The Lost Door (20 page)

“David?”

“Hmm?” He looked up. She was staring at him expectantly.

“Your wife?”

“My wife…” he exhaled. “Car accident.”

“Bad?”

“Pretty bad. She’s been in a coma for over a month.” He had nothing left to say and wanted to get back to Lilly, so he politely excused himself. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Abigail, but I really should get going.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, it was nice to meet you.”

“You too. And I hope your husband pulls through.” He was about to turn, then said as an afterthought, “I’m sure he will.” With that he left the small and lonely room.

He was deep in thought walking on autopilot back to Lilly’s room when a soft voice coming from his wife’s room brought him back to reality. He didn’t recognize the voice, and when he entered a man in a white suit, pressed black button down shirt, and radiant red tie stood at the side of his wife’s bed. He was leaning over and speaking quietly into her ear, arms at his sides. David was suddenly nervous, an instinct to protect his wife from an unknown predator.

“Excuse me?” he said approaching the bed. “Can I help you?”

The man cocked his head and gave a tight smile. He erected himself fluidly. “Hello.”

“Hello,” David responded cautiously.

The man’s smile never wavered, just watched David from the opposite side of the bed, head swiveling as David came to the opposite side of the bed.

When the stranger said nothing David asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was just visiting your beautiful wife, Mr. Rottingham.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t, but your wife and I are old friends. We knew each other as children.”

“And how did you know she was here?”

“The papers. I would have been here sooner, but work prevented it.” He glanced at her, touched her hand. “We were having the loveliest conversation.”

His expression softened with hope. “She… has she spoken?”

“Oh yes. In fact, she’s speaking right now.”

Hope dissolved to disappointment. This man, whoever he was, was obviously not well. “I think you should be going, Mr…?”

The man glided around the bed, offering his hand. “DeMarcus.”

David didn’t accept his hand, so the stranger dropped it back to his side, seemingly unfazed by the rejection.

“Why are you here?”

“To visit is all.”

David didn’t buy that he was just here to visit, didn’t get that vibe. There was a malicious lust in his eye. He’d have to let the staff know that under no circumstance was Lilly to receive any visitors without his approval. “I think you should be going.”

“Very well, Mr. Rottingham. But before I go, what’s your wife’s prognosis?”

“They haven’t given one.”

“I see. Good day.” DeMarcus headed for the door then stopped and turned. Still smiling he said, “I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Rottingham,” and breezed out the door.

A shiver went down his spine as David glanced at Lilly—she seemed unmolested. He wanted to know who this stranger was that was in his wife’s room. He walked out but DeMarcus was nowhere to be seen. David hurried to the nurse’s station where a frumpy woman was reading a magazine.

“Excuse me, but who was that man visiting my wife?”

The nurse looked at him over the magazine. “Man? You’re wife hasn’t had any visitors.”

“But… there was a man in her room. Surely you saw him.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but no one came by.”

“Are you sure you didn’t miss him?”

She gave him an annoyed look. “I’m sure,” she said, and went back to her magazine.

Knowing it was pointless to argue he went back to Lilly’s room and sat down in the chair next to the bed.
What a strange man,
he thought,
and obtuse
. Who was he, and why was he visiting her?

He gave Lilly a sideways glance, took her hand in his. “Lilly? Can you hear me sweetie?”

Your wife told me.

“Give me a squeeze if you can hear me.” Yet there was no movement, not even a twitch, no indication she had heard.

She’s speaking right now.

How could he possibly know that? The man was delusional, had to be. The nurse said no one was there, but she’d probably been too engrossed in her magazine. Yes… he certainly needed to make it clear to the hospital that their security was lax and unacceptable.

I look forward to seeing you again.

We’ll see about that, DeMarcus. The next time we meet you better be more forthcoming.

* * *

Willem and Elliott walked through their neighbor’s field. It had been a dry season, so the normally tall stalks of corn where truncated and gold instead of their usual green. They were careful not to break any for fear of the wrath of Mr. Feltcher, an ill-tempered man who was always cussing and complaining about the difficulty of farming.

The brothers were headed to the old willow tree. It was a sanctuary of sorts; a place they liked to pretend was a secret hideout. It was a ways off from Willow Creek Bridge—along the edge of the creek itself—and offered good shade and good fishing. It wasn’t hard to find, yet they never saw any other kids there so claimed it as their own.

Mrs. Shelby had come through and their mother had started working at Manny’s the previous week. Sam had been invited over to his friend’s house for the day, so on her way into town she had dropped him off. It was odd not having her home, but both boys understood why it had happened.

Willem looked for the umpteenth time at the flask Elliott carried. “Can I see it again?” he asked.

“Sure,” Elliott said and handed it over.

In the last month their mother had started to clear out their fathers things, storing some of it, tossing the rest. The things she decided to get rid of they sifted through, looking for anything that caught their attention. The flask had probably been a sore reminder of the decay that had been her marriage. Willem didn’t understand why Elliott wanted to hold onto something like this.

One side was an etching:
Amor Meus.
“What’s it mean?” He looked up at Elliott.

“Beats me.”

