A Midnight Sun Page 4
In the blink of an eye, we can feel the weight of a hundred lives crashing over us. It just takes a flutter, a wink, and then…
…you are suddenly standing on the corner of Wimple and Liberty. A plane flies overhead roaring its engines with angry defiance, and you stand below them, not sure which way to go, afraid on the one hand and in need of help in the other. Run to safety. Find shelter.
Something says –no, screams- in the back of your mind for you to find your safety immediately, but something pulls in another direction.
He needs help! And you realize with growing fear that it’s coming from inside you, inexplicably.
You wander toward the house, where a man under a lattice with aromatic ivy is unconscious, and maybe even possibly…
No! You scream inside you with that other voice, and now decide to run, but just when you’re about to, a boom crashes from the water. Something big explodes, and suddenly, a plume of fire and smoke race toward you.
The boats! The voice says. More planes come as you start running.
BOOM! A whistle descending from the air gets louder. BANG! BOOM! It’s coming from everywhere. Nowhere to run. NOWHERE TO RUN! The voice screams.
The wind or something coming from the explosions rolls you over into the planters. And you wink the dirt off your eyes, you spit and wince, but though hurt and in pain, a bleeding hand and a scathed knee, you keep running. There are others around you, they look terrified and dirty like you likely look to them, too. Many are running away from the water, others into their houses, some small child is crying and hanging onto the fence and you are paralyzed. A louder BOOM! in the distance makes you drop to the ground and you cover your head. You inch your way to the child who like you, has been engulfed in a cloud of dust. It rains pain from everywhere and you cover the crying child. Is it shrapnel? The voice asks. Somebody snaps the child from your arms and runs with a man and another kid. They run in the direction you should be going, but you can’t.
He needs you. GO NOW!
You shield your eyes and protect them from more incoming dust. Coughing helps but you have to cover your mouth. Walking. Galloping, then running. But you fall again. A leg trips you. Or, maybe it’s a foot.
A person? Was that a person on the ground?
You roll off the ground again as more explosions boom in the distance but they start to wane. You get up and keep running, you keep running despite the increasing voices yelling for help. You run because…
…he needs help.
But you’re running in the other direction
…towards the infirmary.
Somebody grabs you by the shoulders and knocks you to the ground, saving you from the flying debris coming from the bay. The last of the blasts it seems.
You both roll over several people on the ground. They’re taking cover and crawling on hands and knees. Some are moaning, other’s screaming. There are a few with wide eyes, open coldly to the heavens, blank and unmoving.
A scream comes from your throat, hot and gritty. It scrapes its way in your esophagus trying to reach the person who brought you to the ground. But neither of you can hear it.
You blink dirt away and try to say He needs help, let me go! When trying to get away you turn. That’s when you see the man’s face.
Chapter 7
Marquee
On Phone Calls & Feline Purrs
Oahu, December 14th, 1989
I wake myself with a scream, scratching at my face and jumping onto the seat of the back of the car. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks and see my brother trying to soothe me, calming me. I stare at his face and try to picture the man I just left in my dream, among the bombing and screaming. Something stings at the top of my head and I think this is why I begin to cry, but it’s them, the man with the bludgeoned face who died in front of my eyes. I touch my face and then the place where it hurts on my head, surprising myself. It feels large and bulging, but I know it will heal with ice, though it hurts fiercely.
‘He was so real and so handsome…but he looked like he was…’, I think and shift in the seat, feeling a dryness in my mouth I’ve begun to despise.
I settle back into the seat until we arrive back into the house. My parents drop us off to go buy groceries, since it is almost Christmas and my mother needs to prepare for her notorious yearly gathering, where her friends and neighbors are invited to eat and drink until the only possible way home is by foot and with a swollen belly.
The living room looks larger than usual and cold, uninviting. My bags go on the floor next to my feet and my hand to my head where the bump awaits my fingers. It’s tender and I imagine it looks awful. A throbbing swollen ball of skin with hair on it. I’m so fixated when I rub on it, Icabod scares me and I drop my medicine.
“I’ll get that and an ice compress for your head.”
“Yes, iceman. Please.” I say to Truman and turn to Icabod who is now climbing up my legs. My brother’s cat has adopted my parents since we both left for college. His unabashed disdain makes him the cutest grumpy cat when they are around. He likes me though, possibly more than my brother. He climbs up to my chest and I stagger toward the couch, where I only have a few seconds to breathe before the phone rings. I pick up the receiver, and I follow Icabod as he purrs after my brother, digging his claws into my skin when he leaps from my lap.
“Ooh, you naughty kitty! Hello!” I shout into the phone.
“Yes, I mean no. This isn’t Kitty. Is…are you Mrs. Teasdale?”
“This is her daughter.” I whimper rubbing the scratch left by Icabod. “May I ask who’s calling?”
The man on the line has a raspy voice that can only indicate age or he’s one of my mother’s cigarette-loving, phlegmatic, bingo-playing friends. “This is Mr. Andretti,” he pauses, “I have a message from Mercy Hospital. Is she in?”
