because of how you felt about me? Because you could no longer deal with me just as a friend, or pseudo-daughter…”

“… or granddaughter…”

“Shut up, Jason, she said, grinning. "And when did these revelations occur?”

“About the time your idiot boyfriend broke up with you last year. I held you, and you cried so hard and so long my shirt was soaked.” 

“I remember.” 

“You were so hurt it broke my heart, but I didn’t feel like just a friend, or a father, consoling a daughter. What I felt was far from paternal. I was ashamed, I should have known.”

“Ashamed, why?” At least she was smiling again.                                       

“Give me a break, Kesha. We’re not even from the same generation; they check my I.D. for senior citizen discounts, and they check yours before selling you booze!” He was rapidly becoming upset.      

Kesha stood and put her hand gently on his bandaged head, her smile spreading.  “Calm down or you’ll set off all the alarms… and why should you have known?”

Jason’s voice was nearly inaudible. “You made me alive. Inside every older person is a younger one wondering what the hell happened.  Around you I was a young man, peering through a window at a world I could never return to. I could see your joys, your sadness, your hopes and dreams, your passion, and enthusiasm for life. I wanted that. I wanted you. I’m so sorry.” 

Tears formed in Jason’s eyes, blurring the beautiful face before him. “I told you that if it was a different time and place, and I was a young man again, I would follow you around like a puppy dog.”

Kesha chuckled, her smile illuminating the room. She reached down with her free hand and gently wiped away his tears. “That image is certainly intriguing. You’d really like that?” 

“I’ve dreamt about it many times. After all these years, I realized the most important part of my life was still missing. You. But with me on the backside of my life and you on the front side of yours—how unfair is that? I was born too early… or you too late.” 

Kesha wiped away her own tears with a hand still wet from his. She bent down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I have a feeling I might never have met another man like you in my lifetime. Actually, I’m sure of it. What if the young man inside you could open that window and join me?” 

Jason stared at her, his expression questioning.                

“Connections, remember?” Kesha kicked off her shoes and climbed up onto the hospital bed. 

“What are you doing?”

She helped him sit up and slid in behind him, her legs on either side of his, his damaged arms resting on her legs. “Just lie back and relax.” Laying her head against his, she put her arms around him in a gentle hug. “Better?”

Jason turned his head slightly, his cheek resting against the warm smoothness of her shoulder. “You really smell good.”

“Take it easy big guy. And it’s called toilet water.”

“Huh, toilet water?”

“I know, stupid name. The French have better names for it. It’s just a lightly scented skin splash. It’s rumored that it helped Cleopatra seduce Marc Antony.”

“I can believe that.”

“Ready to go home now?” Kesha murmured.

“Home?”

She breathed into his ear, whispering, “Home is anywhere we are together, anywhere we want it to be. Where should we go first?”

Jason closed his eyes. “You once said you had been to Alaska and walked on a glacier.”

“Yes.”

“Can we start there?”

Kesha smiled and gave him a gentle squeeze, “Sure, we both have connections now.”

 

At the hospital’s ICU station two nurses and an orderly were talking, their expressions serious. The older nurse was updating the others, reading from a chart. “No change. He’s been in a coma for three days now, parents deceased, not married, no children. We’ve gone through his cell phone address book.  We’ve contacted everyone but one, a Kesha Solomon. We’ve left messages, but no answer yet.” 

The orderly looked up, “I don’t think you’ll get an answer. There was an article in the Journal three days ago; a Kesha Solomon died in a plane crash in Arizona returning from a skydiving trip.”

  An alarm sounded on a monitor behind the counter. A quick glance and the head nurse yelled, “Code Blue!”

 

The orderly began cleaning the room soon after the body was removed. He paused for a second, confused, sensing the faintest hint of a woman’s perfume.

It was probably just his imagination….

 

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Together as One

 

TOGETHER AS ONE

 

 

The woman had entered the dimly lit hotel lounge twenty minutes earlier, and she was stunning. Wearing high heels, a black skirt ending a few inches above her knees, and a long sleeve, dark-red silk blouse that revealed a modest amount of cleavage, she sat at the other end of the bar and ordered a drink. She crossed her long shapely legs, revealing several more inches below the hem of her skirt. 

