Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

He listened to her take a couple of deep, shuddering sobs. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. But even if they were together, he wouldn’t be able to do that. He couldn’t handle physical closeness like that, not with her. Not when she looked so much like their mother. In fact, though they talked every month at least, he hadn’t seen his sister in three years.

“I have to go,” she said. “I love you. Take care of yourself, okay?”

She’d hung up before he could say anything else, and they hadn’t talked since. She’d sent flowers to Mack’s grave. The card read, We hope you have found peace . Did she really hope that? he wondered. Or was that something people just said? These niceties that people uttered-blanketing a well of anger and resentment or masking apathy-they were so confusing.

Now he looked around at the mess he’d made. The kitchen was bad before. He’d cleaned out all the decaying organic matter, and the smell was better. At least to him-when he was wearing a mask. But in taking down the rotting old cabinets, he’d managed to turn the space into a demolition site. And the fact was, Michael realized, he had no idea whatsoever how to install new cabinets or floors. He wasn’t even sure that’s why he’d done it. Did he decide to renovate and then begin demolition? Or did he decide to renovate after he’d already picked up the hammer and started destroying? He honestly couldn’t remember. He’d never really even painted a wall. Tammy was right. He needed to call in that cleaning crew.

But the thought of that-strangers stomping through this place, taking everything that was left of her and putting it in a Dumpster-filled him with dread. Holding on, even to these wrecked remains, was so much easier than letting go. Maybe he was his father’s son after all.

He heard another knock at the front door and moved quickly from the kitchen. He was afraid that Tammy had gotten into her car and come to see what he’d done. Or that Jones Cooper had returned with more questions that Michael couldn’t and didn’t want to answer. He’d found Cooper’s visit unsettling, mainly because he recalled so little about that night, had so many questions himself. And he remembered Jones Cooper, with his hard, analytical stare. Jones Cooper saw things, no matter what you said. He saw things in you that you didn’t know were there.

“Michael, are you home?”

It was Ray Muldune, carrying the brown paper bag that Michael knew contained his mother’s running shoes. Ray stayed in the foyer, had his hand over his mouth.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” Ray said.

The older man had an odd look on his face. Michael really liked Ray. Ray said what he meant, even if it was rude, insensitive, or ugly.

“Did it work?” Michael asked.

Ray gave a noncommittal lift of his shoulders, a quick bob of the head. “She saw something. I don’t know what it means.”

“Tell me.”

Michael had never wanted to be away from her. Even when he was too old to want to be with her all the time, he did. At sleepovers he’d often slip out and ride his bike home, causing much commotion in the morning at his friend’s house when he was discovered missing. He didn’t like to sleep away from his mother. She needed him. She’d said so. More than Cara, more than his father, she needed Michael. Or maybe she hadn’t said so; he couldn’t remember when she had. But somehow he just knew. That’s why he didn’t understand, could never understand, how she would have left him behind.

That night she’d wanted him to go. He remembered that . “You’re too old for this, honey. Most kids love sleepovers-scary movies, pizza, candy till you drop. You don’t want to sit home in your room while all your friends are having fun.”

Were they really his friends, though? He and Brian used to be friends in grade school. They used to play in the woods behind Michael’s house, explore the abandoned structures, climb into the forbidden mine heads, and walk the dark tunnels. But now that they were in middle school, things were different. Michael still wanted to do those things. But Brian wanted to play baseball, talk to girls. They didn’t really hang out anymore, even though their mothers were still friends. In the hallway the other day, Michael had heard someone call him a freak. When he turned around to see who it was, he saw Brian standing in a group of jocks. Brian wasn’t looking at him, but the other guys were laughing.

These sleepovers were really just about baby-sitting: I’ll take Brian this Saturday; you’ll have Michael next week. But he went, because she wanted him to go. He knew that his father wouldn’t be home until late. Cara would have Mom all to herself. Sometimes he wished he were small like Cara, could still fit into his mother’s lap, that she still brushed his hair and buttoned up his coat. Why can’t I go on a sleepover? Cara had wailed as he left on his bike. The irony of it.

There was pizza, candy, and a scary movie. But Michael and Brian barely exchanged a word that whole night, skulking around each other, both sullenly enduring what had been demanded of them. And when everyone was sleeping, Michael crept out the front door, climbed onto his bike that tilted in the driveway, and drove home. That ride, the high white moon, the strips of gliding clouds, the smell of skunk and cut grass, the chill of the air. That was all he remembered, really. He didn’t remember letting himself in, or creeping up to his bedroom, or going to sleep. But that’s what he must have done, because he woke up in his bed the next morning.

It wasn’t until this afternoon, talking to Jones Cooper, that he remembered the raised voices, the fighting he’d heard. He did remember that now; it had been coming back since he’d talked to Mrs. Miller. But that was it. Maybe it was clearing up the clutter that was jogging his memory. He’d heard about that, how cleaning out your house could cleanse your mind and your spirit, change your life. The clutter represented trapped energy, a repressed past. Not that this was his house. But in a way it was, because he’d never made another home for himself, not really-just a string of dorms, rooming houses, and studio apartments. In a way he’d never really left this place.

Ray told him about Eloise’s vision, about men chasing a woman through the woods-two men, voices raised, calling behind her. Hearing Ray talk about it, Michael felt his stomach start to wrench and cramp.

“Eloise wants me always to be careful to say that these visions might not be related to your case,” said Ray. “But she saw these things while wearing your mother’s shoes.”

They were standing outside on the front step. Ray didn’t like to come into the house. Michael didn’t blame him.

“So what does it mean?” Michael asked. “What happens now?”

Ray had a way of looking at Michael that sometimes made him uncomfortable. It was a calm and searching gaze, a careful examination of what stood before him. He always looked slightly mystified, as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“Sometimes her visions deepen, meaning that she’ll see greater detail over the next couple of days. And if she does, then we might have more to go on; she might see faces, or the voices might become clearer, or maybe she’ll hear a name. But right now it sounds to me that the area she described is about a mile into the woods behind your house. There’s a clearing with an abandoned building. The locals call it the Chapel. Do you know it?”

He knew it. Of course he did. Inside, he heard a kind of white noise. A lightness welled up from his stomach, and he started to feel so hot. Beads of sweat trailed down his back. He sat on the step and put his head in his hands, willing himself not to throw up.