The Year We Disappeared (30 page)

I thought about the girls I’d seen at the mall yesterday. What if all the girls around here looked like that? No one was going to want to be my friend, with my skinny body, no makeup, and my long straight hair. I wished that the pretty girl Mr. Carter had told us about still lived next door. Maybe she could give me a makeover, like in the magazines. She had been a model after all. I wished that she hadn’t killed herself; maybe we could have been friends.

That night I started writing a letter to Amelia. Mom said that when we had a few letters that we wanted to mail back home she would put them all into a big envelope and send them to
Aunt Jackie in North Carolina. Then Aunt Jackie would put them all into a new envelope and send them to the police department in Falmouth. Then Dad’s friends on the force would mail the letters from there. “It might take a while for your friends to get your letters, and for you to get their letters back, but you will get them, okay?” Mom explained. Mom also said that she wanted to look over the letters before we mailed them, just to double check that we didn’t say anything that we weren’t supposed to by accident. “Can I tell Amelia that it’s really hot here?” I asked her.

Mom thought about it for a moment. “Better not.”

“What about the barn, can I tell her that we have a barn?”

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “John, what do you think?” We both looked over at Dad. He shook his head no.

I stared down at the blank page. I couldn’t tell Amelia anything. Then I decided to write about the beautiful girl who used to live next door. That would probably be okay, and it was a really good story.

I had to use a few pieces of my new stationery to get the story just right and not include any information that I wasn’t allowed to, so by the time I was done with my letter, it was almost bedtime. I took the letter into the living room where my parents were trying to set up the TV and the stereo with Eric and Shawn.

As I walked into the room, car lights flashed across the wall and a car pulled into the driveway. Dad looked out the bay windows at the front of the house—we didn’t have any curtains up yet.

“Who’s that?” Mom said. She sounded scared. Dad stood still, watching the car for a moment, but it didn’t move. The engine was still running. “Maybe they’re just looking at the ‘For Sale’ sign?” Mom asked. We hadn’t taken down the sign in front of the house yet.

Dad turned and moved quickly down the hallway, into their bedroom, and came out about two seconds later with his .357 and a box of ammo. He was trying to say something, but I couldn’t understand him through his wired-shut jaw. He motioned to the cellar door frantically and pulled Mom by the arm.

“Okay,” Mom said, pushing us to the cellar door. “Dad thinks we should go downstairs.” I saw Dad turn off the light in the living room and crouch by the base of the window, cocking his gun as we went down the stairs.

We stood on the staircase and Mom used the deadbolt inside the door to lock us in. “Do you think it’s them?” Shawn asked Eric.

Eric shook his head, but he looked scared.

There was silence for a few minutes; we just listened to our breathing and waited. Then someone turned the cellar doorknob and pulled the door, but the lock caught it. “Who’s that?” Mom yelled.

We could hear Dad’s muffled voice on the other side of the door, but we had no idea what he was trying to say. “Stay here,” Mom told us, and she opened the door. But it was just Dad standing there, so we all came up the stairs.

Dad went over to the kitchen table and grabbed my stationery. He wrote Mom a note with my purple pen. “Someone lost, was looking at a map in car, false alarm.”

“Okay.” Mom sighed. “It’s late anyhow, time for you guys to be in bed.” Dad had set his gun down on the kitchen table and started to pace the room, back and forth. He was sweating under his arms and down his face even though the air conditioner was on. I went to the front window and looked out. Our street was dark; there weren’t any streetlights this far out in the country. The only light came from the farmhouse across the way, and that was far. There was no car in the driveway anymore.

“Bed,” Mom said again, coming up behind me to look out the window. “It’s late, let’s go.”