In the short time that she had been there, the brunette had rebuffed the advances of three different men. It was obvious that she drew men like a lamp attracts moths.

And now this seductive vision was sitting next to him, literally having invited herself to join him. David was still having trouble breathing. He didn’t consider himself bad looking, but this dream was way out of his league. Besides, he had never been that good with women, not even with his wife as it had turned out. 

The discrete, neon lights on the wall behind the bar highlighted her thick, dark hair, curling down to her shoulders. Her heart-stopping smile was focused on him. “I want to thank you for buying me a drink and saving me from those persistent jerks with the over-inflated egos.” 

David could feel the glares of the other men from across the lounge. “I… uh… my pleasure.” He caught a hint of her perfume—something light—reminding him of dew on rose petals in the early morning. He was still trying to remember to breathe and managed not to choke on his beer.         

She was smiling and looking at him. Her complexion was tanned and flawless, her lips full and red, her eyes dark and fathomless. She was achingly beautiful. She touched his hand lightly and said, “By the way, my name is Estrella.” She looked at him expectantly.

He was again breathing without panting and even remembered the power of speech. Sort of. “Uh… my name is… um… David… ah… Latimer.”

She held out her hand, smiling, ignoring his anxiety.  “Pleased to meet you, David. Do you come here often?”

He took a deep breath, composing himself before taking her hand. Estrella’s grip was warm and firm. “No, first time. I was here for a convention over the weekend; I stayed a couple of extra days.”  

“Tell me about yourself,” she said    

And somehow, he did. David told her about his job, his ex-wife, and their divorce. She listened with a half-smile on her lips, her penetrating eyes caressing him. His mini-speech ground to a halt. “Uh… what brings you here… what do you do?” he finally managed.

“I’m on my way home to Dallas from a visit to San Francisco,” Estrella replied. “And I’m self-employed; I make jewelry.”

As if on cue, he noticed the thin gold chain around her neck and the pendant lying between the swell of her breasts. It was bronze colored and triangular with an odd design. He felt awkward looking at it, considering its resting place.    

Estrella laughed softly. She reached behind her neck, undid the clasp, and handed him the pendant. “Here, one of my gifts to you.”

Taking it, David ran his finger over the intricate design on the front, turned it over and looked at the minuscule writing on the back.

She continued, “The design represents an earth goddess from the ancient civilization of Samaria, and the inscription means ‘Together as One’ in their dialect.” 

He looked at her with a puzzled expression. “You said one of my gifts to you?”

Estrella leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Oh, that other gift would be me.” 

David could smell the scent of morning roses and feel the warmth radiating from the closeness of her body. His heart was pounding; he was trying to remember to breathe, think, and talk all at the same time. This was the most beautiful, desirable woman he had ever seen, let alone met, and she… “But… but… why me?” he finally stammered.

Her smile was gone, replaced by an expression of disdain, maybe scorn. Her voice was still low, but somehow harder. “You could say I’m an independent woman. I choose the men I want to be with, they don’t choose me. I select the correct ones.”

David wondered at her odd choice of words, but everyone had their idiosyncrasies, he guessed.

Her half-smile had returned. She handed him a hotel key card. “Room 306. Just give me ten minutes.” She slid out of her chair and headed for the elevators.   

David was in a daze. He could hardly think. He could still smell her perfume, feel the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice. He concentrated on finishing his drink. He didn’t know if it was ten minutes or ten hours, but he got up and headed for the elevators and room 306.   He didn’t remember getting there but suddenly found himself entering her room. A lamp was turned down low, and Estrella was standing by the window looking out, her floor-length, silk nightgown silvery in the glow from the city lights outside. She turned, undid the gown’s sash, opened it, and let it fall to the floor. David had never seen anything or anyone as beautiful as this woman, like a Greek goddess come to life.  Without a word, she came towards him, a Sumerian goddess. 

