Turtle's Voice

2012-01-28T16:47:00.006-05:00

Granny Meets an Angel

A Memoir

“I’m afraid of black people,” Granny stated, as we sat in a busy Burger King in North Augusta, South Carolina, on a warm September day in 1986.

I nearly choked on my hamburger hearing her words and looked around the room to see if anyone had heard her. “They’re just like us, Granny, just people,” I whispered.

“That’s what I know.” She nodded her head firmly. “But I’m still afraid. I heard so many stories when I was little. Scary stories.”

I didn’t know what to say. Granny had been born in 1900 in rural North Georgia and had no more than a fifth grade education. She married a handsome, half-Cherokee man recently returned from the WWI, where he survived both the battlefield and the Spanish flu that took millions of lives. They raised six children in a four-room house and lived the simple lives of farmers. I didn’t know how to address her fears and didn’t think Burger King was the place to have to the discussion. Besides I had been raised to believe people were just people and I was taken aback by her confession.

I had many wonderful memories of visits up to the mountains of Georgia as a child and waking early in that tiny house to find Granny in the kitchen. There she’d hand me a bowl and send me out to the garden to pick strawberries for breakfast. The grass was damp, green velvet and my bare feet left deep impressions in the soft, cool dirt between the neat rows as I filled my bowl. I’d run back to the house, trailing wet footprints on the porch and through the kitchen, and present my hard-earned treasure. She chuckled - she always chuckled - taking the bowl from my hand and glancing down at my wet feet, dotted with grass and dirt. And then she’d wash the berries, cut them into slices, cover them with sugar, milk and add a drop of vanilla. As many times as I tried to replicate the simple meal as an adult, it never tasted the same as it did sitting in Granny’s kitchen.

“They’re just like us, just people,” I repeated and I was sure I saw her craggy face redden with shame as she lowered her head to bite into her burger.

I had no idea how to discuss racial issues with a woman sixty-five years my elder who had grown up in a different time and a different world. Later that evening when I was home, I wondered if I had been harsh or if I could have said more or been more understanding. Granny was living the life of a displaced visitor as her children had decided she was too old to live alone on the farm anymore, and she was shuffled from one family member to the next. I determined that when I saw her the next day at Mother’s house I would broach the subject and try to be more compassionate.

Just as I made up my mind someone pounded on the door. I opened it to find Mother, her face pale like alabaster and her eyes round saucers. “Momma fell in the tub, I need you to drive us to the hospital.” Mother had terrible night vision and we had to cross the bridge into Georgia to reach the hospital.

I climbed into the car to find Granny holding a bloodstained towel against her head. “I don’t know what happened,” she said, as I pulled into traffic.

The first hospital refused to treat Granny due to insurance issues and referred us to another that took indigent cases. I ran to the parking lot, anger and frustration bubbling inside, and moved the car closer to the door. I met Mother and Granny right inside the hospital door and pushed the wheelchair out into the night.

As I pushed the chair across the concrete a twenty-something, handsome African-American man appeared at my side and took the wheelchair from my hands. I didn’t believe he was a hospital employee as he was dressed in a suit sans a tie, but when he said, “Let me help you,” I let him take over without a thought.

He angled the chair close to the car and lifted Granny gently, setting her on the front seat. “There you go, young lady,” he said, reaching inside to strap the seat belt across her lap. “You’re going to be just fine and you’ll be home in no time.” Still leaning in the car, his face just inches from Granny’s, he smiled and she smiled back. “Thank you,” was all she said.

“Don’t worry about the chair,” he said, shutting the car door. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.” I ran around the car and jumped in the driver’s side.

“What a nice young man,” Granny sighed, as I started the car. “And he smelled so good.”

His scent lingered inside the closed environment; it was a masculine aroma with just a hint of strawberries and vanilla. I glanced at the curb as I pulled away, the man was gone and the chair was there where we had left it.

At the next hospital they stitched up Granny’s head. I sat in the room with her as she continued to talk about the man. “He was so handsome and had the prettiest smile. I hope he keeps those teeth, I’d hate for him to end up with dentures like me.” She laughed and made a clicking noise with her false teeth. Looking at her with her long, white hair out of its typical bun, her eyes bright and a smile firmly placed as she raved about the stranger, she was a young girl again.

Returning home, I gave Granny a hug. “I love you and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I love you, too and I’ll see you tomorrow if I don’t die tonight.” She laughed. Those were Granny’s last words to me.

Early the next morning there was a knock at my door and I opened it to find my brother on the stoop. As soon as I saw him, I knew. “Granny’s dead,” he said and pulled me into a hug.

I dressed quickly and drove to Mother’s house. The ambulance was pulling away as I parked. Stepping into the foyer my senses were overcome with a masculine aroma with just a hint of strawberries and vanilla and then it dawned on me - the handsome African-American man hadn’t been just a random nice guy, he’d been an angel sent to alleviate Granny’s last fear before he took her home.

2011-07-09T18:09:00.001-05:00

Knock Knock

By Victoria Hardy

A short story

Eli used to tell me that I was the best mom he’d ever had. I thought it was an odd statement, but tucked it away as one of the cute things children say. Or at least I did until he died. After he died I thought about it – a lot. He said it the first time right after he learned to talk and they were also his final words to me. What had he meant by that cryptic phrase? I was his only mom, not the best or the worse, but the only mom he’d ever known.

Recovering from my injuries, I couldn’t get his words out of my head. Had he been speaking of reincarnation? Had he even known about reincarnation? Or had he been speaking of different dimensions? He did love science fiction, but he certainly couldn’t have known about reincarnation and science fiction the first time he said it as a toddler. As he grew older he’d make the statement to show he was pleased with me, a new video game, an expected trip to dinner and a movie or permission to go out with his friends would result in a bear hug and the statement, “You’re the best mom I’ve ever had.”

I didn’t feel like a good mom, though. Would a good mom tell the doctors to pull the plug on a horribly injured child? Is that listed somewhere in the old child rearing books as an example of spectacular mothering? If he had survived, the doctors made it clear he would be unable to walk or talk and would need twenty-four hour care. He would essentially be a needy mass of brain-damaged meat, but what if the doctors were wrong?

I agreed to have the ventilator removed ten days after the car jacking and shooting, I just couldn’t conceive of how that swollen head, nearly the size of a pumpkin, could ever return to its natural proportions. What if I was wrong? The pain from my own injuries felt needed and deserved, my rightful punishment for losing faith in my son. Maybe had I given him more time, maybe months, maybe years, his brain and personality would have returned to normal. Maybe, but I’d never know.

At least that is what I thought at the time.

Mourning is an interesting condition and as I recovered physically I found that my thinking grew strange, odd and frightening at times. It was as though a door opened in my mind and set the most outrageous thoughts free. Until the day of violence that changed my life so radically I had been a rational, normal woman, so the strange knowings and thoughts that began appearing in my mind struck a primal fear in my soul and I questioned my sanity.

Could a violent event cause insanity? I was sure that it could, but I was afraid to seek professional help. One of my strongest recurring thoughts insisted that I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know and to draw attention to the fact would lead to my death. So I suffered in silence and watched my words, afraid that I would expose myself. I became very reclusive and had ample opportunity to get to know my new and terrifying inner world.

Digging in the garden one day, it occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t Eli who died, but me. I sat back on my heels, stunned by how real the knowledge felt. I looked around the yard, the summer colors appeared more vibrant than I had ever noticed, and I realized that I was dead. A hummingbird buzzed my head and I chuckled, maybe being dead wasn’t so bad. I went back to digging (I mean, if you’re dead why not plant flowers on a pretty summer day?) and I heard Eli’s voice in my head, “You’re the best mom I’ve ever had.”

I then understood with amazing clarity that in one dimension I was dead and Eli was alive and in this dimension Eli was dead and I was alive. It suddenly all made sense. As I put impatiens in the ground I began to wonder, was there a way to reach him in his dimension? Was there a way to step over? A door, a gate, a path? As these thoughts came to me I received the recurring warning that I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know and I was afraid. I was afraid, but I was also determined, maybe there was a way to reach my son.

By this time I had fully accepted the fact that I was insane and I figured perhaps the insane know more than the sane about the actual workings of the world. Perhaps the insane see through the illusion humanity has set before us and that was why they were dangerous and locked away. I decided then and there that I would rather be insane and possibly find my son, than be sane in a world where he was beyond my reach.

I just had to figure out how to find the door and I knew when it appeared I would only have moments to step through. I also knew that when I did step through I would die in one dimension and live in the new one. I had no idea how this worked, but I felt it was absolute truth. I was concerned I might not recognize the door when I found it, though. Would it just appear as an opening before me? Would it appear as a real, solid door? Would it be an opportunity? How in the hell did I find it?

As strange as my life had grown, it grew even stranger as I began to look for the passageway. My dreams began to haunt me, not in the fashion of nightmares, which may have been normal considering my mental state, but by laying out the next day’s events in chronological order. I would dream the day before I lived it. As I was experiencing the day in my waking life, I understood that I was living the same day over and over. I wasn’t just living every day twice, once asleep and once awake, I’d been living the same day for a million years, like a skipping record repeating the same line over for eternity. I was stuck and the only way I could conceive of becoming unstuck was a radical change, so I quit my job.

Being unemployed gave me plenty of time to explore my strange, new world and I fell deeper into my unique madness. I began to get my things in order and started cleaning house from top to bottom. I gave Eli’s belongings away and most of my own; if I were to die in this dimension I wouldn’t need anything.

Then I emailed my dead son. I figured if anything could reach across dimensions it would be the Internet. In the emails I told him I was looking for him and I promised that I would find him and we would be together again. I didn’t really expect a response, so I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t hear back and the silence from his end didn’t dampen my determination.

I was sure the door wouldn’t appear in my home or yard, so I began exploring the city. I went to the places that Eli and I had frequented and I went to places I had never been. I began to talk to strangers, not telling them of my quest, but making idle chitchat hoping for a clue that only I could unravel.

I was given many clues over the next weeks, all of them leading nowhere. The emotional drain each time one didn’t pan out left me exhausted. When I’d receive a subtle push from a stranger, the excitement raced through my body, my heart would rush and I would know without a doubt that I was close, close to stepping over and close to Eli. But then, when I couldn’t find the door, the rush in my body went from joy and wonder to disappointment and fear and I’d question my sanity.

The clues, meant only for me, brought a strange shift of perception. The colors were brighter, my sense of taste and smell heightened and my body felt lighter, as though the heavy burden of gravity had deserted me. But I began to lose faith in my goal when my attention was drawn to a teenage boy staring up into a tree. I ambled over, fighting the desire to run to him, and asked what he saw. He smiled at me, his pupils made large by his drug of choice and said, “There’s whole other worlds up there.”

I stared up into the tree trying to discern the path and saw nothing, disappointment raced through my body and my mind, divided into two camps, argued viciously. One side insisting I had gone crazy, while the other side soothed that I was getting closer. The incidents always followed the same pattern, the heightened perception, a cryptic, indecipherable message and then the crash of depression when I couldn’t find the doorway. I couldn’t give up, though, I knew Eli was waiting for me and I knew I would find him.

After a month of spending my days in parks, on streets and instigating strange conversations with the homeless, I was worn out. The two camps in my mind continued to battle and the voice that declared my insanity was growing stronger. “You can’t just find a door and rejoin your dead relatives,” the voice insisted. “If that was possible don’t you think everyone would do it? Wouldn’t it be common knowledge?”

The voice that insisted I knew an unknowable secret was growing weaker and I was both saddened and relieved, perhaps I was coming back into the light of the sane. I began to ignore the shifts of perception and turn a blind eye to any clues coming my way, I didn’t want to end up like some of the homeless I had met. I felt as though I was turning my back on Eli, but self-preservation demanded I put away the childish thoughts of extra-dimensions and try to go back to work and reality.

My dreams changed then, no longer showing me the next day’s events, but full of images of Eli, lost and alone. Was I turning my back on my son again? What kind of person was I? Was my sanity more important than Eli’s security? I was torn, I was at a crossroads in which one direction led to a sane and lonely life without my son and the other direction to worlds of deception and trickery where I may find my son or I may just as easily be locked away in an asylum.

I accepted a temporary job. I wasn’t ready for corporate decisions and stress and the position seemed simple, mindless and just what I needed to turn back time to the single-dimension world that I had known for forty years. I kept to myself and listened to the conversations of those around me. As I listened to the group of strangers, aged from late teens to late seventies, I began hearing direct phrases from my past that had made an impression on me. It was a reunion of my dead relatives in new bodies and I realized I had slipped over the dam into the sea of schizophrenia. I made it three days and walked out as one of the younger members in the room was discussing the string of stepmothers she had known. And when she said, “Vivian, now she was the best mom I ever had,” I picked up my bag and left without a word.

I sat on a park bench watching an elderly couple feed the pigeons and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do. It was hard enough to move forward in the world without Eli, I didn’t need the added challenge of suddenly being crazy. I considered going to a doctor, but the warning in my head could not be denied. I didn’t know if I knew something I shouldn’t, but if I told the truth of what I was experiencing I would surely be locked away, medicated and maybe even worse things would happen. Scenes from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest filled my head.

I sat for hours and then hunger announced its presence. I walked across the street and entered a restaurant I’d never tried. It sat back off the street and displayed a cluttered yard of rusted antiques to passersby. I placed my order and heard the staff quietly talking about the only other patron in the restaurant. I glanced over my shoulder and saw an overweight man sitting alone in a wheelchair.

“He can’t talk,” the male employee said. “His nurse drops him off and he just points at the things on the menu, it’s usually the same thing every time.”

“Well, he pointed at corn, fries and a slice of pepperoni pizza,” said the waitress.

“Yeah, that’s what he usually gets.”

I smiled, those were Eli’s favorite foods and his usual birthday menu. I didn’t see this as a clue at the time; I felt nothing but hunger and gratefully took the to-go bag when it was handed to me. I turned to leave, passing the man in the wheelchair without a glance and then he spoke.

“Mom?” he said in a garbled voice.

My feet took three more steps before my brain caught up and then I stopped and looked at him. It wasn’t a man; it was a teenager with short and spiky hair, a pierced ear and a deep scar over his left eye that ran into his hairline. He smiled. “Hey, Mom.”

My feet moved to the table with no conscious decision and I was vaguely aware that the music from the overhead speakers had become a slowed drone. I looked down at the boy and knew I had found the door. It was Eli. It was Eli in a world where I hadn’t pulled the plug, in a world where I hadn’t survived the shooting.

“Sit down, Mom,” he said, throwing his heavy arm on the back of a chair with obvious effort.

I looked down at the chair, it looked like a normal chair, but I knew that it was the door I had been looking for. If I sat in it I would enter a dimension that I had never known, a dimension where I was the mother of a terribly handicapped child and that child would be a stranger to me. The broken boy sitting in the mechanical conveyance was both my son and not my son.

Time seemed to slow even further and I was aware of the staff at the counter staring at us with stunned expressions while the music filling the room droned nonsensically. I placed my hand on the boy’s arm resting on the chair and something inside of me screamed in protest.

“Sit down, Mom,” the boy slurred again, spit sliding down his chin.

I made my decision and wrapped my arms around his thick neck and kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t this time, son,” I whispered in his ear, feeling as though I was pulling the plug again. “But I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

He nodded his head and smiled. “Okay, Momma. Promise.”

I turned away and as I opened the door to step outside the music returned to its normal pace and the staff regained their composure and went back to work. I stepped onto the street and no longer felt insane. I had found the door and it was real. The entrance I found was not what I expected, but I knew there were more doors and more worlds.

