The Star Child (The Star Child Series) (8 page)

I tried to write to all of you when I got here, but one day, when I pretended to take my medication, I overheard the nurse say that she was given orders to destroy all of my correspondence. I have no doubt that your father is behind this as well.

I was recently moved to a new room though, and it’s probably the nicest part of this place. It’s circular, with a lot of light, which I enjoy. It’s lonely here, though. I have no roommate and, as I’m arguably the only sane person here, no one to talk to. I’ve gotten very good at pretending to take my medication and trying to look disoriented most of the time. Although it probably would dull the pain of the cancer, I prefer to remain lucid.

As I write this letter, nine hundred and one days have passed and I don’t know if you’ll ever see this message. A new nurse here is kind and brought me some paints. She’s promised to get this to your Gran, though I don’t know if she’ll follow through with my request. I can only hope.

I would give my life to be with you every day. I miss you more than anything.

Mom

My hand was shaking as I held the letter. “Bastard. You bastard, Father!” My voice rang in the empty room. The women’s retreat popped into my head like it was yesterday; I remembered her mentioning it. What type of twisted person could do that to someone else? The answer was simple:
Stephen.

More important, was there a chance that my mother was still alive? Could she still be in the world after all this time? Unable to wrap my head around that concept, I realized with shock that it was early evening and I’d obviously not noticed the passage of time. Exhausted both physically and mentally, I fell back into the chair unthinking and, though my stomach protested, sleep won out. My eyes closed against the pain of it all.

***

In the dream, I stood alone on a weathered-brick road. Ahead of me, there was a long drive that was surrounded on both sides with open fields. After I’d walked about a half mile, a gray stone building appeared in the distance. From the outside, it seemed about four stories tall.

A cylindrical tower on one side of the building gave it the look of a castle, but the contrasting sections of the building were too contemporary to mark it as ancient. This structure was probably early 1900s. A series of wrought iron fencing framed both the building and a large yard, which appeared to be overgrowing with shrubbery. This was the hospital where my mother was a patient.

It had a derelict quality about it, what with the overgrown foliage and generally untidy appearance. Despite the fanciful tower, the building still managed to look cold and institutional. The front gates were locked, as I expected.

With a quick backward glance, I started to walk the perimeter. My explorations took me over a wide stretch of land that surrounded the place, and it wasn’t long before I found a break in the gate. After squeezing through the narrow opening, I walked across a bricked courtyard before reaching the backdoor. It was also locked.

A rusted fence bordered the area, dotted with welcoming signage with the words “Keep Out” emblazoned on the front in blood-red lettering. Thin wire held them in place. I walked up to the sign that seemed to have the most deteriorated supports and yanked hard. Nothing. I braced my foot in the opening in one of the links and pulled hard. Nothing.

Placing both hands firmly on either side of the sign, I shoved my foot into the space in the fence and pulled with all I had. A metallic pop sounded the release of the sign from the fence and I came down hard on my butt. Cursing, I stood up and pulled one of the wires from an opening in the sign, before tossing the latter to the ground. I bent the wire into exactly the shape I needed. At that point, it was a small matter to pick the lock, and I was inside the kitchen.

The place was undeniably spooky. The darkened room through which I walked was lined with shadows. It appeared as though it had been looted; everything of value had obviously been removed. It was late afternoon, but the overcast weather minimized the amount of light that filtered into the place. The flashlight on one of the counters was a welcome sight.

Once I exited the kitchen and reached the main room, it was a bit brighter, with floor to ceiling windows on either side of the aluminum door letting in larger quantities of light. These walls were painted in cheerful pastels, as though someone had cared enough to brighten things up. Twin hallways, which seemed to lead to joint common areas, flanked the sides of a massive oak staircase. The wood was rich in color and tone, but the absence of carpet on the linoleum-covered steps took away any sense of hominess. As I looked up the stairs, I noticed several murals of nature scenes along the wall that ran the length of the first landing. Again, it was pretty obvious that someone had at least tried to make an effort to spruce things up.

Despite my lack of desire to remain in this place, this dream, I walked up the steps, noting the patches on the walls and watermarks on the ceiling. Searching, I walked in and out of many of the rooms on the second floor. However, there was no evidence of my mother in any of these rooms. Every room here was empty, completely cleared out. Upon reaching the third floor, I found the exact same thing: nothing.

From the outside, I could tell that there were at least four floors. However, I couldn't find the door that would take me up a level. I walked the length of the third floor again and again, searching for the steps, an elevator shaft, anything. The fourth floor could even be a façade. No, her room was round; she’d said so. I had to figure out how to get up there.

Where is her room?
I was about to give up when I finally noticed the old mattress that was shoved against one of the corners on the third floor. Propelling the mattress to the floor, I found a very narrow doorway. Without pausing, I pushed through the opening.

Taking to the stairs, I counted each step as I walked. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. The sun was starting to come out again and its rays illuminated the entire chamber before me when I reached the eighth and final step.

My breath hitched and I fought back the tears that were trying to force their way out of me. Frozen, I’d stopped in my tracks, only able to look around at the chamber in which I stood. It was incredible; there were no walls anywhere. There were probably walls at one time, but now it was more like one big mural covering every square inch of where a wall would be.

There was a tall ladder that stood at the foot of the bed; it stretched up to the top of the ten-foot ceiling. The circular room had three small but bright windows that looked out over the rolling hills and shimmering lakes.

Who could have painted this?
However, my thought was answered when I saw my own childhood likeness painted in one of the murals, sitting in a field of flowers. A likeness of Roger sat in a tree, laughing.