           

A scream broke the silence, a guttural roar of agony. Or maybe it was ecstasy; it was difficult to tell. The scream lasted no more than a second or two before being abruptly being cut off. Irene and Charles, celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary and returning from an evening on the town, were sauntering down the hotel hallway arm in arm. The diminutive, grey-haired woman jumped, falling into her husband. “Oh my God, Charles. What was that?”

Her dapper, sport coat clad husband nodded at the door immediately to his right. “I think it came from in there.” He walked up and put his ear to the door. 

His wife was clutching his arm. “Maybe we should call hotel security.”

After several more seconds, he moved back from the door with a puzzled look on his face. 

Irene’s grip tightened. “What was it? Could you hear anything?”

“I’m not sure, it was so faint. It was like when we used to go camping, and I would break up the small branches for the campfire. You know, the snapping sound. And I thought I could hear a sucking noise, like a milkshake through a straw, but I could be imagining that. I don’t know, maybe we should just knock and see if everything is okay.”

“No way, Charles. We’ll call security from our room, and they can check.”

The security guard was knocking on their door five minutes later. The guard, almost as old as they were, didn’t seem too impressed. “Are you sure it wasn’t a loud TV, or maybe kids playing around?” Their thin-lipped frowns were his only answer. He gave in. “Okay, okay, I’ll go check.”

He went to Room 306 and knocked discretely, and after several seconds the door was opened by a strikingly attractive brunette in a satin nightgown. He inhaled deeply, stood straight, sucked in his stomach, and attempted to adopt a more officious demeanor.  “Hello, I’m James Dugan, security for the hotel,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a report of a possible disturbance coming from this room, maybe somebody screaming?” 

Her expression serene, she answered softly, “I’m here alone, Mr. Dugan. My name is Estrella.  I didn’t hear anything, maybe I had the TV on too loud. But you’re welcome to come in and check if you like.” 

It took him only a minute to verify that no one else was in the hotel room. Although he was at least 35 years the woman’s senior, he felt it strangely difficult to leave. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, miss.” He looked down at her distended and bulging abdomen, his feigned professionalism forgotten. “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am you’re as big as my wife Betty was with my son Johnny. Looks like you’re expecting pretty soon.” 

The woman’s radiant smile warmed him. “He’s a big boy, but he’ll last a little while longer in there. I took real good care of him.”

Warmed by her presence, the security guard reluctantly took his leave. “You have a nice evening, ma’am. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” 

He returned to the old couple’s room and updated them and advised he would check any other occupied rooms along the corridor. After leaving he stood musing for several seconds in the hallway. If he were 30-35 years younger, he would have been following that Estrella woman around like a puppy dog.

           

Estrella finished packing the suitcase, placing the rest of her clothes on top of David’s. Securing the pendant back around her slim neck, she patted her distended belly tenderly; it was already slightly smaller. But David had been a big man; she’d be nourished for a good month or so. As with the countless others, they were now united, together as one. For the seductive and uncontainable goddess—once worshiped by a long dead civilization and known by many names over the millennia—that’s the way it had always been.

 

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The Camera

 

THE CAMERA

 

 

Nestled among the towering pines of the Jemez National Forest, the picturesque mountain cabin harbored nostalgic memories for Justin Solomon. He couldn’t have chosen a better place.  

Although he’d rented the cabin for two weeks, he was sure his spreading pancreatic cancer would qualify that as a bad investment. He smiled. Not that it made much difference, anyway. Like they said, “you can’t take it with you.”

The radiation and chemotherapy treatments had been discontinued; the doctors gave him six months to live, and he’d already maxed that out. Justin was lucid enough to realize that the end was near. He’d been like the walking dead for the last ten years, wandering through the days, months, and years like some specter, with only the slightest contact with the world around him. He often wondered if he’d gone insane.  