I was the best mother Eli had ever had and if I stepped over into the dimension where Eli was a stranger, helpless and trapped in a nonfunctioning body, I could not be the great mom he loved. I couldn’t handle the idea of Eli not being whole and now I knew that other worlds existed out there and in one of those worlds Eli was just the same as I remembered him.

I will find him. After all, I promised and the best moms don’t break their promises.

2011-05-08T12:22:00.001-05:00

You Are Not Special

Conspiracy Theorist = Christian?

I know that you are not special, just as I know I am not special because the world makes it clear every day that we just didn’t make the cut. No one is special, we are just like everyone else, and there is no difference between us and our neighbors and those of our same race, sex, religion and profession. We are cardboard cutouts and just a step above the monkeys. Oh sure, there are special people out there, just not you or me and the world will be the one that defines who and what is special, not us.

The world is heavily invested in your maintaining this idea that we are average, stupid and just a number on a chart. The world, and the decision makers that keep it turning, is afraid that you will come to the realization that something powerful and very special lurks deep within you. The world keeps you busy and distracted, hoping against hope that you won’t find that spark inside and it has spent many years and much money to make sure your ticket off the Ferris wheel is hidden.

The world decides for us our politics, entertainment, fashion, habits, rules, laws and morals and it tells us what these are through our programming on the television and in popular music. It implies that you have choices, but there is no real choice when the world dictates what can be chosen. The world tells us what is politically correct and we accept the boundaries without much thought, remembering that fat people and the religious are the ones we can still joke about and snub.

The world holds up its Idols for us to worship, admire and emulate – it decides the rulers of science, religion, medicine, politics, media, entertainment, sports – picking a hand full from each area to showcase primarily. Some it chooses are the jesters for us to mock and take pleasure in the 15-minute hate, others it chooses as our gods and goddesses. The world decides who is special, be it Lady Gaga or the Pope.

But you and me are much like bits of sand on a beach, here simply to support the machinery of the world and to accept the offerings gratefully. We are to look out at the world and never wonder how our Idols abilities are any better than our own. We are not to question industry, be it pharmaceuticals – they care about our health, or politics – the government would never lie to us.

Truth be told there are special people, many special people and you won’t find them on the television or radio – the special people are the ones who haven’t lost their spark. They question, they critically and/or intuitively think, they are odd and don’t fit in. You were told that in the end times the Christians would be persecuted, but the world holds up a distorted caricature of what a Christian is and we have swallowed the lie.

A Christian is a truth-seeker – nothing more, nothing less. We were told to pick up our cross and walk in his way, we were told to seek, we were advised that we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.

Real Christians call out the money-changers, they point out the evil and darkness in the rulers and leaders, they draw attention to the manipulation and the lies. Real Christians understand that they will be hated because of His name and His name is Truth. Real Christians walk a very narrow path, understanding that the wrong word to the masses could cause upset, but steadfastly moving forward because they were called to pursue the Truth.

Real Christians don’t thump the bible; they pound the truth and yell it from their rooftops. Real Christians make the masses uncomfortable, because their truth and the world’s truth are two distinct things. The world portrays the Truthers as insane, unpatriotic and no more a Christ follower than a Muslim, but the world also held up Jim Baker, Jimmy Swaggert and Ted Haggard for us to follow.

I’ll wager that many a truth-seeker will claim no allegiance to Christ and will be quite surprised when they discover their relentless drive to uncover the hidden is Christ. Yep, I’m saying it - the conspiracy theorist with their persistent need to know the truth is a Christian. Not the caricature that the world shows us of what a Christian is, but the gritty reality of what Jesus tried so hard for us to understand. We are the sheep sent out among the wolves, wisely seeing through the illusion and innocently causing no harm.

We live in a one thought fits all world, but reality is so much different than what we are shown. As the world begins its crack down on the conspiracy theorist for asking questions and the masses go to church, learn about prosperity and drop their money in the collection plate they will never understand that those tinfoil hat, nut jobs are walking the lonely, narrow path.

It is my opinion that the truth seekers, the cross bearers, were called and the spark, the light within them cannot be covered. The world will work diligently to extinguish and mock the light because the world works best when we are kept in darkness and ignorance. But for the questioners, the dreamers, the seekers, the thinkers and those who have not surrendered their individuality to the machine know that you have been chosen to lead as much of the flock as you can to safety.

Keep seeking and continue to point out the wolves, the darkness and the wickedness. You are special, more special than you ever realized.

2010-12-08T18:37:00.003-05:00

Roxy Moon Stone’s New Pajamas

By Victoria Hardy

An unedited short story

November15, 2000

Grandma Stella used to say I had an angel following me. She said she’d never seen someone have so many near misses and escape unscathed. I suppose I have lived an adventurous life in my thirty-one years, but it seems more like I have stumbled blindly from one mishap to the next bad decision to the inevitable chaos.

Sometimes I’m pretty sure that I am broken, but then I feel a small tug inside reminding me to just keep trying. I sure don’t know what the goal is to all this struggling, I can’t really see beyond today. Truly, I can’t see beyond this next hour.

I’m sitting in a Starbucks in Portland, Maine looking out at Congress Street and pondering my own sanity. How much is too much, I wonder. How much chaos, stress, violence and death does it take to break the human spirit?

Grandma Stella was an optimist when she claimed I had an ever-present angel, in my mind, I just had a target on my back and the marksmen taking aim grew less visible as the years passed. I can feel them around me now, hidden, but ready to take their next shot.

So the next rational thing I can do in this situation is consider whether or not I have fallen on the wrong side of the crazy wall. Insanity is not new to me, my parents would not have been considered well adjusted or productive, and over the years I have run into my share of nut cases. I wonder sometimes if insanity is contagious, if by being exposed to it again and again finally breaks down your immunity and leaves you vulnerable to the invisible toxin – to the crazy germs.

I’ve heard it said that to become a whole and balanced human being, both in mind and spirit, we must look at our past, our issues and ourselves honestly. We must quit blaming others for our misfortunes and take responsibility for our actions. So in the spirit of that little tug inside of me that insists I keep trying, I have decided to look back and try and put it all in perspective.

I was born Roxanne Moon Slope on July 20, 1969. I was named after a soap opera character of ill repute and the moon landings. Rose, my mother, was convinced that it was no coincidence that I was born as men were stepping on the moon and she felt sure it made me special. Hank, my father, hated the name, but there wasn’t much that met Hank’s approval.

We lived in a ramshackle, field-hand house on the edge of a large farm just outside Macon, Georgia. Hank worked for the city on a trash truck and Rose stayed home and took care of me. I, of course, don’t remember those early years, but I understand that my first brush with death came when I was two years old.

We had a fuzzy black dog named Fetch and according to Rose, Fetch was quite taken with me. She claimed that the dog and I would spend hours playing together and that she once caught me asleep in the doghouse curled up beside him. One morning Rose set me out in the yard to play with Fetch and stepped back into the kitchen to watch from the window while she washed dishes.

Rose said that Fetch wasn’t acting right that morning, barking and snipping at me as I tried to crawl in the doghouse. She thought he’d turned rabid and ran out of the house to get me. Just as she reached me, the source of Fetch’s odd behavior lurched from the doghouse and latched onto his throat. It was a rattlesnake and according to Rose, a big one. She grabbed me and ran. Fetch died within minutes. Rose told me later that that was the one and only time she’d seen Hank cry. He buried Fetch in the field behind the house and burned the doghouse; we never got another dog.

I remember the next incident vaguely, but I certainly recognize the ripple effect it had on our family. I was six, it was Christmas time and Rose and I had gone to town to see Grandma Stella. It was the first time I’d been to her house, maybe the first time I’d met her, and the whole time I was there I sat on the thick carpet, rubbing it with my hands, nearly amazed. Our floor at home was rough, splintery and cold, but Stella’s floor made me want to curl up and take a nap on it.

We left and went to Woolworth’s where Rose bought me a pair of Santa Claus pajamas. We were just crossing the street when a car ran the red light, Rose must of seen it coming, because she threw me out of the way. The car hit her instead, breaking her leg in three places. I had a few scrapes and a decent knot on my head, but Rose got the worst of it by far.

I think the pain of those broken bones never left Rose, even after they healed, and I believe the pain is why she began drinking so much. I see the accident outside Woolworth’s as a turning point in our family, of course, I was still young, it could have always been bad and I wasn’t aware enough to notice. I do remember returning to school after the Christmas break and feeling the change; everything seemed darker than before as if a previously unnoticed light source had winked out.

The next years in the Slope house were quite chaotic, Rose and Hank drank their evenings away and I struggled to get up and get myself to school everyday. I didn’t care for school and it became clear to me early on that I didn’t fit in. I raged silently in my pillow about having to go, but I understood - perhaps in a way my parents didn’t - that my attendance was required.

Sitting in class seemed a good lesson in the haves and the have nots as I couldn’t help but notice the girls with pressed clothes and perfect braids. I imagined them sitting at a dressing table as their mother slaved away, ensuring that every hair entwined and I hated them; I was lucky if my mom was out of bed by the time I came home from school.

I was nine the next time one of those invisible marksmen set his sites on me. In a very rare occurrence I was allowed to go home from school with a friend for a sleepover. I was so excited and even Rose sobered up enough to buy me a new pair of pajamas for the occasion. Hank, of course, saw little sense in the idea of sleepovers, but Rose stood her ground and I was allowed to go.

The girl’s name was SaraBeth and even though she had pressed clothes and perfect braids, I liked her - she was nice to me. Her mother picked us up from school and since I rode the bus twenty miles each way, just getting picked up in a car was a novel experience. On the way to their house we stopped at a fast food restaurant, a privately owned establishment losing the competition wars with the big names like Hardees and McDonalds.

As I unwrapped my hamburger, too embarrassed to admit I’d never been to a restaurant before, two men with guns burst through the doors and ordered everyone to get down and empty their pockets. There were twelve people in the eatery that day and six of them died, including SaraBeth and her mother. A bullet grazed my hip, requiring fourteen stitches, but as usual, the others got it worse.

I awoke out of a haze of painkillers a day or so later to hear Rose and Hank talking in the kitchen, well, mainly just Hank. “There’s something wrong with that kid, she ain’t normal. Everywhere she goes, something bad happens. Cuz of her Fetch died, your leg got broke and now six people are dead.”

“She didn’t do any of those things.” Rose defended me.

“She might not have done them, but they happen around her, it’s like she’s cursed or something. I seen a movie like that once, where this evil kid caused all kinds of death and heartache. Everywhere that little bastard went someone died a horrible death.”

“She’s just a kid,” said Rose.

“She ain’t a normal kid, that’s all I know.”

I drifted back off to sleep wondering if I was evil. As much as I didn’t like Hank, I thought, even then, he had a valid point. I dreamed of SaraBeth that night, we played together in a beautiful meadow; the colors were so vibrant that I woke up longing to go back.

In the next year the farm was sold and the pasture was transformed into a subdivision. I often sat in the tree line watching the construction and felt a loss of something I couldn’t define. The summer I turned twelve the fancy houses in the pasture began to sell and soon BMWs and mini vans mixed with trucks and tractors on the highway. Watching the newcomers, I’d try to discern the secrets that separated our lives and the differences between them and us seemed blatantly obvious.

The people in the pasture parked their cars in garages, washed their driveways with soap and water and cut their tiny postage stamp yards with big riding lawn mowers. We didn’t have a garage, our driveway was dirt and the little, loud, gas powered push mower I cut the grass with was usually parked out in the field where I’d left it the day before. The people in the pasture were neat and spotless; there were no identifying markers to tell one home from the next. I glanced over at our house and saw beer cans and oil cans in the yard, a scattering of cars in various states of repair, a tarp tacked over a hole in the roof and of course, a lawn mower left out in a half mowed field.

The summer I turned twelve those marksmen came back. I didn’t see it as it was happening, but somewhere in my mind I will always connect those perfect yards and homes to the destruction of the Slope family. I was in the field, eating away at it slowly with the noisy and smoky mower until it ran out of gas. Pushing the mower back towards the house I could hear Hank and Rose arguing – they argued a lot that summer. Perhaps it was just as hard for them to see the way it was supposed to be spread out in the pasture outside the windows, as it was for me.

I found three gas cans in the yard, all dry as a bone. I glanced at the house, heard Rose call Hank a bastard and wandered back to the tree line. I sat, once again studying the difference between us and the people in the pasture, until I saw Hank stagger out of the house, pee behind an oak tree and then settle down for a nap on a piece of cardboard set in the shade.

I crossed the field and entered the house through the backdoor. Rose sat at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of wine and holding an ice pack to the side of her face. Rose and I never discussed the beatings, I don’t know if she was ashamed or just thought it was normal, but I had learned to ignore it. “We’re out of gas,” I said.

She nodded her head and stared down into the tumbler of dark liquid.

“I can’t finish cutting the field without gas.”

She lifted her eyes to look at me and for a moment I was afraid. I thought it strange how we don’t really see people that we live with clearly, we grow so used to their features we don’t actually look at them anymore, but in that moment I saw my mom clearly. She was thirty-two, but looked ten years older, her light hair was more gray than blond and the hollows at her collar bones made her look skeletal.

“We’ll get some tomorrow,” she said slowly, and I felt the fear tighten in my belly. Under the wisps of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail and had grown wet from sweat, her eyes were hollow. What I didn’t know at the time was that Rose had finally been broken and I was seeing the first cracks of the upcoming destruction in her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said quickly, pulling my eyes away from hers and backing out of the room. I walked across the field and sat down under a tree, waiting for something. I wonder now if I could have stopped it. Maybe had I sat down with her, or hugged her, or even acknowledged her bruised and battered face, maybe things would have been different. But I didn’t, I sat under the tree, absolutely knowing something terrible was going to happen and feeling as though I had no control over it.

I must have dozed and woke up when I heard Rose calling me. I woke alert and glanced at Hank, he still slept on the piece of cardboard and the sun hadn’t moved very far in the sky. I jumped up and waved and then ran across the field towards home. I met her at the backdoor, she was dressed in her town dress, her hair was washed and she wore make-up, despite the heat.

The knowing that something terrible was going to occur was stunned – stopped in its tracks. This was Momma; Momma way before things grew so... lonesome.

“Let’s go shopping,” she said.

She sent to wash my face and change into the clothes she had left on my bed. I stepped in my room and looked at the pressed shorts and top and was reminded that something bad was going to happen, but I pushed it aside – I wanted to go shopping.

Rose drove us to town, we stopped at Dairy Queen and had messy cones and then we stopped in at Montgomery Ward where she bought us matching pajamas. They were high-waisted, pink, cotton gowns; mine with the image of Winnie the Pooh and hers with bleeding hearts. On the way home, she stopped at Winn Dixie and bought a roast.

When we pulled into the driveway Hank was still sleeping on the cardboard, but neither Rose and nor I acknowledged the fact that those long naps always aggravated his orneriness. She sent me to bathe and put the roast in the pressure cooker.

I knew things were weird, but I didn’t know what to do and in a way, the weirdness, the desire to see where it led, called me. I did as she said; I bathed and put on my pink gown.

Looking back I wish I could stop time and change it all, but that’s not how the world works. I was stupid, I didn’t see. Was I evil, as Hank had insisted? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure that Hank’s suspicions of my dark intent were probably clarified when he stepped into the kitchen that night.

That’s enough for today, Roxy thought and closed the notebook. She drained her coffee, once again wondering at the wisdom of consuming caffeine when she was already wired and anxious, and slid her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She studied the street and listening to her internal guidance system, she discerned it was safe. Although she knew her battered system often missed important clues, it was all she had to depend on these days.

She dropped the notebook in her bag, threw away the cup and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She allowed a moment to become aware of all going on around her and to assess any threats. She walked briskly to her car, checked the backseat and looked underneath before climbing inside and locking the doors. The anxiety pulsing inside of her lessened once she pulled into traffic and turned on the radio, but she remained alert.