My urgency to soothe the bump on my head took a back seat to the sting on my leg, and that took a backseat to the initial idea I’d had to record what had happened in the car. I was for some odd reason intrigued. “Did you say Mister Andretti, calling from Mercy Hospital?”
“Yeah, kid. Is she in or not? I mean, this being the holidays, I understand if she isn’t and whatnot. It’s kinda urgent, I think.”
“Urgent? Well, mister, she’s kinda on the way. Would you like to leave her a message?” I sensed hesitation in his silence, so I prodded more because I now needed to know more. “You can always call back later sir, but she might be unavailable, this being the holidays, you know. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” I could hear tinkering in the background, like somebody working on broken pipes.
“Erhm, I think I rather speak to your motha. It’s kinda urgent, you see? She and I have this friend, from bingo night.”
“Bingo?”
“Yeah, and she’s been hospitalized with a sensitive case of lung cancer.” He says cansah and I touch the top of my head and wince while trying to place the accent. “Yeah, okay kid?” Anyway, we smoked a lot in our days, unfortunately. Anyhow, sorry about the noise, kid. I’m calling from a payphone and they’re working on the street.”
“Uh-huh.” I signal my brother for something to write.
“So, I come visit with her…”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” I rush my brother for the pen and paper. He brings the bag of ice instead. I seethe, quietly biting the inside of my cheek, inpatient with haste feeling I’ll frget if I don’t write things down right away.
“…and she starts talking while we’re playing a round of gin.”
“Yeah. Then what happened?” My brother hands me the pen and I scratch the top of the notepad but it doesn’t work.
“…and she says something funny and I look to see what she’s sayin’ and I could swear it sounds like some other language, I can barely understand the woman…”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Come on! I scratch the pen until it works and my brother stands next to me with the bag of ice over my head.
“…Which is odd because Bertha doesn’t even
speak English too well, let alone another language. So, I says, ‘Bertha, are you on some kinda medicine? The hardcore stuff?’ And, I laugh. Anyway, she’s still talking gibberish and I put down my cards to see– “
“Mr. Andretti! I’m sorry but I’m feeling under the weather. Is there any chance you’ll be getting to the point soon?”
“The what now?” He says, or rather, coughs into the phone.
“What did Bertha say you need to tell momma?”
“Uh, yes, yes. She only spoke this in English. She said, ‘Tell the kid, tell Merry Beth about the glasses’, and fell back on the bed.”
“The…excuse me?”
“The glasses. Tell Merry Beth. I remember well, you see, because she said it in perfect English and everything else, she didn’t. She was mumblin’ the other stuff. Then, she fell back into bed.”
“Dear god, Mr. Andretti! Is she…?”
“No, kid! She fell asleep. But I remember that part. Tell her about the kid and the glasses.”
“Yes, you said that. Uh…Mr. Andretti, I must apologize, but I need to make a phone call. I’ll tell my mother about your phone call. Would you like me to ask her to call you back?”
“Uh, guess so.”
“Of course, yes. I’ll tell her. The glasses.”
“The…uh, yes. Well, tell her to call room– “
“Thanks for calling, Mr. Andretti.”
Chapter 8
Marquee
Faded Letters and Other Treasures. Also, My Cat Hates Saints
Oahu, December 14th, 1989
By the time my parents come back from grocery shopping, I’ve already showered and am waiting on the front porch with my brother rocking on the wicker chairs. My dad walks in first, holding a paper bag with produce sticking out from the top. She stops by the screen door and my brother takes her bag inside.
I let her come inside and put the food away before telling her about the phone call.
Icabod meows off my lap and I follow his path as he takes delicate steps into the kitchen, wagging his insolent tail at me. He expertly awaits by the side of the door frame to swing and claws it to push it inward. When he is reassured nobody will knock him off, because it’s happened before as he tries to enter, he gives it a full shove. The tail wiggles in just in time before the door comes full swing back toward the kitchen. I smile, amused with his feline dexterity. The phone call comes back to my mind as I climb on the kitchen countertop next to Ichabod and start petting him.
“The glasses.” I probe, but my head is achy and I’m sluggish. Truman comes into the kitchen and boils water for tea. I salivate when I see the crackers my mother brings out of the bag. My favorite –buttery and soft, perfect to pair with the tea.
I hear my brother speaking faintly in the background, but I’m thinking. Glasses…or maybe, goggles? Did she mean goggles? I continue to pet Ichabod and something jumps out at me, like the nurse in the hospital with the name Juniper. This time, it is Ichabod and the glasses/goggles. “Why on earth would that be related?”
“Would what be related?” My brother says through a mouth full of food, some of which falls off his mouth, and Icabod jumps off my lap again, zig-zagging his way to my brother.
“The glasses, or maybe it’s the goggles. And Ichabod, his tail to be more precise.”
They all stop what they’re doing and turn to look at me.
“Are you having the heatstroke again?” My mother says, like it’s an illness.
“I can open a window some fresh– “
“No, Truman. I’m fine. Thank you. That might be lovely though.” I point to both the tea and crackers grinning.