Justin dropped his exhausted, emaciated 6’2” frame into the large, overstuffed chair. Once an athletic 225 pounds, he was now a wheezing 140 and draped in clothing several sizes too large. The doctors encouraged him to check into a hospice facility, but he had declined. There was little baggage to carry into the rustic cabin but limping up the wooden porch stairs with his few possessions completely drained him. 

This had been their “retreat,” and now he was here to spend his last days with her. With his memories of her, anyway. He looked down at the cardboard box next to the chair, a box containing their photos and albums, images of their life together, reflections of his memories.

Megan had died ten years before, but Justin continued talking to her as if she had never left. He had aged more than those ten years warranted, his hair graying, his body stooping, his gait and speech hesitant and unsure. People came to think of him as just a crazy old man, wandering the streets, vacant-eyed, muttering to himself. It was ironic; the cancer that had ravaged his body over the last year would finally be his means of escape.     

Through the open window, he listened to the silence of the forest, broken only by the sighing of the wind in the tall pines surrounding the cabin. They rented the cabin several times during their marriage, to escape the stress of her job at the University of New Mexico. Good memories, but then all his memories of Megan were good—except at the end. 

Justin squeezed his eyes shut to block the tears. He whispered, “I’m so sorry Megan, please forgive me.” 

The dark images of that last night entwined their terrifying tendrils into his mind. He shook his head and pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to keep the horrific pictures out of his head. Justin gritted his teeth, rose painfully, and put away his meager supplies. 

“Okay Megan, let me get a little organized here, then I’ll sort through all those pictures.” 

His memory lane had been so well traveled over the past decade he needed no prodding to walk down it again. His images of her were stuck in a closed-circuit, continuous loop in his often faltering mind. Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t much room for anything else. But that was okay with him. 

Justin had managed to keep down a peanut butter sandwich earlier in the day; he didn’t eat much anymore. He was well stocked with the painkillers, morphine, and oxycodone. Drugs that were fighting a losing battle against the painful onslaught on his body. Between them and the spreading disease, his appetite had become a casualty.   

It was early evening and he was tired from the drive, but he wanted to look over some of the photos. Slumped in the easy chair, he browsed two albums, stopping, and commenting to Megan as if she were present. He hesitated with his hand on one, shaking his head, but it made him smile. The two of them were skydiving. “I still don’t know how you got me to do that, Princess.”   

The next photograph framed them, waving to the camera from the floor of the Grand Canyon. Then, the two of them, hand in hand, crossing the finish line of the City Half Marathon. There were several at University Arena, Megan in her red University blazer and black slacks and he in his Campus Police uniform. In another, a picture of her, her smile radiant, right after she had received the news of her promotion to Director of Special Events at the University. 

He ran his hand over the picture lightly. “I had a crush on you the first time I ever saw you.  It took me a year to get the nerve to ask you out.”

When he first met Megan, she was the Assistant Director of Special Events. She was handing out assignments and giving instructions to personnel before a basketball game. He had been on his University Police job for all of two weeks, a retiree from the Albuquerque Police Department. His twenty-year career there had established a habit that sabotaged his retirement after only two months.   

Justin remembered being introduced to her.  He thought her the prettiest girl he had ever seen, although at age twenty-six, “girl” was certainly a misnomer. Soft-spoken, with dark hair matching her expressive eyes and dark complexion, he discovered later that her mother was a native Hawaiian. Megan’s lineage could be traced back through her mother to former kings and queens of the Islands, but her mother married a U. S. serviceman, so Megan figured that nixed the whole royalty thing. 

Justin liked to call her Princess, and on their first anniversary gave her a bracelet inscribed with her full name: Princess Megan Malu Makahilahila Solomon. The inscription cost almost as much as the bracelet. She had laughed in her soft, melodic way, a laugh that made people smile even though they didn’t know why. He loved to make her happy…  

Justin rummaged through the cardboard box and came up with more loose photos. He carefully placed them in the album. He had left instructions to forward these and a few other personal items of Megan’s to her parents in Michigan after his death.

He came across a close-up photo of her, a half-smile on her lips, eyes locked on the camera.  Justine grinned and sighed. “Ahhh… my princess… what chance did I have against those beautiful eyes of yours?” 