November 17, 2000

I am sitting in a diner in Old Orchard Beach, most of the shops are closed for the season and only a few people are on the street. I can’t decide if I’m safer with just a handful of people around or in the crowds of Portland. I’m running late today, I just couldn’t get the courage to step out of the house this morning – I can feel them watching me.

I know how paranoid I sound, that’s why I save my words for this journal, maybe when I am done I will understand if I am really crazy or if the invisible marksmen have truly loaded their guns. I’m drinking coffee despite the fact that the anxiety and fear are nearly overwhelming, and I’m jumping at the slightest noise. I haven’t mentioned anything to Mark, although I suspect he has formed his own opinions of my behavior.

I’ve avoided long enough, I think, the story of Hank and Rose. I hate to think about it, but in the name of healing the wound must be lanced and perhaps that is what Rose was doing that summer evening in Georgia, lancing a large, loud and angry wound.

When Hank crawled up from his cardboard nap and stepped in the house, Rose was carving a roast. We were dressed in our matching pink gowns, and Hank stood unsteadily, looking back and forth between us as though he hadn’t quite broken the hold of sleep. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Dinner,” Rose said simply.

I’m not sure what else Rose had planned for dinner that night, there was nothing else cooked, just a roast that she was slicing with the biggest knife from the drawer.

“Where in the hell did you get a roast and why in the hell are you two dressed like that?” he asked, opening the fridge and popping the top of a beer. He drank down half of it, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, missing almost all the liquid and barked, “Answer me!”

And Rose answered him with the swing of the knife.

She missed him and caught me in the arm, slicing the sleeve of my new gown and leaving a two-inch gash. I don’t know if Rose was aware that she cut me or if she was beyond caring. I fell back against the sink and she used the opening I left to go after Hank. She caught him in the hall, the knife slicing open his left shoulder.

He screamed and then, he woke up. He turned and attempted to take the weapon from Rose and she cut the side of his face. Their fight was surprisingly quiet, a silent, deadly ballet and the white walls in the hall became stained by blood. I ran. I guess the paralysis was broken and the seriousness of what was happening finally sank into my mind when I saw the smears on the walls.

I crossed the field barefooted, climbed under the barbed wire fence and ran through the pasture, knocking on the first house. The woman, who opened the door, nearly fainted when she saw the blood on my gown. She pulled me into the house and I stammered out what was happening. Her husband called the sheriff as she cleaned the cut on my arm.

I sat in their eat-in kitchen looking over the pasture to see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles at my house. All the times I had studied the people in the pasture, I never imagined I would be sitting in one of their homes and I certainly never dreamed of the circumstance that would put me there.

The sheriff stepped into the room, asked me some questions and then called an ambulance. I was taken to the hospital where I received sixteen stitches in my arm. I remember asking the nurses, doctors and police officers about Hank and Rose, but no one would tell me anything.

Finally, Grandma Stella came rushing in to the little room where the hospital staff had placed me after they stitched up my arm. I barely knew Grandma Stella, had only met her a couple times in my life because Hank said she was uppity and forbid Rose to visit her unless we needed money, but I was happy to see her step into the room. Under a cloud of Channel #5 she sat beside me on the hard uncomfortable couch and explained that both Hank and Rose were dead.

It seems that Rose struck the first killing blow, striking the artery in Hank’s neck, but before he completely bled out, he grabbed the .38 from the bedside table and shot her.

So you see, I am no stranger to insanity. And I know the look a woman gets in her eyes when she has been broken and sometimes I think I see that look reflected back at me when I gaze into a mirror. Of course, I find it best to stay away from mirrors these days.

Grandma Stella took me home with her and said I would live with her if the Slope family had no objections. I couldn’t imagine that the Slopes would want me and I sure didn’t want to live with them. The issue was settled the evening before Hank’s funeral when Hank Sr. knocked on the door and spoke to Stella. I turned down the television and listened from the den.

“My boy’s funeral will be tomorrow at two,” he stated, avoiding any pleasantries. “And we don’t want the girl there.”

“Hank was her father, Mr. Slope,” Stella pointed out.

“Be that as it may, we, the family, don’t want her there. Nothing good has happened since that girl was born, just one bad thing after another. We don’t want her and if you insist on bringing her, I can’t guarantee her safety.”

“They think I’m cursed,” I said to Stella when she shut the door.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but I thought I saw doubt on her face.

We went to Rose’s funeral, but we didn’t go to Hank’s.

Rose had a simple ceremony at a small, wooden framed Baptist Church on the edge of a marsh. She was buried in the Turner family plot along side her father, Burt. There were dozens of guests, mostly curiosity seekers, the death of Rose and Hank was big news in a small town, but none of the Slope family attended.

I could feel the eyes of the guests on me, my reputation, my brushes with death, were also a topic of gossip in a small town. I felt the expectation in the air, as though they were all there to watch my behavior and determine for themselves whether or not I was cursed, evil or a witch.

I don’t think I cried at the funeral and I’m sure that added plenty of fodder to the gossip mills. But I did cry at the graveside service when I watched the casket being lowered in the ground, it seemed so final and suddenly the reality of it all hit me. Grandma Stella held and comforted me and we cried together as the minister said the last prayer over Rose.

Life with Stella was like a dream come true after growing up with Rose and Hank in the rough floored, ramshackle house. The plumbing worked all the time, the bathroom was warm, with dependable hot water, and we had both a shower and a tub. Stella took me shopping for school clothes in bright aisled department stores and bought more clothes than I had ever owned. Then she had my hair cut in a real salon, instead of in the bathroom with kitchen scissors. I started school that year looking as normal as any other girl, I wore pressed clothes and had a nice hairstyle, but I was still different and my reputation followed me.

The first year of school was uneventful and I didn’t really get bullied, the rumor that I was cursed worked in my favor. I made a few friends and life grew predictable, comfortable and safe. By the time I started ninth grade I was beginning to feel like I fit in, a new experience for me.

In homeroom a new face appeared and her name was Megan. Megan had black hair, wore all black, used thick black eyeliner and painted her lips a deep, dark red that bordered on black. Megan was Goth before anyone in small town Georgia knew what Goth was and I liked her immediately.

Megan had lived in Texas, California and Colorado and found Macon, Georgia the most backwoods place she had ever been, but she seemed drawn to me. We spent a lot of time together those first few months of school, but something about Megan made me nervous. I sensed a quality in her that I couldn’t quite define, as though something was lurking under the surface. I don’t know what Stella thought of Megan, she never said a harsh word about her, even after everything that happened.

Megan invited me to sleep over, I didn’t ask Stella if I could go for a couple days, I still remembered my last sleepover and I still dreamed of playing with SaraBeth in the vibrantly colored meadow. I finally asked Stella and she said I could go. Friday afternoon when I returned home from school I found Stella had been shopping and bought me four new pairs of pajamas.

I stopped in the doorway of my room and stared at the colorful mix of satins and flannels and thought of the evening Rose and Hank died and the pressed clothes on my bed. For a moment the image of the pressed top and shorts overlay the colorful pajamas and my breath caught in my throat. But then, as I stared, the rational voice that we all carry spoke up and said, What the hell, they’re pajamas. Snap out of it.

I packed my bag, adding the black silky pajamas with the little red hearts and Stella dropped me off at Megan’s. Megan’s parents weren’t home and as soon as I stepped in she grabbed an open bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses from the cabinet. She explained, as I followed her the stairs to her room, that as much as her parents drank they would never miss as single bottle of wine.

Her bedroom was as dark as her clothes, the walls a deep blue, the drapes and bedspread black. The artwork was oil paintings of witches, cemeteries and lone bare trees on cloudless nights and it turned out Megan was the artist. We listened to obscure punk music and drank wine. I was tipsy after the first glass, but didn’t complain when she poured another.

I saw a thin, white book on her dresser, the only book in the room that wasn’t on the witchcraft or the paranormal. I flipped through it and saw that each page only had a single sentence, posed as a “what would you do” question.

“That’s the stupid shit my mother does,” Megan said. “She buys this psychobabble, self-help crap and tries to push it on me. She thinks I’m the crazy one around here and she asks me all these questions as though she can analyze me.”

“This could be fun,” I said, flipping through the questions. Some were just silly, but others were interesting and maybe I wanted to analyze Megan myself a little bit. “If you could do anything and knew you would never be caught or punished, what you would do?” I read aloud.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said, applying lipstick and looking at me through the mirror, “I get my dad’s gun and go door to door in this snotty neighborhood and kill them all.” She laughed and put the cap on the lipstick. “Of course, I’d start right here.”

I was reminded of my last sleepover, the bullets flying, the people crying and screaming and SaraBeth dying and I grew angry. “You’d just go kill people? Have you ever seen someone die? It’s not like it is on TV? It’s horrible.”

She sat down on the bed and studied me, the same way the gossips studied me and said, “People suck, they are evil, shallow and two-faced. They don’t deserve to live.”

“Not all people are bad,” I said, still remembering the sound of the last gasp of breath before SaraBeth died.

“So you still believe in the goodness of people after all you’ve been through?” she asked, still studying me like I was a strange blemish on her own face.

“Yes,” I said, I’d seen goodness and her name was Stella.

“Then you are a fool. No one is good. We all suck. Including you. I want you to leave.” She stood up, turned up the music and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m serious, I want you to leave; I don’t associate with idiots.”

Feeling a drunk for the first time in my life, I grabbed my bag and left. I walked home and found Stella sitting in the den watching TV. I explained about the fight and she took me into the kitchen, made a strong cup of tea and asked me how much I’d had to drink. I told her the truth, she didn’t punish me or give me a speech, she simply asked me not to do it again and I agreed.

The next week in school Megan kept her distance from me and then on Friday, she came to school with a gun.

Roxy shut the notebook, stared out over the pier and at the ocean. She felt exhausted, battered and she could more easily name the parts of her body that didn’t hurt than she could the ones that did. These cold New England days made every scar on her body awaken and itch and seemingly, it awoke every memory that accompanied the scars. She rose slowly, pulled on her coat and paid the bill.

She stepped onto the nearly deserted street, tightened her coat against the cool wind coming from the water and walked to her car. She was hyperaware as she moved down the street, but she also knew that she was running herself ragged with the fear. How long could she keep it up and how long would it be before her guard slipped from sheer exhaustion?

November 20, 2000

I’m sitting in a diner in the Old Port, the coffee is strong and at this time of day, the place is near empty. It was a long, hard weekend and I’m tired. The weather is predicting snow and I loath the time when the world is covered in white and hard to maneuver. I feel the walls closing in on me and I wonder if I’ll be around to see the spring thaw.

Hopefully, I will have a time in this journal to discuss the recent events in my cursed life, but for now I must follow the past and write about Megan. I dreamed of Megan over the weekend and like all dreams of her, they are dark and depressing and I wake afraid. I really didn’t need those dreams this weekend, as though things aren’t bad enough without them.

By Friday of that week I was beginning to relax, I figured Megan had had her say and wanted nothing else to do with me, but I was wrong. I passed Megan in the hall between fifth and sixth periods and noticed that she was really dressed up, of course, it was still all black, but she wore a dress. The dress was lace, long and fitted and she looked beautiful.

I smiled, I couldn’t help it, she usually wore oversized clothes that hid her figure, but she looked nice, like one of her paintings. As the thought of Megan’s dark paintings occurred to me, the smile faded from my face and she grabbed me. I wasn’t expecting it and my books tumbled from my hands, scattering across the hall. The other kids moving from class to class also seemed startled by the sudden, violent attack. She shoved me and I hit the door to the bathroom, which opened behind me, and I fell on my rear.

She followed me inside, pulled a gun out of her bag and ordered the other girls out of the bathroom. As the other girls ran out, I scooted on my butt across the floor and into the corner beside a row of sinks.

“I read about you, you know,” she said nonchalantly, checking the stalls to make sure everyone had left. “I figured you would be the one cool girl in this god forsaken town. I figured after everything that had happened to you, you would know that people suck, but damn goody goody thinks people are good.” She sat down on the floor in front of me and pointed the gun at my chest. “Do you still think people are good? Do you think those people who shot up the restaurant were good? How about ole Hank and Rose, were they good? Let me guess, you loved your parents?”

I didn’t say anything; I just stared at her and wondered if the curse had finally caught up with me. I was scared, but I was also angry, I didn’t owe this strange, unhappy girl any answers about my life, hell, I didn’t even have any answers for myself about the strange occurrences I had survived.

“You sit there in your designer jeans and your fancy ass haircut and think you’re better than me. Answer the damned question! Do you love me? Did you love Hank and Rose? What about the gunmen who killed all those people? Love them too?”

I still said nothing, wondering if anyone had informed the teachers that there was a girl with a gun in the bathroom.

She slid closer to me and put the gun to my head. “Well, Roxy Moon Slope, you are the worst of the worst, the world has shown you how evil it is and you refuse to believe.” She pulled the trigger, but the gun didn’t fire.

“Shit,” she muttered, pointing the gun at the ceiling and pulling the trigger again. The noise of the gun firing was overwhelmingly loud in the small cinderblock and tile bathroom. She smiled and put the gun back to my head, pulling the trigger. The gun jammed again.

She slid away from me and looked both confused and frustrated. “Well, fuck,” she said casually, waving the gun as she spoke, “maybe you can’t die.” She tried one more time, pointing the gun at my chest and pulling the trigger. The gun fired, deafening in the small room and the bullet knocked me further into the corner.

I must have blacked out and when I came to I saw Megan lying on the floor, a bullet hole in her head and blood streaked down her face. I looked down at my chest, now burning with a fury heat, and saw the large, red, stain growing on my yellow blouse.

The door burst open and a couple brave teachers ran into the bathroom. They took in the scene and scrambled to get medical attention to the both of us. At the time I thought that Megan had killed herself after shooting me, but it turns out that’s not what happened.

Megan shot me and it went straight through me, hitting no internal organs and only cracking a rib. The bullet hit the pipe behind me and ricocheted, hitting Megan right between the eyes. It didn’t kill her, it knocked her out, gave her a concussion and the wound only required a few stitches.

Megan was stitched up and sent to juvenile detention, I spent four days in the hospital. Later I heard that Megan was transferred to the State Lunatic Asylum, okay, they don’t call it that any more. A few months later Megan was sent to the State Hospital and I have no idea where she is today.

By now my cursed reputation was sealed in stone. When I returned to school I found my handful of friends had dropped to just a couple, but no one picked on me or was even brave enough to bring up my odd life. Four times in my fourteen years my name had been in the papers and each time someone was injured or killed. I was actually surprised anyone would choose to be around me at all. I was surprised that the parents of the other kids in school didn’t band together and demand I be removed. I was surprised that they didn’t come to Stella’s house with torches, like a scene from Frankenstein, and run us out of town. But they didn’t.

What they did do was stare and gossip behind my back, but I had grown used to that. Grandma Stella encouraged me to overlook the gossip, the long stares and the way people would cross the street if they saw me coming. “You’ve got an angel,” she insisted. “The devil keeps trying to get you, but he keeps failing.” Stella was ever optimistic.

The next time my name was in the papers I was seventeen and getting ready to graduate high school. My senior year was a good year for me, I had gained a few more friends and had a boyfriend, a nerdy, cute boy named Andy. Andy was a science geek, planning on a medical career, and didn’t believe in curses.

It was spring break and Stella surprised me by allowing me to go to Myrtle Beach with Andy, his sister, Erin, her boyfriend and a couple of my friends from school, Marti and Ryan, for three days. I didn’t think she would allow it, but to Stella any normal thing I could get under my belt was a good thing. She took me shopping, and bought shorts and tops, a sundress, a bathing suit and two pairs of summer pajamas.