Truman and I go into the patio with an overflowing dish of fruits, cheese, crackers, honey, and nuts, and a slice of the best pineapple cake I’ve ever tasted –my mother’s. I sip on the warm tea while he arranges some cushions to sit near me in a spot he favors near the railing. The tea is tangy and mildly spicy. Truman makes the best tea but I’ve never told him. I would make his head larger than a balloon.
I take a few gulps and nibbles of food before telling him about the phone call. Then, I tell him how the other things feel as if they relate somehow.
“I still don’t know why you think they are related. Why would they?”
“I’m not certain,” I say, “But don’t you find it peculiar?”
“Not particularly. Any of those things together seem nothing more than a coincidence to me. Mom’s friend is just very opportune. A timely phone call that happens to coincide with your recent experiences. Nothing more than a coincidence.”
“You can’t state that as a certainty.”
“I deal with antiquities, sis.”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
“How is it not? Look, a lot of people come to my shop to buy, fewer than those who come to sell. When a person comes through my door, I usually know what kind of customer they are.”
“Having an antiques and collectibles business in Vegas hardly constitutes as a good measure of someone’s character, Truman.”
He inhales deeply and leans back on the cushions as if getting ready to gloat. The goofy grin gives the next phrase a preamble I know too well.
“Does it not? It is the most important part of my job –knowing what people need and want before even they do sometimes. I would say that is quite the special talent, don’t you? I’m telling you, it’s just a momentous coincidence.”
“Truman, I abhor your skepticism. Isn’t there a possibility, even if remote, that there is a kind of interesting connection to these events?”
He surveys the room and remains quiet.
“Well?” I press him.
Truman leans in conspiratorially as if looking for our parents before he speaks. “Of course, sis.” He murmurs. “I’ll alert the Paranormal and Weird Phenomena Digest after we finish this tea.” He laughs and sits next to me on the couch, nuzzling triumphantly with the flaps of the aging fabric hugging him as his body sinks into the couch.
“Fine, mock me if you like.” I say before standing, “But, I can’t wait for momma to hear this. She’ll set you right. Gotta go dry my hair.”
“Okay, sis. I’ll be sitting here spindling more of my popular witty sarcasm for when you get back.”
“Funny! I’ll expect a bowl of ice cream when I get back!” I shout from the stairs.
“Would you like caramel syrup and sprinkles on said ice cream, oh magnanimous fainting queen?”
I turn just in time to see him bow and sit back on the couch as I march up the stairs. “Yes, please!” I sing-song in my childhood voice and go into my room. When I go inside, momma is sitting on the bed with some of my clothes folded.
She grabs a comb and runs it over my hair while humming a tune that is familiar and beautiful, not exactly a lullaby but something like it, an echo from my childhood. I close my eyes to listen and relax under her hands before trying to piece together what I can before telling her about the phone call, or how it seems relevant in the face of what has happened to me. When I finish, she is sitting upright on the edge of the bed, tight and unflinching, tapping the comb on the palm of her hand lightly.
“So, momma? Does that make any sense to you?”
“No, not really. Not a bit.”
“Mom?”
“We should probably close those windows before you catch cold.”
“It’s like ninety degrees in the night mom. Tell me what you think. What was that phone call about?”
The bed squeaks when she stands. Her lips are pursed and she fidgets with her hair, a gesture I’ve learned to identify as withholding over the years.
I chase her across the hallway and into her room and next to my father, who is propped on a pillow with a book in his hand. “Stop harassing your mother, young lady.”
I probe him instead. “Dad, do you happen to know a man by the name Andretti.”
He thinks for a moment. “Yeah! That cigar-smoking, bingo card cheating, potbellied son of a fu– “
“It’s not like my cursing will make her sick again. And besides, he cheated that last time, Mary Beth. You saw it!”
The bickering clouded my questioning and I knew I wouldn’t get anything from them this night. I receded gently before closing the door. Before entering my room, I realize. My hair was still damp and I have to find another towel in the linen closet.
I walk away from my parent’s bedroom where the arguing has begun to subside. When I turn the corner, I hear my brother blaring some new rock, hip-hop song. The linen closet is just next to his door but I know he won’t hear me. I open the door of the closet with hesitation, having experienced the aftermath of a day of nervous cleaning when she stuffs the closet way past its capacity.
As I had suspected, the closet bulges with towels and sheets. I groan before I reach for the top shelf and pull a towel for my hair. The towels wiggle, threatening to fall, so I step back and stop breathing.
Nothing happens. At least not for a few beats. A moment later, towels are raining on top of me. The entire top shelf comes crashing with a thud on the hallway carpet with me under it. I push away the towels so I can stand, already looking for a basket I can throw the mess into. When half the linen is in the basket, I notice a small object that looks like a cardboard box –larger than a cigar box and covered with old magazine paper.
I kneel to reach it and feel my muscles tremble with excitement at what is likely a form of trespassing that promises for me –at the very least- an interesting night.
Sitting with the small box on the bed, I hold my breath and stare at it. It beckons me but I’m afraid of what is in it at the same time. I notice droplets of water falling on the box and I wonder why my hair hasn’t dried by now. But, the drops of water falling over it bring me away, as if I have to mentally step out of the zone before deciding to open it. Before another thought, I grab it and lift it to my lap.