Assigned to various sporting and entertainment events around campus, he had frequent contact with Megan. She was a woman whose eyes mirrored her emotions: confidence and self-assurance most of the time, frustration, and anger on the rare occasions when someone disappointed her. But disillusionment and pain also appeared in those brown depths when she was bypassed for a promotion at the University. Her unexpected vulnerability was the final push. A day later, stammering and mumbling, he asked her out.

Throwing her head back and laughing she’d said, “It’s about time!”

That had caught him off guard. “Uh… what do you mean…?”

“You’ve been following me around like a puppy dog for the better part of a year.  I’d given up on you, I didn’t think you would ever go for it.”

With her, he reached the pinnacle of his life, a crest that lasted almost five years.  Those years outweighed all those that came before; they married six months after their first date. Megan was the last piece of the puzzle completing his life.  

They talked about names for their children. She wanted at least two, a boy and a girl, but felt she needed to earn her M.B.A. Degree and land the Director’s job first. She achieved both, the last coming only two weeks before… he reached for the bottle of morphine and quickly dry-swallowed two tablets. 

Justin placed the photo in the album and reached back into the box, pulling out an old digital camera. It took him a second before he remembered he’d bought it at a local Wal-Mart a week before that final night at the theater ten years ago. It was a deal he couldn’t pass up, a discontinued model, twenty-five percent off.  He jumped at the offer but, if he remembered correctly, had only used it once—on their last night together.

He’d purchased AAA batteries on the drive up and now inserted them in the camera. Still, Justin was mildly surprised when the camera turned on and the screen lit up. 

There were only four pictures in the memory, all from that last night at the theater, all taken outside in the courtyard. His favorite was of Megan standing near the entrance with the night-time crowd, grinning and waving at the camera, proudly preening in a stylish new red dress, a beautiful, white lace shawl draped around her shoulders and trailing down her back. The lights from the antique lamp poles lining the courtyard and walkways highlighted her beauty. She was exquisite. His heart had ached to look at her then, just as it now pined looking at her picture.  

Exhaustion gripped Justin, finishing him for the night. He shuffled off to the first bedroom, the one he and Megan always used when they stayed there. It afforded the best view of the forest.    

 

The nightmare came as it always did, as it always had. It was burned forever into his mind, etched indelibly into the very fabric of his being. Nothing he had done since that night blurred or dimmed the horror. He moaned in his sleep; an echo of the pain deeply embedded within him.

On their way home from the campus theater and performance of the musical “Cats,” they stopped at a local 7-Eleven store. Megan wanted to pick up milk for the morning, and Justin needed to use the restroom. He had been washing his hands when he heard the yelling outside. 

He ran out, his world forever turned into a ragged, broken film reel, a surrealistic montage of jumpy, disjointed images:

Two wild-eyed meth-heads standing at the counter with guns drawn, aiming at the cashier, screaming almost incoherently for money.        

Drawing his off-duty gun, aiming at them, yelling for them to freeze, to drop their weapons.   

Drugged out of their minds, eyes blazing, turning, and firing wildly, a fuselage of bullets, one grazing his shoulder. 

Returning fire.

One robber falling to the floor by the counter, the other firing over his shoulder as he staggered towards the door, before finally collapsing.   

Walking forward, gun trained on their immobile bodies, glancing down the aisles, yelling for Megan. 

Saw her crumpled on the floor, a growing blossom of blood staining the front of her dress a darker red.      

Yelling and screaming from far away.  Coming from him.

Holding Megan in his arms, one hand frantically trying to stem the blood seeping from her chest.

Her breathing loud and labored as her punctured lung struggled for air. 

Her lips unnaturally red from blood.

Her panicked, beseeching eyes wide in fear and pain. Looking at him. Pleading with him.

Now, blood on the floor.

Coughing, more blood on her lips.

Struggling to breathe.

Another ragged breath, gasping, choking.

Then another.

Her eyes frantic, begging.

Her hand, clutching his arm.