Of course, being teens the sleeping arrangements were far different than what I told Stella. Andy and I shared a room, the first time we had sex anywhere besides the back seat of his car, and Erin and her boyfriend also shared a room. Our second night there we went to dinner at a restaurant on a pier; the weather had turned and I wore a jacket over my sundress.

We sat by the windows overlooking the ocean; the rain was coming down hard, smearing the windows and making the view look like an abstract oil painting. As the high tide churned under the pier I could feel the building swaying, but the staff didn’t appear to react as if it was out of the ordinary so I relaxed and finished my appetizer.

The waitress brought our entrees and Andy had just finished telling a joke when there was a groan from the walls of restaurant and a pop that sounded like the loudest gun ever fired. The building fell, not in the slow agonized way you might see in a movie, but in a sudden, whiplash-inducing collapse. The windows beside our table shattered and then caved in under the assault of the rhythmically pounding, cold and turbulent water.

People screamed and tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. I was pushed under by a wave, popped out of the water and was hit in the head with one of the heavy dining tables, which were bobbing dangerously among the people and the other debris. In the struggle to save my own life I lost sight of my friends and the next wave washed me out into the ocean.

I became trapped underwater in the debris washing violently in the storm and relaxed, almost pleased that the curse had finally gotten me. A jagged piece of the wooden pilings hit me in the ribs, knocking me free of the debris and sent me to the surface. I hit the top of the water gasping and could see that the entire pier had fallen into the water.

I don’t know how long I was in the water before I was dragged into a boat, but it seemed like a long time. I was taken to the hospital where I was treated for broken ribs, a collapsed lung and received fourteen stitches in my head and twelve in my side. Ten people died that day in what the papers described as a freak wave, including Erin’s boyfriend and Marti and Ryan.

Everyone who survived had minor injuries and my injuries were declared serious by the papers. Before he left to drive back to Macon, Andy stopped by the hospital and broke up with me. It seems he had decided he did believe in curses, after all.

I didn’t complete my senior year, I couldn’t face the people, the stares, the gossip and I couldn’t face not seeing my friends, Marti and Ryan, in the halls. I felt guilty over their deaths even though I understood I could not control freak waves, but I had to wonder if the freak wave would have happened if I had not been there. I decided it was safer for everyone if I just took my GED.

I did figure out about the pajamas later and whatever strange quirk of time and space made it so that destruction followed me upon receiving a new pair, but not until right before the next death.

Roxy shut the notebook, stared out at the boats on the ocean and pulled on her coat. She understood that writing of the past was supposed to be therapeutic, but thus far, she simply found it exhausting. So much death, she thought and sighed. She stepped out onto the wharf, checked her surroundings thoroughly and walked to the car.

She climbed inside, locked the doors, turned the ignition and put the heat on high. She adjusted the rearview mirror to look at her reflection and traced the scar that ran from her temple to her chin with her fingers. So much death, she thought again and then readjusting the mirror, she pulled into traffic.

She drove slowly through Portland, the anxiety that was her constant companion of late growing stronger the closer she got to home. She turned onto her street, observing the large multi-family houses with the tiny yards and looking for anything out of place. As she pulled into the driveway, separating her apartment building from the one next door, she caught the flutter of a curtain as one of her neighbors looked out.

Roxy parked the car in the lot behind the house and wondered if her reputation had followed her all the way up the east coast and if these New Englanders were planning a modern day witch-hunt. She sat for a moment, looking at the windows of the houses surrounding her and saw another curtain flutter. Yep, she thought, they know I’m home.

She stepped into her apartment, which took up one-third of the first floor of the three-story house, and set her bag in the closet and hung her coat. She put on a pot of coffee and sat in the overstuffed reading chair in front of the window, watching the street.

Two women stood on the sidewalk across the street, talking and pointing at her apartment. Even though she was sure they couldn’t see her, Roxy slid down in the chair. A third woman joined the two and they continued the conversation, sneaking looks in Roxy’s direction.

It’s not paranoid if they’re really out to get you, she thought and took a sip of her coffee, as light snow began to fall.

November 24, 2000

Yesterday was Thanksgiving and I have little comment about that, other than acknowledging the date. I’ve not wanted to write this next part, too many emotions and then I have to think of Tyler. I don’t want to think of Tyler.

I think Mark is beginning to believe I’m really crazy, he doesn’t believe in curses, but he also doesn’t see what I see. Of course, it would be simpler if I were insane, maybe not for me, but for everyone around me. I know I am a heavy burden these days, I know I’m not pulling my weight and the twenty hours I manage to work a week really doesn’t bring much money into the house. The pressure is on him, not to just earn enough for both of us, but also to make excuses for me as to why I don’t do more.

Today I am sitting on the second floor of the Yarmouth Public Library, looking down on a perfect New England setting. The leaves are skipping down the street and in the distance I can see the Royal River. I’ve not written about why I must leave the house to scribble in this notebook, but truth be told, I feel observed at home, as though the walls have eyes that can read every word. I know it’s silly, but it is the truth.

Sometimes I think I should go to a shrink, take a bunch of pills and forget all about it. And let it happen without constantly fighting it. But maybe that would be giving into the devil that Stella said was nipping at my heels. I think I owe it to Stella to fight and I certainly owe it to Tyler. Just writing their names makes me ache, but I guess this journaling thing is some sort of exorcism and I hear those things are painful.

I went to college at the University of Georgia and I saw him playing bass in a bar. I’d only been in school a few weeks and luckily, my reputation didn’t seem to follow me to Athens. My roommate asked me to go out with her and even though we were underage, the owners of the bar didn’t care. They had decided to take their risks with the law, because having a bar full of drunken college girls was good for business.

He was a beautiful man, with long, curly, blond hair, big brown eyes and full lips - in essence - he was the epitome of the rock star. His name was Jesse and after our first conversation I was head over heels in love. He was twenty-two, lived in Augusta and was on a regional tour with his band The Sex Monx. We made out in the parking lot after the bar closed and he promised to call after his two-week tour, sponsored by some obscure beer, was over.

I waited by the phone, never believing he would call, but praying that he would. He did. We met outside of the 40 Watt Club and ended up having sex in his friend’s van. It doesn’t really sound as amazing as it was when I break it down so simply, but for my hand’s sake, I’m not giving the details. It was amazing, I was eighteen, what else can I say?

By November I was pregnant. Jesse wanted me to abort, as it interfered with his rock star dreams. Stella told me to come home and we’d figure it out. I went home. I didn’t want to abort, despite half knowing I was cursed.

Tyler Mitchell Slope was born on my nineteenth birthday and he was the best present I’d ever received. He was a chubby, red-cheeked baby and I cried, as I laughed, the first time I saw him. Stella cleaned out her sewing room to make a nursery, and together we took care of Tyler. Those first couple years were the happiest of my life, despite the fact that Jesse wanted nothing to do with us.

But Jesse called and I found my name in the news again.

It was the day after Tyler’s second birthday, and my twenty-first, when the phone rang; Jesse called to say he’d settled down and wanted to cook us dinner. I was excited. I was stupid, but I was excited. I don’t think Stella wanted us to go, but she complimented me on my clothes and made sure Tyler had snacks in his diaper bag.

I followed the directions down to a little back street in Warner Robbins and parked on the curb. The neighborhood was old, run down and it crossed my mind that we should leave. I looked at Tyler sitting in his car seat and for some reason pushed caution to the wind and unclipped him.

The house looked better on the inside than it did from the street and once the door was closed, I felt a little better. Jesse, on the other hand, didn’t look so great. His hair was greasy and lank; he was way too thin and his eyes were blood shot, as though he hadn’t slept in a very long time.

He said he hadn’t had time to cook, but a pizza had just been delivered. I walked into the kitchen carrying Tyler and found an old highchair sitting beside the table. I was touched, it wasn’t much, but it was some effort. I put Tyler in the chair, tied on his bib and tore up bits of pizza for him to chew.

Jesse didn’t eat much; he paced a lot and apologized even more. I knew he wasn’t acting normally, but I also wanted to hear what he had to say. After confessing to every wrong he had ever done us, and some he hadn’t, he stepped into another room and came out with a gift-wrapped box. “It’s for both of you,” he’d said.

He handed me the box and I tore off the wrapper, excited, I don’t think he’d ever given me a gift. I pulled off the top, moved aside the tissue paper and just stared.

“They’re pajamas,” he’d said, “matching ones, for you and Tyler.”

I think that is the moment the pajama thing hit me, I’d never noticed the pattern until right then and in that brief span of time, I saw all the new pajamas I’d received over the years and the following events. I dropped the box on the table, as though it contained live scorpions instead of colorful cotton, and turned, grabbing the highchair tray.

“What’s going on?” Jesse demanded, just as someone pounded on the front door.

The tray was stuck and I couldn’t get it to come free. Someone pounded on the backdoor just feet from Tyler in the highchair and I yanked him out, scraping his legs on the plastic and losing one of his shoes. I ran towards the back of the house, working purely on instinct and trying to find a safe place.

I heard both the front and the back doors explode inward as I opened the last door in the hall and looked for a place to hide. I thought about the closet, but then I saw a heavily stacked bookcase in the corner. As I slid into the space between the wall and the case, protecting Tyler with my body, I wondered when Jesse became a reader.

Tyler was crying from the abrasion on his thigh, but was mainly upset about his shoe and I soothed him. When the gunfire erupted, he quieted. I pressed us into the small corner, he on the inside, my back to the room and prayed that he would be safe. The shooting seemed to go for hours, but time in those situations gets strange. A second can seem like an hour.

I felt the slug go into my back, at first it just felt like someone punched me and then the pain came. Remembering Megan and the round that went through me, I checked to make sure Tyler wasn’t hit. By the time the shooting stopped the pain was so bad I just wanted to lie down, but I pressed us in that little corner and waited.

I heard the police enter the house and I called out that I was in the bedroom and had a child. My voice was weak and it took a couple tries before they heard me. The ambulance was already on its way, but I was the only one that needed it, those that weren’t killed in the shoot out took off when they heard the sirens.

Four people died in the shootout, including Jesse and I lost a kidney. Tyler survived with scraped thighs and a missing shoe. He was upset about the shoe, but Stella bought him a new pair while I was in the hospital.

According to the police officer who stopped by the hospital a couple days after the event, Jesse had developed a meth problem and had gotten in the middle of two rival biker gangs. Jesse hadn’t lived at the house in Warner Robbins, he had been hiding out with a couple friends who were quite upset to come home and find their house shot up. The officer commended me for having the foresight to hide behind the bookshelf and stated that it probably saved both of our lives.

“We found a couple bullets wedged in some books that could have been fatal for both you and your son,” he explained. “The book that stopped the bullet that was about the height of where you were holding your son was the Bible and the book on the next shelf up, about even with your head, was John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Just thought you should know,” he said and left.

It dawned on me that he really came to tell me about the books.

When I got home from the hospital I told Stella about the pajamas, I don’t know if she believed me, but she swore she’d never, ever buy me another pair.

Recovering from the shooting took longer than I expected and it occurred to me that my injuries were getting worse with each event. If the devil was nipping at my heels, his aim was getting better and better. And then I thought, how does a woman go through life without ever receiving pajamas? How often do we buy such a simple give and pass it on without thinking of the consequences?

Of course, I realized that not everyone suffered with receiving such a gift, but I was trying to figure out a way to protect Tyler. And I knew I couldn’t tell anyone the reason for my pajama phobia, except Stella, as anyone else who hadn’t lived it would think I was insane.

I recovered and landed a job at an insurance company in Macon, but it wasn’t long before I got a new pair of pajamas.

Roxy hung up her coat, set her bag in the closet and shut the door. She checked the heat on the way to the kitchen and turned it up. She made a pot of coffee, carried a cup to the reading chair and kicked off her shoes. She sipped slowly, chastising herself once again for her coffee consumption and stared out the window.

Movement down the block caught her attention and she saw one of her neighbors talking to the police and pointing in her direction. Her heart began to pound in her chest and she slid her shoes on, setting her cup on the table. The police car pulled to a stop in front of her building and then an officer stepped out heading toward her door.

She opened it as he raised his hand to knock. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“We’ve had a complaint about the music,” he stated, looking down at her.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Your music was too loud, your neighbor complained,” he explained, as though speaking to a child.

“I just got home a few minutes ago and haven’t had the TV or music on at all,” she said, her stomach tightening with anxiety.

“Well, one of your neighbors was certain it came from this apartment, so keep it down, understand?”

“Yes,” she said, realizing he didn’t believe her, and shut the door. She walked back to her chair, sat down and began to shake. It’s escalating, she thought and wondered when the next attack would come.

An hour later, having switched from coffee to juice, she saw the police car stop at the curb in from of her apartment. She watched him walk toward her apartment and didn’t rise from her chair until she heard the knock.

“Ma’am, I asked you to turn down the music,” he said, when she opened the door.

“I haven’t had any music on,” she sighed.

“I’ve had two complaints today, from two different neighbors that say you have,” he said, frustration in his voice.

“Well, they’re either lying or confused, I haven’t had any music on at all.”

He sighed and looked at her, focusing on the scar on her face. “Listen, if I have to come back again today, I’m giving you a ticket for disturbing the peace.” He turned and walked back to his car.

She shut the door slowly, felt her body flush, first hot and then cold, and turned up the heat. She sat back in the chair and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Mark’s car pull into the driveway, she knew there would be no more complaints today.

November 28, 2000

Friday was a very bad day, it seems my neighbors called in two complaints about my loud music, funny thing though; I wasn’t listening to any music. The officer threatened me with a ticket if he had to come back, but luckily Mark came home and the complaints stopped.

Of course, Mark was angry about the calls, being a cop himself, it just doesn’t look good. I told him I wasn’t listening to music and he just looked at me, frustrated, I don’t think he believed me. I pointed out that I didn’t even watch TV anymore; the noise grates on my nerves, so why would I be listening to loud music. He didn’t have an answer and after dinner he walked next door to watch a hockey game with his brother.

So it seems now I am not the only one pondering my sanity. I can’t get distracted though, I have to keep writing this damned journal and try to see…. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for anymore.

I met Mark when I was twenty-five, I was still living with Stella and Tyler was in first grade. I had successfully avoided receiving any pajamas for four years and was beginning to think that the past was behind me, that the devil had given up and that the invisible marksmen had wandered off in search of a new target.

I was still working at the insurance company and it was Christmas time. My relationship with Christmas had changed since I understood about the pajamas and those wrapped presents with unknown contents were enough to strike fear in my heart.

As Christmas fell on a Sunday that year, our Christmas party was held at lunch on Wednesday and then the office would close until the next Monday. Everyone was excited about having four days off to spend with their families and I had planned a lot of cookie making and baking with Stella and Tyler.

The employees drew names that year and we could spend up to ten dollars on our gifts. There were fifteen of us sitting around the big table in the conference room, eating baked goods and counting the hours until our time off. The mood was light when we began opening gifts. Lucy Reynolds drew my name and when she handed me the clothing sized box, I felt my heart begin to speed up.

I unwrapped it slowly, feeling all eyes in the room on me and terrified by what may be hiding under the pretty silver wrapping. I think I knew it was pajamas before I even pulled off the top of the box and when I did, I gazed down at a red flannel gown with mistletoe designs around the collar. It was a pretty gown, but I dropped it like it was red hot. I jumped from the table, ran to my desk and called Stella.

“You and Tyler stay home and lock the door,” I demanded. “I just got a gown for Christmas!”

I don’t know what Stella thought, but she said “okay” and promised they wouldn’t leave the house.