I brushed my teeth and got into bed, thinking about my letter to Amelia. I had to remember to show it to Mom in the morning so we could get it sent off soon. As I lay in the dark, in my new room with its bare walls and boxes piled in one corner, I started to think about the pretty girl who used to live next door. I wondered if she had killed herself in her house or when she was in New York—Mr. Carter didn’t say. It was creepy to think that we lived next door to a house where someone might have killed herself. When I got to thinking about it, I couldn’t sleep. After a long time, I got up to get some water. When I crossed the living room, I saw a figure sitting in front of the window and stopped. Then I realized that it was Dad. He had moved one of the kitchen chairs into the living room and was sitting right in front
of the window; his gun was in his right hand, balanced on his knee. He looked over at me for a second and then looked away.

I went into the kitchen and got a drink, standing over the sink. I looked out the kitchen window at the house across the way, the house where a pretty girl had once lived and maybe died. The street was pitch black now; it was so late, even the neighbor’s porch light had been turned out. I thought about our old house on the Cape, our little red house, and the new girl who might move in there, who would have my room. Maybe someday someone would tell her a story about me.

ONE of the few people who had to know where we were moving was my doctor in Boston, Dr. David Keith. The town I moved to wasn’t important, just the state, so he could set me up with some doctors there for an occasional checkup. The team in Boston would still do my major surgeries, but I needed someone closer for the in-between progress checks. Once they knew where we were headed, the team in Boston set up a meeting with the maxillofacial doctors at Vanderbilt University Hospital. Shortly after we were all settled in, we drove to Nashville and did some sightseeing on the day of my appointment. We went to the replica of the Parthenon and to some country music historical sights.

The doctors at Vandy were pretty happy to see me; I was an interesting case, to be sure. But they quickly discovered that the latest round of bone marrow transplants hadn’t taken—nothing
was growing on the right side of my face, even after all these months. They talked to me about another option. They wanted to start repairing my face by surgically removing the transplanted bone and going with a metal-and-plastic prosthesis instead. This would also involve attaching a ring to my skull, a halo held to my head with screws, which would have to stay in place for months. No thank you. I got in touch with the doctors in Boston to fill them in, and they set me up with another round of marrow transplants for December.

Come December, I grabbed my blender and hit the road for Massachusetts. After my surgery, I planned to be at Joe and Kate’s house to recover, then drive back down and hopefully be home for Christmas. Polly was working at Cookeville General Hospital by now, and the kids were in school. The first day on the road, I drove from 6:00 a.m. until 11:00 p.m. and stopped at a hotel on the Pennsylvania/New York border. The place was cold. I’d already forgotten what the northern winters could do to my head, and I woke with one of my mind-blowing headaches. I blended up a milkshake and hit the road again. In the car, I turned the radio on to NPR and heard the top story—John Lennon had been killed the night before. His last words were, “I’m shot.” I knew exactly how he felt. I was sure I was dying too. They say you don’t hear the one that kills you, but people who say that haven’t been shot and lived. You know quite suddenly every minute detail. Time dilates. You’ve been shot.
I’m going to have to see a dentist
. You’re dying.
Please turn the lights off in my car so
the battery doesn’t die
.I wondered what Lennon’s last thoughts were. “Rest in peace, partner,” I said to myself as they played an old Lennon song on the radio. “You deserved so much more life.”

When I got to the hospital, Dr. Keith told me that they’d take the cells from my other hip this time. Yippee. I’d have symmetrical scars and two dead zones. But in recovery the next day, I found that they’d actually gone into the same pelvic crest and my right thumb was totally numb.

“How are we doing today?” asked the doctor who came in to check on me. ‘Any numbness in your leg?”

I wrote him a note: “It’s been numb there since the first surgery.”

He explained that they probably nicked a nerve, but the chances were slim that the numb area would expand any more with this latest surgery. That’s why it was better to go back in where the damage was already done.

I wrote him a note about my thumb, which was now turning red and really starting to hurt. He looked it over and was baffled. So were the other doctors. The pain meds they were giving me for the pain helped my face but didn’t do much for the thumb, it hurt that bad. Then, after three days, it was like a switch was thrown and the pain stopped. By then, my thumb was a normal color again, but the skin had started to peel off it in big chunks. Finally, one doctor on the team had an explanation. “You were lying on your thumb during surgery, and because you were unconscious, your body didn’t tell you to roll off of it. So it lost circulation for a few hours,” he told me. “It should return to
normal in a few more days. We would probably know already if you were going to lose it.”