Finally, a rasping exhale, and then…

No more.

Her hand fell away. 

Crying. Screaming. Welling up from deep within him. 

When the police arrived minutes later, Justin was still on the floor, holding and rocking her, talking to her, begging her not to go. They had to pull him away.

He never stopped screaming inside. 

 

The next morning, he drank his coffee on the covered front porch and even managed a short walk down to the road to get a better view of the mountains. The autumn air was cool and crisp, the scent of pines sharp and fresh and the silence complete, except for the occasional falling pinecones, dislodged by the fluffy-tailed, furry grey and white squirrels that frequented the forest. By the time he returned to the cabin exhaustion had claimed him and he slept well into the afternoon.

He managed to keep down a small bowl of vegetable soup that evening before slumping down onto a padded rocking chair, to again travel his and Megan’s memory lane. “Well, Princess, where shall we revisit tonight?  Maybe the Grand Canyon?  How about the white-water rafting trip on the Animas River in Colorado?” 

While he was reminiscing, he absently turned on the little silver camera and skimmed through the four pictures. “Well, Megan, I vote for the—” He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the fourth picture on the camera. Something was different.  

He scanned back, figuring he had missed it the night before—there must have been a fifth one. But no, there were only four. Justin stared at the picture. He remembered that she had been in the crowd, smiling and waving at the camera. He was sure of it. But in the picture he was now looking at she was apart from the crowd, no longer smiling, running towards him, towards the camera. 

Maybe he was taking too much morphine. Maybe the cancer had leeched into his brain. He shuddered, shut off the camera, closed his eyes, and laid his head back.  “I don’t think it will be long now. Please be there, Megan” 

He let his mind drift…. They were hiking down into the Grand Canyon where they would spend the night on the floor of the Canyon in each other’s arms, looking at the stars, listening to the sounds of the Colorado River, musing on the ageless carving of the Canyon’s walls….

 

It was almost noon before he managed to get out of bed. He sat on the porch for a while but was too weak to make the trek down to the road. He tried a sandwich for lunch but threw it back up. Justin limped into the living room, looked at the photo albums, the cardboard box, and the camera sitting on the table. 

Finally, licking his lips with apprehension, he picked it up and turned it on.  He scanned through to the fourth picture, a gasping, choking sound escaping his throat. Justin dropped the camera. Staggering, he reeled back and fell to the floor and sat there, his breath rasping in his chest, his heart racing. 

Justin crawled back, picked it up with trembling hands, and looked again at the image. In the picture Megan was no longer outside the theater—she wasn’t even on the University campus anymore—but he recognized where she was.

The pine strewn land to the front of the cabin sloped down for about a hundred yards to the dirt road, Horseshoe Loop. Across the road was an open, grassy field that stretched approximately a half mile before the trees started again, sloping upward into the forested foothills of the mountains. In the picture, Megan was on the far side of the field running towards the cabin. She was still wearing her red dress although she had lost her white shawl somewhere. 

He groaned and pulled himself up on the arm of the couch and peered through the picture window towards the open field; there was a clear view from this vantage point. It was near sundown, but he could see that there was no one in the field. 

He looked back at the camera image of the running Megan. He knew he was hallucinating. “Megan, I’m sorry. I wanted to spend my last days and hours with you remembering everything.  Now I can’t even seem to do that.” 

He took several more of the morphine pills and, sobbing quietly, fell asleep on the couch.

 

Justin awakened late in the afternoon of the next day. He was too weak to get off the sofa or to eat. He stared at the little silver camera on the table until it was almost dark. Then he picked it up and turned it on. 

He focused his eyes and stared at the small screen without emotion. Megan had made it to the road near the dirt driveway. Her hair, which she had worn pulled back and tied with a pearl clasp that last night, had come undone and was flying loose around her head. Her red dress was flowing out behind her. It appeared she was crying. 

Justin didn’t bother looking out the window. He knew she wasn’t there. She had been dead for ten years, had died in his arms. He knew his mind, his sanity—what remained of it—was slipping away. Justin knew he would not make it through the night. The pain had become very bad, in both body and mind. 