I stepped back into the conference room, apologized and made an excuse that I felt sick. I looked at Lucy to thank her for the gift – the gift I planned to drop in the next convenient trash can when no one was looking - and saw a light in her eyes that I had never noticed. In just a second it was gone, but it seemed like something dark passed through her and wanted me to see it.

I went back to my desk, watching the clock and jumped at every sound. I was wired as tight as a tick, expecting the worst to occur at any minute. The day dragged, I called and checked on Stella and Tyler a couple times and watched the big windows that looked out into the parking lot. Needless to say, I didn’t get much work done.

At four o’clock a man entered the office and asked for Lucy Reynolds, the claims adjuster who ruined his life, and pulled a gun out of his overcoat. I reacted instantly, diving under my desk, the others in the office moved more slowly, not as accustomed as I to gun play and knife fights.

As the man screamed about losing his house over red tape and his children having no Christmas, he took shots at anyone or anything that moved and I got hit in the foot by a wild shot. Emptying the first gun, he tossed it on the floor and pulled out another. The man, Lester Owens, ordered everyone into the conference room, one of the few rooms without floor to ceiling glass, and I pushed myself further under the desk.

Once he had the rest of my co-workers in the enclosed space, I reached on my desk and pulled down the phone. I dialed the police and, in whispers, I told them what was occurring. My call was transferred to the officer in charge of the hostage situation, one Mark Stone, and I gave him as much information about the man, my co-workers and the building as I could.

The situation was resolved when a sharp shooter caught Lester Owens in the head as he paced in front of the single, small window in the conference room. The police rushed in, tending to the wounded and Mark Stone introduced himself to me as I was lying on a stretcher. We lost three employees that day, including Lucy Reynolds; whose mistake on Mr. Owens claim form was the reason the insurance wouldn’t pay when his house burned down. Three others were injured and mine was the least serious.

I was home from the hospital in a day, with just a cast on my foot, the bullet had broken a few bones, but overall I counted myself lucky. I sat on a stool in the kitchen and directed the baking and we had a nice Christmas.

I thought Mark was about the most handsome man I had ever seen, different from Jesse in everyway. Mark was dark headed and muscular, where Jesse had been blond and thin. Mark had bright blue eyes that reminded me of summer days, where Jesse’s had been dark. I thought about his smile, his strong and reassuring voice on the phone and his blue eyes over the next weeks, but I understood that shootings; hostage situations; or death really aren’t a good basis for a relationship, so reluctantly, I put those thoughts away.

A few months later I took Tyler to the park, just a couple blocks from Stella’s house, and saw Mark jogging. He stopped so quickly when he saw me, he almost tripped. I laughed and felt the blush on my face and the excitement in my body. He ambled over, almost nonchalantly and re-introduced himself. I was throwing a baseball with Tyler and told him I remembered him clearly and thanked him again.

I introduced him to Tyler, whose eyes grew wide at meeting a real police officer, especially one that saved his mom and Mark asked us both to dinner. Our first few dates included Tyler and then he asked me out alone. Stella agreed to baby-sit and then took me shopping and paid for a dress. Frankly, I was in love after the first date and I think Stella loved him, too.

We dated for six months when he invited Stella, Tyler and me out for a fancy dinner. Just before desert was served he got down on his knee and proposed. After I accepted his proposal, Stella ordered her and Tyler’s desert in to-go boxes and quietly slipped out of the restaurant.

We were married in the same wooden framed Baptist Church where the services for Rose had been held. It was a beautiful evening ceremony with candlelight and peach colored roses. We set up tents beside the marsh and had our reception on the grounds. It was the second happiest day of my life, next to the day Tyler was born.

We moved out of Stella’s house into Mark’s, which luckily was only a few streets over and Stella could still walk Tyler home from school and tend to him until I got off work. It was idyllic time; as I’d walk over to Stella’s after work, have a cup a coffee and we’d talk about our day. And then Tyler and I’d walk home together – I miss those days.

I have to stop now, I’m crying. I’m sitting in Tim Horton’s and getting weird looks. I miss Stella and Tyler, I can’t express how much, sometimes… no… most times I really hate this world. This ugly world that steals the good and only offers bad, pain and hospital visits.

Maybe if I’d never married Mark… maybe…. Tyler would still be here and maybe, Stella would be too – those damned pajamas! I’ve got to go home and see what my neighbors have planned today.

Roxy closed the notebook, wiped her tears and looked at the perfect mothers feeding their children and gossiping. She tightened her coat and stepped into the parking lot without even stopping to observe her surroundings. She climbed in her car, without checking the seats, and sobbed. She rested her head against the steering wheel, as the tears cut tracks through the carefully applied make-up, and shook her head. “Why do I keep trying?” she asked the silent space beside her and receiving no answer, she cranked the car.

Mark stepped into the apartment, dropped his briefcase in the corner of the kitchen and tossed his coat over the couch. She wasn’t home yet. He wandered into the bedroom; looked at the quilt Stella sewed by hand and shook his head. He sat on the bed, pulled off his shoes and changed from his uniform, now a suit, into comfortable clothes.

Pulling on his favorite boots, he sat back and looked at the quilt again. He found the box in the back of the closet, buried under Christmas decorations, and pulled it out. Inside was an assortment of odds and ends from his life, the strange things men keep, a button from first grade, the ticket stubs from both a Bruins game and a Bruce Springsteen concert, the picture of his first girlfriend from fourth grade and the little book Stella had given him before he asked Roxy to marry him.

On the cover, in scrapbook print, it read: Never Buy Pajamas and inside was newspaper clippings of the things that Roxy experienced and survived. He flipped through the articles and set the book on the bed. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then, grabbing his keys, he headed upstairs.

He knocked on 2B, the apartment directly above them, and waited. He heard her calling and he smiled. She opened the door with what looked to be pumpkin or sweet potatoes and definitely puke on her shirt and smiled, “Hey, Mark.”

“Hey, Sophie, how you doing?”

She looked down at her sweatshirt, touched the messy knot on her head and laughed, “Like usual. How are you?”

“Good, you got a minute?”

She nodded and opened the door.

He stepped inside the apartment; the front room cluttered in toys and said, “It’ll just take a second. I was wondering if you heard any loud music coming from our apartment Friday afternoon?”

“Your apartment? No. I never hear a peep from you guys, can’t say so much for the other people around here, but not you guys. And I’d know too, Jason was teething really bad Friday, I was a wreck and if I would have heard it, it’d just be one more thing to piss me off.”

“Thanks,” he said and let himself into the hall. He knew that the people in 2A worked, so he stepped down the hall and knocked on C.

“Who is it?” a voice called through the door.

“It’s Mark Stone, from 1B, your downstairs neighbor,” he replied and heard the locks begin to open.

“Hello, Mr. Stone,” the elderly man smiled. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thanks, Mr. Riley, I just need a minute,” he said, stepping into the small apartment.

“No, problem.”

“I was wondering if you heard any loud music coming our apartment Friday afternoon?”

“Last Friday?” the man asked, walking over to the coffee table and picking up the remote.

“Yes, sir,” Mark nodded.

He muted the TV, rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. “No, can’t say I did, I was home all day. I usually go to the grocery on Friday, but it since it was the day after Thanksgiving, I sat right here, ate leftovers and watched old John Wayne pictures.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Riley,” Mark said and stepped into the hall feeling his heart begin to pump like it always did when he knew he was on the trail of the truth. He ran downstairs trying not to make too much noise on uncarpeted steps and entered his apartment from the interior door into the kitchen. Roxy still wasn’t home.

He exited the front door onto the porch and crossed the driveway, knocking on an apartment door in the next house. Mrs. Durham, after looking at him through the peephole, opened the door wearing an apron that demanded he kiss the chef and carrying a spatula. “I’m making cookies, Mark, come in.” She left him standing, so he shut the door and followed her.

He stepped into the kitchen, noticing the windows that looked out at his apartment and asked, “Did you hear any loud music coming from our apartment Friday afternoon?”

She pulled a pan from the oven, placed it on the counter and set another one in its place. “Friday?” She pulled the oven mitts off her hands and looked at the TV in the corner. “No, I love the holidays on my stories, everything is so festive, so I watched,” she laughed. “Plus I was working on crème bruile, that didn’t go so well.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Durham, I appreciate your time,” he said and turned to leave.

“I did see the police over at your place Friday, is everything okay?” She picked up the spatula and started flipping cookies off the tin.

“Yes, ma’am, everything’s fine. But you didn’t hear any loud music?” He didn’t know why he asked again.

“No, it was a quiet day,” she said and handed him a cookie.

December 1, 2000

I’ve felt a little better the last few days; maybe it’s true that journaling is therapeutic. Of course, before I get too cocky, I need to get through the rest of it. I’m back in Starbucks today, sitting in my usual window and watching the snow fall outside.

Married life was good, and we were happy. Tyler loved Mark and had even started calling him dad. Mark wasn’t satisfied with his job, though, he saw Macon as a stepping-stone and he was ready for the next step. Eighteen months ago he accepted a position in Portland, Maine as a detective and we moved up the east coast.

It was hard to leave Stella, but she encouraged the advancement and promised she’d visit often. Tyler was excited about living in a place where it snowed regularly and talked about learning to ski and snowboard. Mark went ahead of us, renting an apartment and settling in and Tyler and I followed as soon as his summer vacation began.

Mark rented an apartment next door to his brother and sister-in-law, Paul and Karyn. Paul is the live-in caretaker of the building and he also has a part-time job at a screen print shop, Karyn is a paralegal. I’d never met Mark’s family before, and actually, I’d never even given them much thought. Perhaps our lives down in Georgia were kind of insulated, but after Paul didn’t come to the wedding, I just assumed he and Mark weren’t close.

Paul is younger than Mark by three years and different in so many ways it’s hard for me to see them as relatives, of course, I have very little experience with the proper way relatives should behave. Karyn is a few years younger than me and stated simply, I’m not a big fan.

When we first moved in, we spent a lot of time with Paul and Karyn, so much so, I felt like I was losing Mark. Perhaps it was my own insecurities, but I felt like I detected a shift, small and subtle, in Mark’s personality.

Mark was working hard at his new job, so Tyler and I spent a lot of time exploring the area, discovering beaches, lighthouses, libraries and parks. When Tyler started school, I went to a temporary employment agency and got a job in data entry. I liked the freedom of working for a temp agency and planned to be able to take off the same days Tyler took from school.

I find I am avoiding the story I mean to tell, I find I am avoiding writing the truth, I feel my heart speed up even thinking about it and yet, my hand won’t write the words. So I will just spit it out, it was Karyn who gave me the next pair of pajamas. Karyn gave the pajamas despite knowing I had what Mark referred to as a “pajama phobia” and she laughed when she saw my reaction upon opening the box. It was just a joke, she explained, as Mark ushered she and Paul out of the apartment.

It was Christmas Eve, just a year ago. Stella was up visiting and we’d worked all day in the kitchen to have a nice get together with the family. Paul and Karyn were invited and we sat around the tree opening gifts. When I looked into the box to see the Santa Claus print, I dropped the box and scooted away and Karyn giggled. I looked up in time to see the same dark shadow cross her features as I had seen in Lucy Reynolds face the day she died.

After Paul and Karyn left, we stood around the box and stared at it. Tears filled my eyes as I looked around at my family and I felt the fear eating away at my thoughts. I wanted to grab them all and hide, I wanted to lock us in the house and wait it out. But that’s the thing with the pajamas; you never know where the threat will come.

We went to bed quietly, the day ending much differently than it began. Around one am Tyler woke me up complaining of a pain in his stomach and burning up with a fever. We decided he needed to go to the hospital and as Mark strapped on his gun, we decided we’d all go together.

We were just a few blocks shy of the hospital when the car hit us. The kid driving was racing with his lights off and hit the passenger side of our vehicle as we passed through an intersection. Tyler, Stella and the kid driving the car were all killed. I was in a coma for four days and woke, bandaged from what felt like my head to my toes, to see Mark standing by the bed. Mark’s face was various shades of purples, blues and greens and he wore a neck brace, a cast on his arm and a bandage on the side of his head.

He told me about Stella and Tyler and I fell back into my painless slumber for two more days. I didn’t want to wake up ever again and floating between life and death was the most soothing period I’ve ever known, while waking up brought more pain that I could describe in six journals.

I had a severe concussion, a long, jagged cut down my face, broken ribs, a collapsed lung and perforated intestines that required two emergency surgeries. As the media breathed a sigh of relief that the Y2K bug didn’t change life as we knew it, I knew that my life was altered forever.

A month after the accident I was released from the hospital and we flew down to Georgia and buried Stella and Tyler in the Turner family plot. As I looked at the line of graves, I realized how alone in the world I had become and I just wanted to crawl in the ground with Tyler and go to sleep.

We flew back to Maine and I spent the next few months in bed. Days would pass without my washing a dish, taking a shower or making a meal. Mark encouraged me to get up and to try to get back to living, even if it was as simple as taking a shower and getting dressed, but he didn’t understand. I’d finally been broken.

Around April I had a dream of Tyler and Stella, they were in the same meadow where I used to dream of SaraBeth and they looked happy. The colors were even more vibrant than I remembered and I awoke longing to go back, but felt well enough to crawl out of bed. I stepped into the bathroom, stripped off my clothes and stood in front of the mirror. My body was battered, I was nothing but scars and as I studied the wounds, old and new, I wondered about the purpose of life and why I was still here. Was there some reason I hadn’t died over and again?

I stepped under the hot spray, the heat loosening stiff joints and dressed in flannel and denim. I moved the reading chair to face the front window and curled up with my coffee. It was that week in April, after dreaming of Tyler and Stella, that I began noticing things and questioning my sanity.

Now, I believe it is completely normal to go a little crazy after losing a child, not only is it normal, I think it’s expected. Losing a grandmother is hard, especially women like Stella, but we aren’t meant to bury our children. So for the last seven or so months I have questioned my sanity at every turn, wondering if I am doing odd things and simply forgetting.

At first, it was subtle and I was still mired in the depression of loss and the pain of recovering physically, so I could discount my perceptions as mere forgetfulness. The first incident I recall was coming home from the grocery and when I stepped into the apartment, the hair on the back of my neck reacted, standing at attention. I set the groceries in the kitchen and explored the rooms.

In the bedroom the bed wasn’t made, but I distinctly remembered making it before I left for the store. I made it again, questioning myself, had I really made it? Or did I just think about making it? I stepped into the bathroom and saw my wet towel lying on the floor. I remembered hanging it after I showered. I was never one that just dropped wet towels on the floor, neither Rose nor Stella would find that appropriate. I hung the towel and chalked my absentmindedness up to pain, depression and exhaustion.

In June, I picked up a part-time temp job filing. It’s simple mindless work and about all my brain can take right now. Luckily, the boss doesn’t care if I come in at eight am or noon, as long as the work is done and that fits my schedule perfectly, as some mornings it’s almost impossible to drag myself from bed.

The first week of my new job I returned home from work to find the whole chicken I’d left out to thaw missing. I clearly remembered setting the chicken in a glass bowl, placing it in the sink and covering it with a dishtowel. I found the chicken in the pantry, staining the shelf paper and dripping on the floor, the bowl was put away in the cabinet and I never found the dishtowel.

The look of pity Mark gave me when I pulled the chicken out of the pantry is embedded in my brain and I realized he was questioning my sanity right along side me. I knew I had set it in the sink, but still I questioned myself - maybe I didn’t, maybe I only thought I did.

In July, while doing a lot of crying, I boxed up Tyler’s belongings. Mark moved them into our storage unit in the basement and the next day when I came home from work, I found Tyler’s baseball glove on the coffee table. I knew I hadn’t overlooked it and I remembered crying as I placed it in the box. When I mentioned it to Mark, I saw the look of pity and questioned myself again.