He shook it but whatever liquid it once contained no longer existed, either drunk by his father or poured out by his mother. “Why do you want to keep it?” Willem held it out to Elliott who took it back.

“It was dad’s.” He said it as if that made perfect sense, an obvious answer.

“I know, but
why?
”

“Because it was dad’s,” Elliott repeated, slower this time. “I can’t really explain it any more than that.” He must have had a confused look on his face because Elliott sighed. “This is something that was his. He touched it, he drank from it. Keeping it, I don’t know, makes me feel closer to him.”

The words made sense, but Willem had no such emotional connection to an object once possessed by his father. In fact, the idea of an emotional connection through a physical one was foreign to him. He had fond memories of his father, memories from before, but the pain the man had caused him over the last several years trumped those.

Time for a change in conversation.

“You know how mom always said it was better to tell the truth?”

“Sure.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Remember the night Mrs. Shelby was over?”

Elliott stopped and turned. At first Willem thought his brother was mad, but the softness of his face was understanding. “It’s okay to be worried, Willem. I am, mom is, and I’m sure Sam is too. The best thing we can do is help her around the house, okay? She’s got her hands full.”

“But she lied.”

“She didn’t lie, Willem. She was protecting you. She’s protecting all of us.”

“I don’t follow.”

His brother chose his words carefully. “What she told you was a lie, yes, but the reason is because she doesn’t want you worrying about her. She’s dealing with grownup stuff is all. Does that make sense?”

“Kind of.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Mom’s got it under control.”

Elliott put a reassuring hand on Willem’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. They continued their walk in silence, the sun beating down warming their skin. Cicada buzzed in the field, the stalk leaves rustling.

“Do you think we’ll ever see dad again?” asked Willem.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Dead or ran away, not sure which.”

Willem had wanted to run away but never had worked up the courage. Where would he go? How would he survive? His father disappearing had alleviated that desire.

“Why would he do that?” Willem wondered aloud.

“Sometimes people just decide it’s best, either for them or for their loved ones.”

“Who do you think he did it for? Him or us?”

Elliott didn’t respond. Willem was afraid his brother wouldn’t answer the question, but it was important to him. His brother finally said, “I like to believe he did it for us. What do you think?”

Up until this point he’d figured his father had died. He didn’t have an answer for his brother, not one he was satisfied with. He told Elliott as much.

“When you decide let me know,” Elliott finished.

They walked in silence a good ten minutes before seeing Willow Creek Bridge where someone was at its edge. A few minutes more and Willem recognized him—William—a boy in his class. Because their names were so similar their classmates often called them brothers. It annoyed Willem, but there wasn’t much he could do. Once something like that started it was almost impossible to stop. The two boys shared only one common interest and that was comic books, but Willem preferred DC while William liked Atlas Comics. They’d gotten into heated debates about it in the past. He didn’t want to pass him because he knew it would most certainly lead to another heated debate, one he preferred not to have today.

“You know, we don’t have to go to the hideout today. We can wait,” Willem said as nonchalantly as possible.

“Wait? Why? We’re almost there.”

“I know, it’s just… William.”

“Since when did you start using your own name like that?”

“
Will-ee-um!
” he enunciated.

“Oh!
Will-ee-um.
Got it. Who’s that?”

“Kid on the bridge.”

“You afraid of him?”

“Not afraid, I just don’t like him.”

“Why?”

After Willem explained, Elliott said without hesitation, “Well that’s silly.”

“It bothers me.”

“That they call you brothers or the comic thing?”

“Both.”

“Is he a bad person or something?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then come on.”

A few minutes later they were at the bridge. William was leaning against the side, fishing poll in hand, watching his bobber bounce along the surface of the flowing water. He glanced over. “Hey, Willem.”

“Hi.” He looked sheepishly at his brother who nudged him with his elbow. “What are you doing?”

He realized how stupid the question was the moment it escaped his lips. If William thought so he didn’t say.

“Fishing. Haven’t caught anything yet.”

“Do you ever?” he asked with mild contempt. Elliott nudged him again, this time hard. Willem glared.

“What do you pull out of here?” Elliott asked politely.

“Crappie mostly. Sometimes perch.”

“Willem here pulled out a bass once.” Willem looked at his brother who smiled at him. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Once last year,” he begrudgingly added.

“Really?” William seemed genuinely impressed. “Never caught a bass here. How big?”

“Fourteen incher.”

“Cool! Hey… you check out this month’s Uncanny Tales?”

Here we go,
thought Willem.

William had a strange liking for the weird and often picked up comics that focused on horror like
Uncanny Tales, Journey into Mystery,
and
Strange Tales.
Willem preferred the rival publisher who put out the likes of
Superman
and
Batman.

Willem said, “You know I don’t read those.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Well, no.”

“You really should. You might like them.”

“I don’t like horror just like you don’t like superheroes.”

“It’s not that I don’t like them. Scary is more interesting to me. I like the stuff that gets my blood pumping. Superheroes just don’t make me feel anything.”

Willem said unmaliciously, “You’re weird.” William just laughed.

“I know. I find the unknown creepy and wonderful. It’s more real to me than a man who can fly.”