He took several more of the morphine pills, rolled off the couch onto his hands and knees, crawled to the bedroom, and made it onto the bed. One last time. “Please be there, Princess… please be there….” 

Justin dreamed his last dreams. A kaleidoscope of memories slowly unreeled through his mind. Somewhere he imagined he heard a door shut and tried to rouse himself to consciousness but couldn’t. He slowly began to fade. 

He could smell Megan’s perfume, the warmth of her body against his, the faint sensation of her breath on his neck—like the caress of a subtle breeze on the leaves of a tree.  And her voice in his ear, the fading, faintest of sighs, “I’m here. I’ve always been here. I’ve always been waiting for you. It’s time to come home now.”

 

“Hey, Jodi, wait up.” Where his girlfriend got all her energy, Mark had no idea. They must have trudged over a mile up Horseshoe Loop, a dirt road that led higher into the mountains. Now she was running across an open field whooping and yelling like a young kid. Mark had to admit the reds and yellows of the turning autumn leaves were beautiful in the brilliant afternoon sunshine and crisp mountain air. Still, he would rather have been back at their cabin with Paul and Maryanne having a beer on the front porch, firing up the barbeque, readying themselves for an evening of party time.

The cabin was rented for the weekend, a final charging of their collegiate batteries before the fall semester at the University got into full swing. He and Paul were juniors, both Jodi and Maryanne sophomores. It had been hard enough for them to coordinate their schedules, and now Jodi was running around the countryside like some eighteenth-century explorer. He would have much preferred being back at the cabin “spooning,” a quaint term he remembered his grandmother using, a forerunner of the “necking” terminology of his parents.

Mark picked up his pace to a slow trot in the brown, mid-shin high grass. Thirty feet ahead of him Jodi had stopped and was looking down at something on the ground. He huffed up next to her. “What did you find this time, babe?”

“It’s beautiful,” she replied, more to herself than Mark. “It almost glows.”

The dazzling, white lace shawl was lying in the grass like a delicate spray of snow. A gentle breeze wafted across the field, ruffling the fabric, and sending wavelike ripples through it.

Jodi knelt and picked it up cautiously as if she thought it might disintegrate in her hands. When it didn’t, she shook it slightly to dislodge several stray pieces of grass stuck to it.  “I wonder what something this nice is doing out in the middle of nowhere?” she said.

“Especially since we’ve only seen a few cabins this far up Horseshoe Loop,” Mark added.

Jodi swung the shawl out and around like a wave, draping it over her shoulders. “How do I look?” she asked.

She was wearing an old red sweatshirt with the slogan ‘Women Who Behave Rarely Make History’ emblazoned across the front. Even so, Mark thought the elegant wrap somehow made her look even more beautiful. He shook his head. “Jodi, you could wear a sack and you’d still look gorgeous.”

Jodi took his hand, stood on her toes, and kissed him. “That’s my Sir Galahad.” Hand in hand they started back across the meadow, happy and carefree. “No more exploring, this has made my day,” she said, beaming. “There’s no telling where it came from or who it belongs to, so I’ll just call it a ‘gift from heaven.’”

 

###

Dr. Frosty

 

 DR. FROSTY

 

           

The snowman stood glistening in the glow from the porch light. Eli Solomon, his breath misting in the twenty-degree air around him, watched the slow graying of the 6 a.m. darkness with a growing sense of urgency. He and the snowman, Dr. Frosty, were ready for their trip, but with a six-hour drive still ahead of them Eli just hoped that it wasn’t too late.

The rented, refrigerated truck was backed into their driveway, the cargo door open and the liftgate lowered, ready to receive its important load. Eli had the hand-operated forklift ready to move the sturdy wooden pallet upon which the snowman rested.

He and his wife, Amy, had created Dr. Frosty the prior day. He stood almost seven feet tall, of traditional snowman countenance and garb. Charcoal from the past summer’s barbeques created his eyes and a smiling mouth, the buttons down the front from the red decorative rocks taken from their flower beds. The snowman sported a large, plastic carrot nose and tree branches for arms. A bright red scarf circled his thick neck, and a regal, black top-hat rested upon his head. 

