The Wisherman (2 page)

Footsteps sounded through the upstairs hallway
, pulling Oliver from his thoughts. A few seconds later, the door to his bedroom swung open, and his mother stepped slowly inside the room as if the entire floor was made of eggshells. His mother's hair was tightly wound in a bun, much like her nerves usually were, with a sharp pencil stuck inside.  She was wearing her nurse's uniform, and her eyes were small and bloated from lack of sleep.

"
Oliver!" Her voice crackled with a mixture of concern and anger.

He swallowed hard, already
dreading the conversation. They were always the same. His mother would accuse him of lying--kindly, of course-- and then ask him why he'd done it. Are the kids at school mean to you? He would shake his head. What are your grades like, have you asked for help from your teachers? Is it a girl? The questions were hard and fast, and left no room from him to explain, and how could he? His mother would never believe him, and his father--he guffawed at the thought--would commit him to a mental hospital immediately. But more so, he wasn't sure if he believed himself. The strangeness of it all terrified him.

"We need to talk
, Oliver--" She paused.

His mother perched
lightly on the edge of his bed, her pause a not so subtle indication that it was his turn to speak. Oliver tore his eyes away from the window, getting one last glimpse of the girl before settling on his mother, his heart growing heavier by the second.

"I'm not lying, just so you know."

“
Then what are you doing, exactly? Oliver, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Honey, I would." He looked deep in his mother's eyes. In them, Oliver saw that she thought she was telling the truth, but he knew that it wasn't the case. She would never believe him, and she could not help him.

His mother grabbed his hand, and Oliver flinched. As he did, he saw a hurt ex
pression pass quickly over his mother's face, but she quickly recomposed herself.

"I want to come live with you." His mother dropped her eyes low.

"You know why that can't happen."
Because she didn't want it to.
A familiar unpleasant voice reared its head inside Oliver’s psyche.

"Well, I would be better there. I would go to scho
ol. I would do all my homework. You know I would. We could try it out. Please."

"We can talk about you moving in when we figure out what's wrong here." Oliver felt himself deflate again, if possible. He was sure that if he deflated anymore, he would become a concave person.

"Now, tell me. I know it's something." His mother looked at him expectantly, her eyes wide.

"I can't tell you."

"Oliver!"

"I mean it."

His mother stared at him, her expression one of defeat. "Then, I can't help you, Oliver."
She rose slowly, and without saying another word, she swept from the room.

Oliver let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and looked down at his hands. How could he tell his mother what was happening, if he himself had no idea?
He felt the familiar cloak of shame wrap itself around him and choke him.

It had all started r
ather innocuously, he supposed, about last summer. He'd been walking through the neighborhood park on his way to summer school, when Clarence, the school bully and all around degenerate had insisted that Oliver give him his lunch money. "I'm certain you don't need extra lunch." He wasn't sure why he'd said that, and when Clarence's fist connected with his mouth, he almost felt like he deserved it.

Once Clarence and his friends had gotten what they wanted, and Oliver was comfortably hanging upside down from a low hanging tree branch, secured only by his shoelaces, he had a thought. At the time, he'd attributed it to all the blood rushing to his scalp.
But, he'd made a wish. A simple one, at the time--of course, to get down from the tree.  No sooner than had the thought registered in his mind, did the air around him grow bitterly cold. Oliver had shivered at the sudden wind chill, which was strange for a summer day in July. The wind had come, sending Oliver's teeth chattering and whipping harshly at his exposed ankles. It was then that the wind became more forceful, and it was as if an invisible hand reached up to untie his shoe laces, and he plummeted towards the ground, head first. He'd thanked his lucky stars--and those circling in his vision. It was only when he finally stepped foot in Ms. Macey's Summer English class, that he heard the jingling of money in his pocket. It was as if someone had granted him a second chance at life. His newfound talent proved handy in most situations, although his continued use drew unwanted attention.

Clarence's discovery of Oliver having twice as much lunch money, led him to hold him up twice daily--once in the morning, and once in front of the cafeteria.

"Just making sure Mr. Moneybags here is all cleaned out" he'd sneered, while high fiving his friends.

It was soon after that his afflictions began, injecting
poisonous life into an otherwise dull routine. Oliver would walk through the neighborhood park, get held up by Clarence and friends, continue on his way, and get held up again. As he stood outside the cafeteria, watching the other students load their trays with breakfast sandwiches and scrambled eggs, he felt a creeping, tingling sensation in his belly. A stomachache, he assumed, and he rushed towards the restroom only to collapse before his arrival.

He'd woken up later that day in the hospital, while a doctor looked him over with a fine tooth comb.

"There doesn't appear to be anything wrong. We don't see elevated inflammation levels, and there’s no fever. We can discharge him, but keep hydrated. We'll want to see him in a few weeks for a follow up."

A
nd so begun his new routine. Oliver couldn't entirely say that he disapproved of it all. There was the added bonus of avoiding robbery, as he'd began taking his studies at home several days a week. He enjoyed the people watching, but resented his invalid state. It was as if his second chance at life had come and gone, but by his own hand.

Oliver made his way back over to his window, the spot he sat in so often that his seat cushion had a permanent indentation in the shape of his bottom.
The street was clear now, with a few stragglers who walked home appearing at the base of the hill across from the bus stop.

"What does he me
an he can't tell us?" His father's voice rose from the kitchen below, interrupting his thoughts and sending him barreling back to the present day. He imagined the look on his mother’s face, and he felt pangs in his chest. He wondered if he could tell her, if she would do anything anyway.