This was my mother’s room, I had no doubt. I remembered her painting periodically during my childhood, but I’d no idea of the depth of her abilities. It was clear that they were beyond anything that I’d remembered from my youth.

My mother lived in this room, was trapped in this room, but she painted. My mother had a gift for finding happiness in almost any situation. It would be so like her to find peace in the middle of hell. Now, however, the room was empty, and I stood alone with the realization that she was no longer in the world.

***

My eyes popped open. Transported back to Gran’s, I awoke with a start and fell out of the chair. Sunlight was streaming in through the ivory lace curtains on the windows while birds chirped loudly. It was early morning and the air was freezing; the breeze blew strongly. I’d left the window open all night. Apparently, I’d spent the night in the attic chair.

Placing my head in my hands, I pushed my fingers through my tangled mass of hair as I stood up, pressing my eyes tightly shut. My stomach growled and I knew that I should’ve gone downstairs to get something to eat, but my legs wouldn’t move. I tried to get past the oncoming rush of emotion, but to no avail.

Then my legs buckled and I sat back down again and opened my eyes. The tears came then and I hated them. They made me feel weak, a prisoner of my own grief. Yet I knew there would be no stopping them, so I leaned back in the chair and let them fall.

When the moment passed, I wiped at my face casually with my shirtsleeve. In the morning, the room was bright, with rainbow-colored dots of light glancing off every surface in the room. That was when I noticed the rainbow pattern on the ceiling. It was bright and enchanting. I identified the source as a single crystal that hung by the window. My mother loved crystals and so did Gran. Both of them claimed that crystals were magical.

My gaze returned to the rainbow and this time I followed its path along the ceiling. It ran in a thin line down the wall, where it intersected with a small framed letter. The frame held my attention for a long time until I realized that I wasn’t looking at a letter. It was a framed piece of sheet music. Standing, more steadily this time, I crossed the dusty floor to get a closer look.

As I approached the frame, I identified the piece of music immediately.

Come walk with me

Along the sea

And search for shells on the sand with me

What magick we will find today

Take my hand, little one

Come and walk with me.

“Come walk with me…” I began, singing the first few bars of the melody while unconsciously reaching up to touch the glass in the frame. My voice broke, though, and I found that I couldn’t continue.

It had been our song. My mother would sing it to me when we went hunting for seashells on the beach at Gran’s or back home during trips to the shore. She also used the song to sing me to sleep. Closing my eyes, I listened to my memory of her voice in my head. It was still there, though the integrity of it had faded with time.

When I looked at the music again, I decided to take the frame down to my room. Placing a hand under its wooden exterior, I slid it up the wall slightly and pulled it off the hook. What I found caught me off guard.

The frame was concealing a hole in the wall behind where the picture had been placed. A skilled carpenter didn’t create the opening; it was crude and looked as though someone just started hammering away. There were pale pencil marks on either side of the frame’s position, an aid in the creation of the hiding place.

Peering in, I could see something white that stood out against the dark interior. Without hesitation, I reached inside and grabbed a stack of letters. My mother’s handwriting stood out as they came into view. Searching the opening again resulted in finding a long thin box. Needing the exterior light, I carried it to the window, opening the box as I went.

Inside was a pendant, which appeared very old. It was made of gold with some sort of unfamiliar symbol emblazoned on its weathered exterior. I was about to put it back into the box when I noticed the small note in the box, which read simply:
For Kellen
.

Though the pendant was a nice gesture, I was unsure of why someone would have left this for me. It was my mother’s handwriting, but how could she have known I’d find this secret spot? After searching for some other explanation and finding none, I shoved the pendant into the left pocket of my jeans.

My attention returned to the opening in the wall. Pointing the flashlight into the hole, I found two other large stacks of letters, which I grabbed. Many of them were addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting, which brought a smile to my face.

***

With the contents of the hiding spot in my hands, I headed to the kitchen for breakfast. After taking some leftover ham from the fridge and pouring a cup of strong coffee, I walked outside into the bright backyard.

A warm sensation brushed against my leg the moment I crossed the threshold. Glancing down, I jumped when the dog from the previous night rested his head on my knee. It was a setter.

“You're real, right?" I patted him on the head.

The dog whined in response but didn't move. Not having any experience with dogs, I wasn’t sure what to do. Stroking the top of his head seemed to be working, so I kept it up. After a moment of this, I noticed that his attention was focused on my food and I couldn’t help laughing.

“Hey, buddy. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

The dog responded with a distinct nod, so I fed him the rest of my breakfast there under the warmth of the sun.

“You’re a good dog.” I smiled as I ran my fingers through his silky fur. I didn’t feel as though I was the same person who went into the attic yesterday. I’d learned too much to go back to being the person that I was before. The most important thing was beating against the inside of my skull repeatedly and giving me a headache; my mother didn’t die when I was a child.

Walking back into the house, I got two bowls from the kitchen and filled one with ham and the other with water for the dog. The dog bestowed upon me a grateful kiss on the hand, which I accepted willingly from my new friend. We ate in companionable silence. Though I tried to persuade him to come into the house, he backed away, preferring the freedom of the outside. After a few attempts, I went inside to call Alistair.

CHAPTER SIX

THE CAVE

“I went looking for her. Before, you know?” Alistair said over the phone. He’d listened patiently before launching into his own explanation of events following Addison’s supposed death. “We, both your gran and I, never quite believed that Addison had died. Somehow, I think we sensed that there was more to it than that. Maybe it was wrong to jump to those types of conclusions. However, all of my interactions with Stephen compelled me to immediately look toward foul play. We hired a private detective, but he never found anything. Your gran never told me about the letters. I don’t blame her for hiding those.”