And then I got scared, it felt like I had received a pair of pajamas and was waiting for an eruption that never came. Each week that passed I just grew more anxious, more nervous and more afraid. It was during the summer that I noticed the neighbors treating me differently, well not all the neighbors, just some of them. Mrs. Durham still brought over samples of whatever treat she was attempting and Mr. Riley and Sophie, from upstairs, still spoke and were friendly, but that’s when I started noticing the flutter of the curtains and the stares.

In August I turned off the TV. The constant drone of noise, and the laugh tracks, was like fingernails on a chalkboard, and I couldn’t stand it another minute. I also feared it might mask the sound of the warning when it came. I knew I wasn’t making much sense to anyone at this point, I barely understood myself. Mark began stepping across the hall to watch TV with his brother and I didn’t mind, I felt a little calmer when I was alone and it was quiet.

In September a neighbor down the block filed a police report saying I hit her car with my own. I knew I didn’t hit her car, but she had a dent and I had paint on my bumper. Mark was mad about that one, him being a cop and all, but I didn’t hit the girl’s car. I really believe Mark is losing his patience with me, but he has been nicer the last couple days, less tense around me and more affectionate.

I just checked the time; I have to get to work.

Mark stepped into the dispatcher’s office and waited until the operator was free. She pushed the disconnect button on the keyboard and looked up at him, “Hey, Mark.”

“Hey, Helen, wondering if you could help me out?”

“Sure,” she nodded, “if I can, what do you need?”

“There were two noise complaints called in about my apartment on Friday the twenty-fourth between fourteen and seventeen hundred, could you tell me where they originated?”

“No problem, it’ll take a couple minutes, though.”

He nodded and waited.

“The first at fourteen thirty two came from 1709 Harper Drive, the second at sixteen zero eight was called in from 1701 Harper Drive.”

“Thanks,” he said, turning to leave and stopped. “Do you have the names these numbers are connected to?”

“Yeah, just a second.” She tapped some keys on the keyboard and then read off the names, “Bethany DiGiacomo and Gayle Sullivan.”

“Thanks.”

“Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” he said and walked slowly out to the parking lot and climbed in his car. So the upstairs neighbors and the next-door neighbor didn’t hear a peep, but neighbors on either end of the block did, he thought and shook his head. “What in the hell is going on?” he muttered and pulled out of the lot.

“How are you today, sunshine?” Eden asked, as Roxy set a stack of files on her desk.

“Tired,” Roxy admitted and yawned.

“Stay up late with that sexy husband of yours,” she asked, with a smile.

“No,” Roxy shook her head. “Worked too hard making a meal last night, I don’t even know how I got talked into that and then I didn’t sleep well.”

“Pain?” Eden asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose and focusing on Roxy’s face.

“No, no more than usual,” she laughed softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just couldn’t settle down, I was jumpy or something.”

“So who came over to dinner?”

“Just Paul and Karyn.” Roxy bent down and picked up a handful of files from the floor. “Are you done with these?”

“Yeah, thanks. And as usual, you did all the work?”

“Yeah, Karyn doesn’t know how to cook, cooking for her is dialing take out.”

“So what did you make?” Eden asked, opening a file, glancing at the contents and looking up at Roxy.

“Chicken parmesan.”

“And how many places in the greater Portland area make it better than you?” Eden smiled.

“I do declare, Miss Eden, I believe you were a fly on my wall last night,” Roxy laughed.

“I have an amazing bitch radar, I must be psychic like my mom,” she smiled. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

Roxy dropped the files on the cart and pushed it to the wall of shelves and began putting them away. She was grateful to have met Eden and even though the girl was several years younger, she had taken Roxy under her wing.

She still wasn’t sure how she got roped in to making dinner last night, she had planned on soup and sandwiches and then Mark stepped next door to watch TV with Paul. Next thing she knew they were all in the kitchen, with the television blaring in the background and she was cooking. She still hadn’t forgiven Karyn for the pajamas at Christmas, but Mark insisted Karyn had no idea what would happen with the gift and that they should forgive her.

What kind of person gives a gift that she knows will disturb a person? Roxy asked herself for the millionth time since last Christmas. Even if she didn’t know exactly what would happen, why would anyone give a gift the receiver was afraid of? Well, in Eden’s words, a bitch, she thought and smiled. Maybe more than a bitch, Roxy muttered under her breath and the smile faded. She could still remember the shadow she saw move across Karyn’s face on Christmas Eve.

She didn’t see much of Karyn or Paul in the months after the accident; she entered and left the apartment through the exterior door and worked hard at avoiding them in the halls or common areas of the building. But as summer progressed she saw more and more of them and the timing couldn’t have been worse. She was already wrapped so tight and the endless, mind numbing chatter grated her nerves more than the TV did. It was hard to give a damn about reality shows, office gossip and the latest fashions when your only kid was dead.

And whenever she was around Karyn and Paul, she was left even more anxious, exhausted and yet, unable to sleep. She understood they were Mark’s family and due her respect in the same way Mark showed his respect to Stella and Tyler, but she didn’t like them and she wondered why Mark did. She supposed it was different with men; they talked about sports, food and beer and considered each other friends, whereas there were always layers to friendships with women.

Roxy stepped out of the building at half past noon and figured she’d missed Eden. She tightened her coat, observed the parking lot and saw Eden sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette. She smiled.

“As screwed up as you are, Roxy Moon,” Eden said, standing up and dropping her smoke in the ashtray, “you’re a damned good worker.” She wrapped her arm through Roxy’s and led her away from the parking lot. “Lunch, it’s on me, or at least it’s comped,” she giggled, “let’s go.”

Roxy started to protest, but Eden was the less stress she had encountered since her world had changed so radically, so she allowed the girl to pull her towards town. They turned towards the Port and stopped at a small bistro. Roxy followed her and they sat at a small table on the street. Eden lit a cigarette and as the waitress approached, she said, “Two martinis, dry and an appetizer menu.”

Roxy smiled. “You know I’m missing a kidney, a good bit of intestine and had a pretty severe head injury in the last year, maybe I shouldn’t be drinking.”

“A drink’s not going to kill you, girl. The way you’re looking today, you could probably get away with a few,” Eden said, wrapping a scarf around her neck and pulling a knit hat from her bag. “Plus it’s chilly, it’ll warm you up.”

Roxy watched the people moving from shop to shop, tourists still taking their chances with New England weather, and noticed the sun had broken through the clouds. She felt more relaxed then she could remember and as the waitress set their drinks on the table, she lifted her glass and took a sip.

“Good,” Eden said, “relax.” She picked up her own drink, raised her glass in an air toast and tasted it. “Nice,” she smiled. “Now, you’re wound as tight as I’ve ever seen you and I know I haven’t known you for long, but if you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said, honestly and took another sip of the martini.

“I know about you, the Internet is a wonderful thing and when your name was in the paper because of the car accident, there were other articles. You’ve lived through a lot, a lot of stuff I couldn’t even begin to understand.” She sighed and took a sip of her drink, setting it gently on the table. “But what I do understand is tough women and Jesum crow, girl! You take the cake in that arena,” she laughed and exhaled a stream of smoke.

Roxy laughed, she liked Eden, but she held back, life had taught her that people were unpredictable.

“It’s like this,” Eden said, snubbing out a cigarette and lighting another, “my family’s weird too. I see a sister in you and I feel it is my duty to point out that you may have a vampire in your life.” She sat back and took a drag of her smoke.

An embarrassingly loud burst of laughter sprang from Roxy’s mouth and she covered her lips with her hand and asked, “What?”

The waitress stopped by and Eden ordered a couple appetizers and then turned back to Roxy. “A vampire. Laugh if you will, but they exist. Oh, not in the suck your blood way of fiction, but in a drain your faith and essence way of fact.”

Rozy leaned back in her chair, took another sip of her drink and remembered the shadows, the odd shifts, she saw in both Karyn and Lucy and then her thoughts turned to Jesse and the strange way he behaved before offering her the gift of pajamas. “Go on.”

“Well, some folks say they just didn’t get a soul, others say they are sociopathic and just don’t have a conscience, but these folks just feed on the heartache and pain of others. Now I won’t say I’m psychic, although my mother is,” she laughed, “but I get the feeling this Karyn is a big drain on you. It’s like every time you really look like shit and I ask what’s up, the name Karyn always pops up.”

“She’s not a nice person,” Roxy said and wondered – how do you explain to anyone about the pajamas?

“There’s people like that out there and a lot of these people thrive on freaks like you, I mean look at you.” She lifted her glass. “Look at the crap you’ve survived, look at the stuff you’ve seen and yet, being shot, stabbed and car wrecks, you’re still here. For vampires, you’re like prime rib compared to ground beef, you’re the finest wine compared to the cheapest beer,” she laughed. “You get the picture.”

“Not a pretty picture,” Roxy said.

“No, not a pretty one,” Eden agreed. “But a real one.”

Roxy took another sip and told her about Karyn, Christmas Eve, Tyler and Stella and the pajamas.

“Shit, damn, wow,” Eden whispered softly when Roxy finished. “Oh, wow.” She leaned back and took a sip of her second drink. “I don’t know what to say except, what a bitch!”

“She didn’t know about the pajamas, she just knew I had a pajama phobia,” Roxy explained, as it had been explained to her.

“So my neighbor has a phobia of snakes so I’m going to give him a snake? That’s messed up! What an evil bitch! Yes, you got yourself a vampire, girlie.” She chewed an olive thoughtfully. “You need to meet my mother, she’s about as odd as they come, but she sees stuff.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to meet with a psychic, Eden. No disrespect.”

“None taken, sweetie. But mom isn’t like a tarot card, crystal kind of weirdo, she’s cool, you’ll see.”

The waitress brought their food and as they ate Eden explained how she had to go to the satellite office in Brunswick the next day and had cleared Roxy to be her assistant. “We’ll stop by and see mom while we’re there,” she said, sliding a shrimp in her mouth.

Mark drove down his street and checked the distances from the complaintants homes to his own. It didn’t make any sense. He parked on the street and stood on the sidewalk measuring the distance in his mind.

“Hey, bro,” Paul sauntered up beside him. “What ‘cha doing?”

Mark pulled his attention to his brother, “Nothing, checking the weather, heard we had snow coming in.”

“It’s Maine, goober, we always have snow.”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, guess I forgot.”

“You home for lunch?”

“Yeah, thought I’d grab something.” Mark started up the walkway and Paul fell into step beside him.

“I heard about Roxy playing the loud music and getting the cops out here last week, what was that about?” Paul asked, kicking at clumps of snow on the sidewalk that he had missed when he shoveled.

“Did you hear the music?” Mark asked, stopping and turning towards his brother.

“What?” Paul asked and turned. “No, I was at work, I just heard street gossip.”

“From who?” Mark demanded.

“I don’t know, man, people talk. I don’t even know if I heard it or Karyn did, it’s just gossip.”

“Yeah, gossip,” Mark muttered and left Paul on the walkway. He stepped into the apartment, went to the filing cabinet and pulled out the file that contained their auto insurance. He flipped through a few pages until he found the information for the hit and run that Roxy was involved with. He scanned the paper work and found a familiar name, Bethany DiGiacoma.

So Roxy supposedly hit Bethany DiGiacoma’s car and now, Bethany DiGiacoma was calling in noise complaints, from all the way down at the end of the block. He shut the folder, set it back in the cabinet and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich.

December 6, 2000

It’s been a busy week. I’m sitting in the Portland library in a little patch of sun provided by the windows. It’s a beautiful day outside, deceiving with all the sunshine, and very cold.

Monday Eden took me to lunch; it was nice having someone to talk to and made me miss Stella even more than usual. Eden’s the only person besides Mark that I’ve told about the pajamas and surprisingly enough; she didn’t think I was insane. She does think that Karyn is some sort of psychic vampire and insists that with all the chaos I have encountered over the years, I am like Dom Perignon to vampires.

After she went back to work, I realized I was pretty tipsy and didn’t want to drive. I’ve never been much of a drinker; so two martinis gave me a very pleasant buzz. I decided to walk home, it’s just over a mile and I enjoyed it, plus I needed to sober up.

When I unlocked the front door and started to step inside I heard the kitchen door, our access to the interior of the building, slam. I froze, one foot in the apartment, and listened. I pulled the front door closed and ran across the driveway, knocking on Mrs. Durham’s apartment.

She opened the door wearing an apron covered in tumbling kittens and carrying a large spoon. I asked if I could use the phone and I called Mark. I waited for him in her kitchen, watching my apartment from her windows. She turned down the soaps on the TV, asked if I was okay and offered me a slice of cake.

She’s a sweet lady and has more aprons than I’d ever known anyone to have, but truth be told, she not a great cook and I turned down the cake.

Mark pulled up and I met him at the curb. I waited outside while he checked the apartment and a few minutes later he called me inside. Stepping inside I could smell the bleach, I followed him into the kitchen to see a gallon jug on the counter and what turned out to be Mark’s best suit soaking in a sink full of Clorox.

“I didn’t do that,” I said.

He nodded his head and I could see that his jaw was tight, as though he was clenching his teeth in frustration. “Look around the rest of the apartment and see if anything is out of place.”

I walked through the rooms and only noticed that it looked like someone had been sitting on the bed. I thought back and remembered putting on my shoes at the kitchen table that morning, I was sure it wasn’t me.

Mark went next door and had Paul change the locks and then put a note on the community front door requesting that everyone make sure the door stayed locked. Often times when the residents have to carry in a lot of groceries they’ll unlock the door so they don’t have to use their key every trip, but a lot of times they forget to lock it back when they’re done. We’re lucky to have our own outside access, but of course, only the apartments on the first floor do.

Although Mark was angry, I didn’t see the look of pity on his face that I’ve grown accustomed to seeing lately. So even though I’m still a nervous wreck, I don’t feel as bad as I have been, maybe I’m getting my second wind, maybe I’m not as broken as I believe.

Tuesday morning Eden picked me up at home for our drive into Brunswick, we made a detour into Freeport and stopped at a large white house that had been transformed into a metaphysical bookstore. We stepped inside under the tinkle of chimes and Eden went in search of her mother.

The store was different than I had expected when Eden told me her mom was psychic and had a metaphysical bookstore. I imagined dark rooms and lots of stars and moon prints everywhere, but the rooms were open and airy, with comfortable seating scattered around and each room was dedicated to one religious study. We found her unloading bibles in the Christian room.

Jane, Eden’s mom, was small and slim, her dark hair just beginning to gray and she dressed, as though she had just stepped out of an LL Bean catalogue, in colorful layers and study leather shoes.

“Come with me,” she said and I followed her down a hall. I looked over my shoulder to see Eden hanging back and she just waved her hand, as if to say, “Go on”.

Jane’s reading room was far different than I imagined also, there were no cards or crystal balls or candles, only a simple white room with two comfortable chairs set side by side and facing an uncovered window. The view from the window was a field in autumn colors and trees stripped bare of their leaves.

She indicated that I should sit, so I did and she sat beside me, taking my hand and staring out the window. “My,” she said softly after several moments had passed, “you’ve had quite a rough time. It was never your fault, though, despite your belief that you’re evil and cursed. You are neither evil, nor cursed. And although it is not a curse, it’s not truly a gift, is it?” she chuckled.

She was quiet for another moment and then her hand tightened on mine. “Losing a child is hard, but you haven’t been broken, although I know it feels like it. You’ve certainly been knocked down for the count and that makes you vulnerable. The world is filled with darkness and what most don’t understand is that the darkness hides in people and there is darkness around you. The anxiety and fear you feel is not your own, it belongs to the darkness and the darkness is afraid of you. The biggest enemy of the darkness is the light and you have the light.”