Frosty had acquired the ‘Doctor’ appellation from Amy. A stethoscope gleamed from around the snowman’s neck, above and over his scarf, donated by a friend of Amy’s at the Cloudcroft Hospital. An old, black doctor’s bag would soon adorn one of Dr. Frosty’s arms…

Amy came outside but stopped several feet away. She was holding the doctor’s bag with a white, mitten-clad hand, the words ‘Dr. Frosty’ stenciled in white on both sides of the bag. A red, knit hat was pulled down over her ears, strands of her dark hair fighting their way loose around the edges. She was staring at the snowman—seemingly mesmerized—her free hand clutching the front of her heavy winter coat. 

Amy’s luminous, brown eyes reflected the light from the porch, eyes now even brighter as they brimmed with tears. Eli didn’t know if it was from the cold, or if she was on the verge of crying. He walked over to her.

She looked at him, her expression blank. “Do you think it’s true, what we talked about yesterday?” she asked.

“If you mean about inanimate objects and power transference then, yes, I do,” he answered.

Amy was silent, staring at Dr. Frosty.

Eli cleared his throat and recapped the gist of their past conversation, “I truly believe that love and good intentions can be transferred into an inanimate object, a creation that can execute those feelings without the benefit of their creator being present. In this case, Dr. Frosty.”

Eli didn’t know if Amy had heard him. She graced him with a small, sad smile, wiping at a tear escaping down her cheek. “I just got off the phone with the Andersons. Their daughter had a difficult night; they weren’t sure she was going to make it. She said to be careful, but to please hurry, they’ll be expecting you.” 

Amy hooked the handle of the bag over the snowman’s tree-limb arm, resting her hand on his rounded chest for a moment before continuing. “You boys better get a move on; you have a long drive ahead of you.”        

Eli knew there was something more behind her tears but remained silent. He began the process of loading Dr. Frosty onto the truck—managing the operation without mishap—and secured the big snowman with restraining ropes as best he could.

Once he was finished, he looked over at Amy. She was still standing near the front porch with her arms crossed in front of her, looking small and frail. He walked over and noticed that her eyes still glistened. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

“I can’t. I don’t think I could do it… not face to face. It’s different from the Internet.” Standing on her toes to stretch her 5’4” frame up to his bending down 6’2, she hugged him and pressed her cold lips to his. “You’d better get going; the sun’s coming up. I’ll call once more and tell them you’re on your way.”

Eli was walking to the truck when she called out to him, “Wait!” Amy ran up to him and gave him another kiss, longer, warmer. Now, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. She turned and ran back to the house.

Eli’s mind churned with emotion. He knew what Amy had been thinking. It was not only the little girl in Tucson but about their own daughter Mikaela, who had died over two years ago. She had died at the age of six after a two-year battle with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Amy was devastated, never fully recovered, never managed to let go of their little girl. She refused to seek help, talk about Mikaela, or discuss the possibility of any more children in their future. Eli worried that the shadow cast over Amy’s soul would defy the passage of time. 

Eli’s struggles with the loss of their only child had been long and agonizing—the scars would always be with him—but eventually, he moved forward out of the shadows. But Amy had not made the journey with him.     

For the last two years, Amy had immersed herself in the blogs and Facebook pages of families with terminally ill young children. She corresponded with several families, commiserated, offered advice, and helped organize fundraisers for those so tragically stricken.   

Death, inevitably, claimed those innocent young, and Amy would move on to the next child and family in need of solace but finding no peace for herself. Eli didn’t know if this emotional commitment was therapeutic, or just prolonging her pain. He could only hope and pray that her involvement with the plight of these children was helping her.   

As he pulled the truck out onto the highway and headed west, Eli could not help but wonder if the time had come, if Amy was ready to move forward. Eli prayed that maybe…

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.08.2019
ISBN: 978-3-7487-5510-4

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