So I had a numb leg and a thumb that almost needed to be amputated. Their attitude was, “No big deal, it’s the face that counts.” It had been almost sixteen months since the shooting, and I’d been wired shut the whole time. I was still facing several more months this way. They had said it would take a few years to rebuild my face, and they weren’t kidding.

There were no guards this time; I was keeping a low profile. There was no point in even letting the police department know that I was back in the state. This also meant that I couldn’t visit old friends, but those days were behind us anyhow. There wouldn’t be any more visits. The hospital staff were under orders not to release any information about me to anyone, and hospital security was watching my room for any problems, but there weren’t any. No one knew where I was, and by the time Falmouth got the bill, I was long gone.

After a week I was temporarily released, but I needed to come back in and get the okay to go home. As planned, I went to Joe and Kate’s place, where Kate checked me every few hours with her nurse’s eye for any counterindicative signs and doled out the pain pills. She seemed to think things were okay after a few days, so I decided to use the time to visit some family—knowing that it could be a long while before we would get the chance to do that again. I went to see my uncle John, my mom’s youngest brother, who lived with his family in Bellingham. He was only
ten years older than me, and we’d always been close. He took after that side of the family and weighed about three hundred pounds—the curse of the big bones.

Uncle John was the family genius, with a photographic memory and a great mind for jokes and stories. He never forgot anything and was always happy to startle you with his total recall of events, names, faces, and places. He was an electrician by trade and could build up or take apart just about anything that ran on electricity. He’d read about electric chairs being used to kill prisoners when he was a kid and actually built one—talked a friend of his into sitting in it and was about to throw the switch when my mother—his older sister—stopped him and made him take it apart. A brilliant guy with a bit of a mean streak.

After we visited for a little bit, he said, “Come with me into the cellar, I’ve got a project I want you to take a look at.” It was a .22 bolt-action rifle equipped with a silencer and a device to catch shell casings as they ejected, leaving no evidence. The serial numbers had been ground off, so attempts to trace the gun would be futile. It shot .22 longs, good penetration; we’re talking head shots here.

My uncle demonstrated a few shots into a sandbag bunker he had set up. “Sounds like someone coughing,” he said, taking a shot with the silencer on. “Not too bad, huh?” I could tell he was proud of himself, and he should have been. The gun was perfect.

“The accuracy might not be the best since the silencer isn’t grooved the same as the barrel is,” Uncle John pointed out. “But
it’s got a scope and you ought to be able to put it within six inches of center at one hundred yards.”

As he spoke, I could see myself setting up the rifle in the woods by the town dump, waiting to blow Meyer away. I knew all the trails between there and Hatchville Road. I’d run them for years. I’d just park under power lines in Hatchville, take this gun and hoof it to the dump, do the deed and hoof back. I’d been jogging again, although I’d probably have to walk since I just got out of the hospital and all. But still, it was doable.

The question was: did I want to do it?

It wouldn’t be hard to find out that I’d been in Boston; the hospital would have to release that information if there was a murder investigation. But how hard would the cops—any cops—try to convict me under the circumstances? Who knows. It was getting harder and harder for me to picture myself pulling the trigger.

I was still mad as hell, but the anger had changed and morphed into something else. I hated to see my face. I hated the three-day-long headaches. I hated not being able to eat. But the hatred of these things was no longer focused on Meyer. Maybe I just wasn’t the hard, coldhearted, revenge-generating psycho that I thought I was. In reality, I was just a man who got somebody mad—mad enough to want to kill him—and survived it. Maybe it should end there.

I looked at the gun my uncle John had put together for me. This was my chance. I wrote a few words in my notebook and
showed it to him. “Thank you for all the effort. I won’t need it.” He looked at the note quietly, then patted me on the shoulder. I couldn’t tell if he was proud of me or disappointed.