She loosened her grip. “All your life you have felt a victim to the strange and violent circumstances that have followed you, but perhaps you have more control than you ever considered.” She pulled her hand away and turned to face me. “Just remember, all that fear and anxiety pumping through you is not your own, you have some people around you with ill intent and it’s their energy you feel, not your own.”

Eden and I left and I felt buzzed, drunk, odd, but strangely uplifted. I’ve thought a lot about what Jane said last night and then I dreamed of the meadow again. This time only Tyler was there, we played and I hugged him, I can still feel his warmth against my chest.

I don’t understand this life, but I woke with hope this morning and could smell the scent of Tyler’s hair on my skin. Perhaps I do have more control than I know.

Mark sat down at his computer and did a background check on Bethany DiGiacoma and Gayle Sullivan. Ms. Sullivan had two DUIs under her belt and Ms. DiGiacoma was clean. They both graduated from the same high school, small towns, he thought and shook his head and they both graduated the same year, 1990.

He printed the info and stared at it. I’m missing something, he thought. What am I not seeing? He gathered the info, shoved it in his briefcase, stashed his case in his car and went for a walk. He walked to the river, looked across the water into South Portland and stared at the oil containers, stark white against the blue sky.

He knew he accepted a handful when he married Roxy, Stella had given him the book, but he wanted to be the big hero that rescued the pretty blond from the sorry existence life had dealt her. But what was happening was different than the inevitable chaos that came from a pair of pajamas.

He shook his head and tightened his scarf as a sharp breeze hit him in the face and turned towards the wind, he needed to clear his head. He had been beginning to believe that she was losing it, especially after the chicken in the pantry incident. She’d said she didn’t do it, but he hadn’t believed her.

Losing Stella and Tyler had been hard on him too, certainly not the way it had been for Roxy, but hard. He had loved them both and still remembered the way Tyler’s blue eyes lit with excitement from the simplest things from throwing a ball in the yard to awaiting a delivery pizza.

And maybe he had to admit, he’d been angry at Roxy when they died, not that she caused it, but a little voice in his head suggested it was her fault, her weird pajama phobia. He wanted to kick himself, in the months he should have been there for her, listening to her pain and fear and attempting to help her recover, he’d just pushed it aside and hung out with his brother.

He didn’t think Roxy liked Paul and Karyn, not that she would admit it, she was a southern lady who believed in family, despite the sorry state of her first twelve years. He was the one that insisted she forgive Karyn for the pajamas and he wondered why as he watched a tanker pull into South Portland. He knew why, he didn’t want to lose his brother.

As much as he judged, yes, he shook his head, judged Roxy’s family, not Stella and Tyler, but Hank and Rose, his was no better. He and Paul had two different fathers, his was buried up in Buxton and no one knew who Paul’s father was. Paul was a weird kid from the beginning, but Mark took him under his wing as one might do an injured puppy. He beat up his bullies and made excuses to his mom for his little brother’s actions.

He was aware of the walkers braving the weather on the trail behind him as he stood at the rail and stared down into water and rocks. Maybe he had been avoiding the guilt, down in Georgia they’d been happy and Stella and Tyler had been alive, after six months in the great frozen north, they were both dead. Was it his fault? Had he been displacing his guilt and shoving it all on Roxy because she was an easy target.

He’d been ready to believe that she needed to be committed, that it was all too much; he’d been ready to walk away. He was a dirty bastard, he decided, watching the tanker across the river. A dirty rat bastard.

Roxy shut the notebook, secured the scarf snuggly around her neck, chest and ears and pulled on her coat. She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the street while she tugged on her gloves. She walked back to the office parking lot and tried not to let the sight of the Christmas decorations alter her mood or crack the little kernel of hope she’d felt since waking.

She found her car where she left it and started to climb inside when she noticed that the front end seemed lower than normal. She looked down, noticed she had two flat tires and sighed. She walked into the office and had the receptionist call a tow truck and waited. The mechanic arrived quickly and when she stepped out to meet him he was rubbing his chin and studying her car.

“Two flat, eh?” he asked.

“Seems like,” she said, using his bulk to block the wind.

“That’s a might unusual, did you hit anything?” he bent down and examined the wheels.

“No,” she said, also looking at the wheels, although she had no idea what she was looking for.

He bent down, unscrewed the cap from the stem and said, “Aha.” He stood up and held a BB between his fingers.

“What’s that?” she asked, squinting up at his hand.

“Oldest trick in the book is what it is,” he said, walking around the front of the car and pulling another from the stem of the opposite tire. “Open the cap, drop in the BB and depending on how tight you screw the cap, you either got a slow leak or a fast one. These were barely screwed in, you had a slow leak.” He looked at her car again. “Front wheel drive, too, could’ve been dangerous.”

He handed her the small, copper balls and she stared at them while he filled her tires with air from a loud machine on the back of his truck. She felt the fear shiver down her spine, the anxiety form a hard knot in her belly and then she remembered Jane’s words.

The mechanic refused her money, shaking his head and warning her to be careful, he pulled out of the lot. She climbed in her car, cranked up the heat and stared through the windshield. Jane had said the darkness was afraid of her and that she had more control than she knew, but she had difficulty envisioning any control in her life.

She looked at the BBs in her hand again; this wasn’t a pair of pajamas. The pajamas she reluctantly understood, the BBs in her tires were a different… she struggled for a word … assault? She stared at the balls in her hand another moment and realized she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time – anger.

December 11, 2000

I probably screwed up. I lost my temper with Karyn last night, I just couldn’t help myself and it seems I sure know how to stop a party in its tracks. Of course, I don’t know why it was a party and why I keep finding myself cooking for everyone on Sunday evenings, staying up late and starting the week feeling awful. Last night it was pizza, Karyn wanted my homemade pizza. Why I agreed, I don’t know.

But after making the dough, cooking the sauce, slicing the veggies and preparing the meat, it was late. When we sat down to eat Karyn, as usual, described how every other pizza joint in Portland made better pizza, this one’s cheese was stringier, this one’s sauce was spicier, etc.

Finally, I asked, “Why didn’t you just order one of those pizzas instead of asking me to spend three hours in the kitchen?”

You could have heard a pin drop, talk about awkward silences. “I like your pizza, Roxy,” she smiled, but I could tell she didn’t like what I had to say.

“I can tell by your praise of every other pizza shop in town how much you like it, just like you like my chicken Parmesan and my spaghetti.”

“Yours is good, too,” she said, as though she was speaking to the least talented child in the art class.

I knew I should have shut up, but something inside of me simply refused my command. I stood up from the table, opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of take-out menus. “Next time you want a big meal on a Sunday evening,” I said, setting the menus beside her plate. “You cook.”

Her eyes grew wide and her face flushed red and then I saw that little flicker, that odd shadow, cross her face. “I thought you liked cooking.”

“I do, but not starting elaborate meals at seven at night only to listen to how every other restaurant in town makes it better.”

“I was just making conversation, I didn’t mean anything by it, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said.

I sighed, shook my head and announced it was late and that I was going to bed. Mark came into the bedroom a few minutes later, after seeing Paul and Karyn off, and asked, “What was that about?”

“Weren’t you listening?” I asked. “I don’t like her, I can’t look at her without hearing that little giggle she made when I opened the box of pajamas and I can’t look at her without seeing Tyler’s grave. I know he’s your brother and she’s his wife, but maybe you can just keep them away from me until after Christmas. It’s the first anniversary and I don’t need the constant reminder of how they died.”

He sighed, sat on the bed and pulled me down beside him. “Okay,” he agreed and rubbed my back gently. “It’s probably not a bad idea, I’ll make some excuse. Or hell, I’ll just tell the truth, we’ve had a rough year and we want a quiet Christmas, alone.”

Mark has changed in the last weeks, I’m not seeing the look of pity on his face anymore and although I felt him drifting away from me since before Tyler and Stella died, it feels like he’s coming back.

I believe Mark was just as upset as I was over the BBs in the tires, I saw his jaw clamp down when I told him what the mechanic said, but he didn’t say much. He just walked outside and stared at the parking lot behind the house.

I’m sitting at my usual table in Starbucks and even though the fear and anxiety have lessened, taking a back seat to anger, I still feel uncomfortable writing at home. I feel observed, not just pulling in and out of the driveway and seeing the curtains flutter, but inside the apartment. I sit in my chair and look at the other buildings, at the windows and knowing I can’t see inside their windows, I still wonder if they can see in mine.

I know it sounds paranoid and irrational, but I said I was better, not cured. I remember what Jane said about darkness hiding in people and that I was surrounded by darkness. The BBs in my tires certainly attest to that fact, but I can’t see the boogieman. At least the BBs in the tires prove that it’s not just in my head, as I believed, but it does open another box of crazy I have to figure out.

At least one thing is semi-resolved, Mark said he’d speak to Paul and Karyn today and let them know we’re taking a little break until after the holidays.

Mark knocked and waited. Paul opened the door pulling a sweater over his wet head.

“Thought I’d catch you before you went to work,” he said.

“Sure, come in,” Paul said, opening the door wider and sitting on the couch to pull on his boots. “I hope you didn’t come here to apologize for Roxy.”

“No,” Mark said and then asked, “Why would I do that?”

“The way she talked to Karyn last night was really rude.”

“She’s tired and she had a point, we’re always eating dinner at ten o’clock when we all have to go to get up early the next day and she’s the one doing all the work.”

“Nobody’s twisting her arm,” Paul said and picked a comb off the coffee table, straightened his hair and pulled it back into a ponytail at the base of his neck.

“She probably feels a little bullied the way we pile into the kitchen and beg her to cook,” Mark said and realized suddenly that’s exactly what they did, like she was their mother or something. He shook his head.

“She could say no,” Paul said, walking into the kitchen and pouring a mug of coffee.

Mark glanced at the clock, he was home for lunch and Paul was just starting his day. “Well, I just came by to say that Roxy and I decided we need a little time alone, so we probably won’t see you guys until after the holidays.”

“What?” Paul asked, turning to face his brother. “What do you mean? We’re not going to see each other at Christmas?”

“I don’t even know if we’re celebrating Christmas this year, it’ll be the anniversary of losing Tyler and Stella, we’re not really in the mood.”

“Well, that’s some shit right there, we’re neighbors and we’re not going to see each other for the holidays. It was one thing when you were down in Georgia, but now you’re just yards away and we can’t hang out for Christmas.”

“It’s just this year, man. It’s been a damned hard year for us, and especially hard for Roxy, we just want to lay low and forget about the world. We’ll probably order in one of those fully cooked holiday meals from the grocery and do nothing.”

“I’m not real sure that’s healthy, you guys should be getting better, it’s been a year, holing up and avoiding people just sounds a little crazy,” Paul said, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and dropping it into a plastic bag.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter how it sounds, it’s what we plan to do and I just wanted to let you know.”

“I haven’t wanted to say anything, but I don’t think Roxy is acting right, there’s been some weird stuff going on, like the hit and run and then the cops coming out for loud music. I mean, it’s my job to take care of this place, I can’t have the cops coming out here.”

Mark felt his jaw tense up and said, “Roxy’s fine.”

“Well, what about the day she left all those candles burning? If you hadn’t come home for lunch she could’ve burned the whole place down. And what about the TV thing – you can’t even watch TV in your own house. Seems pretty controlling to me.” Paul crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter.

At the time Mark thought Roxy had left the candles burning, although she swore she didn’t, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. “Roxy’s fine and we turn on the TV every now and again and frankly, the quiet it nice,” he said.

“Whatever, man, it just seems like you’re a little whipped, but it’s your life. I’ve got to get to work,” Paul said, pulling on his coat, dropping the sandwich in the pocket and effectively dismissing him.

Mark stepped into his own apartment and stood in the kitchen, staring at the counter and thinking. He had forgotten the candle incident, but looking back, he was sure she didn’t do it. She hadn’t lit a candle in the house since Christmas Eve a year ago, so why would she get up and light candles before she left for work. It didn’t make any sense and if the candles had been burning for hours, wouldn’t they have burned down more than they did? He didn’t really think it through when it happened; he was still mad about the hit and run and still pondering the dripping chicken in the pantry.

He walked into the living room and stared at the coffee table, remembering Roxy asking him if he had taken Tyler’s glove out of the boxes stored in the basement. She’d said that the glove was on the table when she came home from work and he remembered watching her put it in the box and taping it closed.

He sat down in the reading chair and stared out the window, wondering why she had moved it away from the rest of the furniture. What was she looking at when she sat here for hours? Finally, he stood up, more disturbed than when he sat down, and went to the kitchen and made a sandwich.

December 13, 2000

Woke up to a dead skunk on the doormat this morning. The poor thing had been run over and was frozen, but still stunk. Mark found it when he opened the door to leave for work and since it was obvious by the animal’s crushed head that he didn’t crawl up on the porch and die, I am reminded of Jane’s words again and the darkness around me.

Mark shoveled it into a plastic bag and since the ground is frozen, threw it in the dumpster. Of course, the smell of skunk lingered, even after I threw away the doormat.

As I returned from the dumpster, Karyn met me on the front porch and announced that although she understood I’d had a rough year, she didn’t think it was an excuse to break up the family. Apparently, she and Paul took Mark’s talk personally and I guess it is personal, but I won’t be bullied on this one. I have no desire to spend Christmas with them, to risk her giving me another pair of pajamas or to spend all day cooking only to listen to her complain about the food.

I was polite, but firm and I definitely got the impression that Karyn isn’t used to hearing the word no. The good news is I’ve ordered a completely cooked turkey dinner with all the fixings and it will be delivered, hot, to our door on Christmas Eve.

December 15, 2000

Someone stabbed my tires last night. Used a steak knife or actually a few to puncture all four of my tires. I have to assume it was personal because my car was the only one that was damaged. Mark filed a report and dropped me off at work. My car was delivered with new tires and I’m sitting in Starbucks, at my usual table.

I can’t decide which idea disturbs me the most - that I am insane or that I am being stalked. Slipping into insanity had been both a terrifying, yet soothing notion and I almost loathe giving it up. Perhaps I wanted to be broken, if I was broken it meant I loved Tyler, if I could survive his death, did it mean I didn’t love him enough?

If I was crazy, then I wouldn’t be responsible for anything, I could give up and just disappear, but unfortunately, there is no button I can press to stop my mind from thinking and my heart from aching. I almost wanted to be like Rose and bury myself under a haze of alcohol, but with coffee being my drug of choice it threw a monkey wrench into the whole plan.

They say there are five stages of grief, but I think they have it wrong. The first stage is not denial; it is blissful numbness, a black absence inside that feels like being cocooned in Jell-O. And as the numbness begins to break away, like a rain cloud on a breezy day, the pain sets in and you long to climb back into the cocoon. The pain is sharp, ever-present and draining and you wonder how you will survive it. Then the depression sets in, the mind is already worn down by the shock of the loss and the body is exhausted from handling the pain everyday there is nothing left except depression. The days grow long and bleak, each step feels like being mired in quickly drying glue and the mind is hazy, slow to make connections and on the verge of giving up.

These are the stages of grief as I know them and I believe the next one is anger. I was so eager to roll over and accept my fate, if it was my own brain letting me down, but now that I know someone is wishing me ill will, I am ready to fight. Yes, the next stage is definitely anger.

December 20, 2000

I think I hear Tyler some mornings, running down the hall in his bare feet seeking the warmth of the bathroom. I guess we Southerners have a strange relationship with socks and slippers and Tyler was a Southerner with very cold feet that first New England autumn. I suppose hearing the echoes of the past is a normal thing, especially when mourning and depressed and I imagine it is a blessing. Easy, though, to confuse with impending psychosis if you’re not prepared for getting a glimpse at the other side and the thin veil that separates the worlds.