"Bring him down here."

His father snarled, and he imagined his father’s face all screwed up and his mustache fluttering from the hot air coming from his nose. He was all worked up, again.
The words struck immediate fear into Oliver's heart. His heartbeat slid to his ears. He shut the curtain, plunging the entirety of his room into darkness, hoping that he might be, conveniently awarded some skill with invisibility.

"Oliver?"
His mother's voice came floating up from downstairs. In it, was a hint of uncertainty and something else that Oliver couldn't quite place.

It took a few minutes f
or his brain to register that it was him they were referring to. He imagined it was because deep down inside, he hoped that it was not actually him who was being called. In his fantasies, he would go downstairs, tell them “Oliver”, whoever that was, wasn’t in at the time and he would get back to them as soon as possible.  The thought brought a brief smile to his face, although it was quickly interrupted by his name, once more. Oliver rose from his chair, and walked slowly towards the staircase, the dread in his stomach growing by the second. He hobbled down the stairs, feeling strangely as if his body was acting of its own accord. He entered the kitchen, and couldn't help but notice that on any other day the scene may have been pleasant. The Donovan kitchen was quaint and inoffensive. The walls were plastered with yellow paisley wallpaper. One could stand at the small island near the stove and look out onto the comfortable wooden circle table in the center of the kitchen. Fake plants hung in twine baskets from the ceiling, looking freshly watered. Oliver's mother would sometimes move the plants around, to give the impression that they were growing. On this day, the long green tendrils hung loosely from the baskets, giving the entire kitchen the appearance of a small, suburban greenhouse. His mother and father sat on opposite sides of the table, avoiding eye contact.

As he chose his seat in the middle, Oliver felt his stomach begin to cramp. He doubled over and slid into a seat next to his mother.
His stomach gnawed at him like it had spontaneously decided to feast upon itself.

"Now, don't start faking again. It won't work this time."
His father's hot breath found the side of Oliver's face.

"Nathan!"

"It's true. It's true." His father's bellowing sounded far away, and his mother's soft voice felt closer, as if it were in his head. Both voices swirled in his head like yin and yang signs, although he was unsure which was darkness and which was light. Oliver's stomach clenched again of its own will, and his vision blurred.

"Are you okay?" His mother grabbed his hand
and held on tight.

"Of course he
's okay. He's faking, as usual. Don't fall for it. We go through this every week Missy, for Christ's sake! When is it going to end? When are we going to do what needs to be done?" His father spat.

As his mother squeezed his hand, Oliver felt the
familiar cold air envelope him. Panic rose in his throat while the cold wind picked up around him, sweeping papers from the table and eliciting a foul complaint from his father.

"The draft
in here is unbelievable…"

SMACK.

Abruptly as it had begun, the wind died down, and his father lay slumped over the kitchen table. His mother's screams pierced his ears, and Oliver fell back in his seat, too stunned to react.

"Call 911, c
all 911. Nathan, wake up. NATHAN." His mother shook his father violently, whose head only flopped back and forth uncontrollably. His tongue lolled from his mouth and his skin had taken on a faint red color. Oliver looked back and forth between his mother and father, terrified not only because of the events unfolding in front of him, but because he wasn’t certain if he had made such a wish.

C
hapter 2

The cop kneeled dow
n and peered into Oliver's eyes, his face stony.  Oliver felt the weight of his stare in his bones, and his knees began to wobble uncontrollably. The cop's mustache was less than an inch away from Oliver's face. He could see the emergence of gray hairs in between the smooth, jet black ones.

"
Whoa there, son. Don't be so nervous. We just want to take you down to the station and ask you a few questions. What's your name?" The cop reached down to put his hand on his shoulder, and Oliver lurched backwards.

Son?
Oliver cringed at the word, and he stepped back several paces. The cop righted himself and gave him a long look before excusing himself to speak with the paramedics. They were swarming the house, and had been since earlier that evening.

The kitchen had become the scene of a television drama
, the kind that Oliver never watched because he found them to be too scary. His mother stood talking to two cops, who each looked over at him at alternating intervals, while she wiped her eyes with a tissue they supplied. She was the weeping widow, claiming to know nothing. The paramedics stood in orchestrated positions, playing the role of somber guardians from this world to the next. And then, there was his father. The role he played, that of the deceased, seemed one that he was terribly miscast for.

Oliver dared a look at him,
and his eyes grew blurry at the sight. His father still lay slumped over the table, and he was alone. His fingers were still curled in a ball, from when he'd slammed down on the table moments before his death. The longer he looked at his father, the more uncomfortable he became.

His mother was walking over, and she was wringing her hands, a habit of hers that reappeared in only the most stressful of situations.
"Oliver…" She hesitated. "Why don't you head upstairs? We're going down to the station in a few days. I want to be sure you're rested." He nodded his head, although he was fairly certain someone else was doing it for him as it felt almost involuntary. The walk upstairs almost took everything out of him. Each time he lifted his leg, he felt his strength wane. And each time he lifted his leg, he thought of his father and how he would never lift his again.

Once in his ro
om, Oliver collapsed on his bed, his mind spinning from the events of the last few hours. He replayed the events in his head again like a film on repeat, and his heart thudded each time as if he did not know how this particular movie ended. He certainly didn't know how to feel. Fuzzy accusations floated around in his mind, each one more pointed than the last. Oliver couldn't determine how it had happened, but he knew without a doubt that he'd had a hand in killing his father.