Besides the odd things that happened in the apartment, there were other times when I felt I had to seriously consider my mental state. The first happened right after I went back to work and I was preparing some labels. I typed in the information and stepped over to the printer. When the labels came out of the machine, the information I had typed wasn’t on them and what was on them was a single word, repeated over and again – TRUNK.

I felt a strange flush rush through my body and walked over to the computer to make sure I hadn’t typed that word. On my computer screen was the correct information, so I hit the print command again. Again the single word was repeated across the self-adhesive labels. I grabbed the sheets and sat down at my desk and cried. I wasn’t crying because I was sad, though, I was crying with joy. It was Tyler.

Tyler liked words and he especially found the word trunk entertaining. He got a silly kick out of a single word having so many definitions and it always made him giggle.

I wiped my tears, felt my heart swell with love and happiness and the next time I hit the print command, the proper labels slid onto the tray.

I know that was Tyler, I know it as well as I know my name, but I also know most people wouldn’t understand and would want to call it crazy, or even worse, a lie. So I kept it to myself, I didn’t even tell Mark, but I did save the labels. When I returned home that day, almost energized from the strange event, I found the chicken dripping in the pantry.

The next otherworldly experience happened to me sitting at my usual table in Starbucks. I was staring out the window when a boy of about Tyler’s age ran by, he stopped suddenly, turned and looked at me through the glass. Then he smiled brightly, waved and ran on. In that instant I felt a cool breeze on my face, strong enough to tickle my hair against my skin, and I smelled the scent of my son. Again the happy tears filled my eyes and my heart expanded inside my chest. When I arrived home that afternoon, Mark was home and angry about the burning candles.

And today it happened again.

I’m sitting in the reception area of the police department, waiting for Mark. This afternoon when I left Starbucks, walking up Congress Street towards my car, I heard Tyler’s voice in my ear, calling my name. It was so loud, it startled me and I turned toward the sound. Just then a young man hit me from behind and according to one witness it looked like the cross between a football tackle and a hockey check.

Luckily, my coat cushioned the fall and the fact that I was turning when he hit me, meant that I was able to roll into it, had he hit me fully from behind I could have been hurt. As it is, I have a bump on my head and lots of bruises. The man ran off, disappearing down a side street, but the witnesses were able to see he was young and blond.

So once again I have heard from my deceased son and this time he saved me from certain injury. It seems those dark forces Jane spoke about are growing angrier and more determined. She said that they were afraid of me and although I find that hard to believe, I have to give it some thought. I personally can’t understand why anyone would be afraid of me; of course, this only applies if I haven’t received any pajamas.

“Someone is stalking my wife,” Mark said, pacing in the small interrogation room, the only private place he could find in the small station.

His partner, Michael Chan, watched him pace and leaned back in his chair. “Someone definitely vandalized her car and someone assaulted her, but there’s a way to go between assault, vandalism and stalking.”

Mark sat down at the table. “It’s been a series of events, I didn’t see it at first, I just saw Roxy getting more anxious and nervous and I just figured she was forgetting things. But lately, it’s picked up – we’ve had two tire incidences, a dead skunk of the porch and trust me, that bastard didn’t crawl up there by himself, he’d been dead for days. And whoever it is has had access to our apartment, I had the locks changed with the suit in the bleach incident, and haven’t noticed them back, but now it seems like the events are growing more dangerous. That man could have really hurt her today.”

Michael nodded and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I talked to your neighbors yesterday.” He opened a small black notebook and refreshed his memory. “Both Bethany DiGiacoma and Gayle Sullivan said they had been walking by your building when they heard the music, they said they couldn’t believe someone in your building hadn’t already called the police. I thought their stories sounded rehearsed myself, they repeated each other almost word for word. We don’t have anything on them though, it’s not against the law to complain about noise.”

“It is if there was no noise, calling in false complaints is against the law.” Mark stood back up and resumed pacing.

“Another interesting thing I found is that your sister-in-law also graduated high school with Sullivan and DiGiacoma, but Portland isn’t really that big of a town, so it’s not so far fetched that it’s just a coincidence.”

“You checked out my brother and sister-in-law?”

Michael nodded. “I checked out everyone in your building that could have access to the inside of your apartment. Investigation one oh one, Mark, you know that.”

Mark sighed and sat back at the table. “What’d you find?”

“Not much. Your third floor neighbor,” he consulted his notebook, “Roy Lees, had a run-in with the law while he was in college, vandalism and contributing to the delinquency of a minor, but he’s been clean since then. It sounded like a college prank gone awry. And your brother’s ex-girlfriend, Cindy Johnson, filed and won a restraining order against your brother about three years ago, it has expired now and there have been no more complaints. It sounded to me that he had a rough time letting go, she said he was stalking her and that she caught him peeping in her windows.”

Mark stared across the table, surprised; Paul had never mentioned a restraining order or Cindy Johnson to him.

“Guess you didn’t know?”

“No, he never mentioned it.”

“Probably embarrassed.”

“Yes, I guess,” Mark said, his mind racing. He loved his little brother, but they had never really been close. There were probably all kinds of things about Paul he didn’t know. Mark left home at eighteen and joined the Army and in the last fifteen years, he’d only spent a few weeks in Maine and just days with his brother. He was sure there were many things he didn’t know. “So is that it, all you found?”

“Pretty much, although, I looked into Roxy’s past a bit too and from what I’ve read she’s been in a lot of touchy situations.”

Mark nodded.

“You never mentioned how you met, I take it it was the hostage situation?”

“Yeah.”

“I searched her name and was surprised how many times she’d been shot and the strange circumstances. Could some of the people from her past have issues with her?”

“Anything’s possible, but she wasn’t the cause of those events, she just has a way of being in the wrong place at the right time.”

“Well, I found a couple web pages devoted to her, sort of creepy, but they had copies of the newspaper articles and some comments of how she was cursed.”

“Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately.”

Mark sighed. “I don’t suppose they’re breaking any laws, the articles are public information and stating an opinion, however stupid, isn’t against the law.”

“True, but someone has been paying attention to your wife’s life.”

Mark nodded. “There was a lot of talk about her back in Macon, even her father’s family believed she was cursed.”

“And you?”

“I don’t believe in curses.”

“There are still lots of superstitious people in the world. Some who do believe in curses may see her as a threat.”

“Well, someone sure does.” He stood and began pacing, running his hand over his short hair. “You would think, though, the people from Macon would have seen her as a bigger threat. You would think if this were going to happen, it would have happened down there, not up here. We haven’t even been here long.”

“I don’t know, but to check out all of the people, all the survivors and the family members of all the dead in Roxy’s strange life would take months. I don’t even know where to start. We don’t have a description, a print or really even a motive, other than lots of people have died around her. The only thing we know is that someone is harassing her.”

Mark continued to pace and Michael stared at the wall rubbing his chin.

“I did notice something that stood out to me, though,” Michael said. “In all the things that have happened to Roxy, one event stood out as different than the rest. The shooting in the school bathroom when she was a kid. Now it seems in every other incident, people were killed around her or at least injured, but in that one, she was the only one really hurt. In all the other incidences she was just a witness to events outside of her, but that one she was the focus.”

Mark stopped pacing and faced his partner. “You’re right.”

“Those records are probably sealed and they never mentioned the shooter’s name in the papers, but maybe Roxy remembers her name.”

“I know her first name was Megan, hang on, I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the room and returned a few minutes later. “It took her a bit to remember, she said the last name was Brandings.”

Michael sat up in his chair and started flipping through his notebook. “Brandings,” he muttered, “I know I’ve heard that name recently. Aha! Your sister-in-law, Karyn, was a Brandings before she married your brother.”

“What the hell? Are you serious? Jesus, are they related?” He sat down hard in the chair.

“I don’t know, but it’s not a name you hear everyday.”

“No, no it’s not,” Mark sighed. “Shit!”

“We have to tread carefully here. It could just be a coincidence.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mark dropped his head in his hands and thought about how he had pushed Roxy to forgive Karyn. What if Karyn was at the root of her torment, besides the pajamas that heralded the end of Tyler’s life? “Shit!”

“I know.” Michael nodded and dropped his notebook on the table. “Okay, I got an idea and it’s the simplest and rather Buddhist.” He smiled and his almond shaped eyes crinkled. “Don’t say a word to your brother, or his wife. Let me do some research and try to see if they are related, if they’re not, it could really screw up things with your family relations, if they are, well,” he paused and moved his hand from his chin to his temple, “I’ve stirred the hornets nest by interviewing Sullivan and DiGiacoma, it will escalate.”

“So we leave Roxy as bait?”

“She’s already bait, we just haven’t been watching the water. You know what I mean? It’s interesting that I interviewed those women yesterday and today Roxy was assaulted, but it’s just happenstance right now, we have no proof of anything. The guy that knocked her down got away, so we’re trying to make a mountain out of air at this point. Go home, tend to your girl and keep an eye out, matter of fact, you leave for work after her, maybe follow her and make sure she gets there safely.”

Mark started to protest, but Michael held his hand up, silencing him. “Trust me, I know someone is messing with Roxy and I won’t drop the ball here, but we have nothing and I can’t go interrogating your sister-in-law because she has a similar name. We’re just guessing.”

“We have coincidence, like Karyn graduating school with the two that called in complaints. We have to do something.”

“We’re cops, Mark, we have to follow the law. Portland is a tiny town, most folks in this city of the same age graduated together, that is nothing, there is no proof of any wrong.”

Mark sighed and shook his head. “Someone is messing with my wife!” He began pacing again.

“I know, but we can’t just go knocking on doors and demanding answers, we are detectives because we detect, we have to trust in that.”

“Shit!” Mark said again, pacing and rubbing the couple of inches of hair on his head.

“I know,” Michael agreed, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his chin.

December 21, 2000

I’m sitting in Mrs. Durham’s kitchen, she’s in her bedroom packing for a trip down to Florida to spend the holidays with her son, and I’m watching the police presence through the windows at my apartment. Mark and his partner, Michael, are there, as well as, some uniformed officers.

I smelled it as soon as I opened the door returning from work, a sickly scent of some dark incense and blood. I was scared, but I am so tired of being scared that I grabbed an umbrella from the stand, the nearest weapon I could find, and went to investigate. I found it on the kitchen table lying inside an upside down pentagram carved into our kitchen table. A puppy, no more than a few weeks old, had been impaled on a kitchen knife and stabbed into the table.

The shock of seeing something so brutal and violent in my own kitchen nearly caused me to faint, but I ran out and over to Mrs. Durham’s house and called Mark. I don’t even think I shut the front door. Mark and his partner responded quickly and now I’m just watching and waiting.

As I’ve watched I’ve seen Sophie, her son and husband leave for Christmas vacation, stopping briefly on their way to the taxi to talk to Mark and just now Mark is speaking with Mr. Riley as another cab waits on the street. I feel a sense of loneliness watching the neighbors I know and like leaving to visit with family and knowing I have no family to visit, nothing to get excited about and nothing to plan.

And I feel fear knowing that whoever wishes me ill will has taken to killing puppies and leaving them in my kitchen. I feel some peace in remembering Jane’s words that the fear I feel is not my own, but not much. And facing the one year anniversary of losing Tyler and Stella, it couldn’t come at a worse time, of course, is there ever a good time to be stalked?

At least the look of pity is gone from Mark’s eyes, although, it seems his jaw is perpetually clinched. It’s also good to know that he is taking the situation seriously and he and his partner are investigating. Last night he told me that both Karyn and Megan shared the same last name and I wonder if they are related. Mark said it could be a coincidence, but it seems a quite far fetched one to me. I still remember her giggle as I opened her gift of pajamas last year and I dreamed of Megan again last night, waking afraid.

I never really understood the depth of Megan’s hatred for me until those moments in the bathroom and I never understood what it is she wanted from me, except that I should hate human kind with the same fervor she did. Despite the challenges in my life, I have never hated. I have been angry, but most times the anger was directed at myself, instead of those around me. I always figured I was somehow responsible for the suffering of those that passed in my presence.

Waking from the dream last night on a gasp and a shudder and being reminded, yet again, of the fear I felt that day cowering under the bathroom sinks as Megan tried to shoot me in the head, I heard Jane’s voice telling me I have more control than I know. The statement resonates with me, somewhere deep inside, where I fear to look.

“The interior door has been jimmied,” Michael said, as a photographer snapped photos of the sickening display on the kitchen table. “And the outside door had been left open.”

Mark nodded his head and stared down at the white, fuzzy puppy on the table. “With everyone leaving for Christmas, I’m sure one of them forgot to lock it trying to get their luggage out.”

“So again, anyone could have access and we haven’t found any prints. We can rule out Megan Brandings herself, she died eleven years ago in a hold up gone bad. Seems she and her boyfriend were holding up a liquor store, apparently to fund their addiction to heroin, and little did they know the owner of the store kept a gun behind the counter. They were both killed.”

Mark nodded and turned away as one of the officers pulled the knife from the table and unhinged the dog, which he slid into a plastic bag. “The occult message of this is pretty clear and Roxy said that Megan believed herself to be some kind of witch and was into the occult, so despite the fact that Megan is dead, I think this has something to do with her or one of her relatives.”

“I found four Brandings in the greater Portland area, one of which is Karyn’s parents according to you, the others we’ll have to check out. Interestingly enough, one of them lives on this block, right next door.” Michael pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “A Gladys Brandings, her apartment looks down on your driveway.”

“The coincidences are mounting, detective,” Mark said, stepping out of the way as the uniformed officers began dismantling the kitchen table.

“Yes, they are.”

“What the hell is going on, bro?” Paul asked from the hallway, inching around the officers carrying the table out to their patrol car. “I told you we can’t be having the police in and out of here all the time.”

Mark’s jaw clinched up and he turned to face his brother. “Someone broke into our apartment, bro. Are you saying I can’t have the police out when someone breaks into my apartment?”

“I didn’t mean anything, man, I just got home from work and saw all the police cars. I figured Roxy did something stupid again.”

Michael put his hand on Mark’s shoulder and spoke to Paul. “Someone decided to leave Roxy and Mark an early Christmas gift, a dead puppy stabbed into the table.”

“When did you start going to work so early?” Mark asked.

“We had a big order to get out, so I went in early,” Paul explained, stepping into the kitchen. “Man, it stinks in here.”

“Yes, it does. Seems whomever killed the puppy also did a little ritual, burning some harsh incense. What time did you leave for work this morning?” Michael asked, pulling out his notebook.

“What, am I a suspect?” Paul asked, incredulously.

“I’ll be interviewing everyone in the building,” Michael explained, putting his pen to paper and waiting for an answer.

“I went in at nine,” Paul said, looking from Mark to Michael.

“And your wife, where is she?”

“She’s at work, she left before me.”

“Did you check to make sure the front door was locked before you left?” Michael scribbled on his pad.

“No, I went out my own front door, I didn’t check the community door.”

“Well, someone left it open.”

“People are always leaving it open, that’s why we put the sign out there, not that anyone pays attention to it.”

“Did you notice anyone on the street, anyone looking suspicious?”

“No,” Paul shook his head. “And I walk to work, so I was on the street, I didn’t see anybody unusual, just locals.”

“What locals?” Michael asked.

“Gayle was talking to the UPS guy and Miss Gladys was walking her dog. Nothing unusual.”

“What kind of dog?” Mark snapped.

“How in the hell do I know? A little fuzzy black dog, I don’t know what the hell it is!” Paul barked, his face reddening.

“Look, man,” Mark said. “I’m freaking out here, someone just killed a dog in my kitchen, left bunch of stinky shit burning and scared the hell out of my wife. I’m tense.”

“I hear you, Mark, but how do you know it wasn’t Roxy? She’s been acting pretty strange this lately. I mean I know her kid died and all…” he paused and looked away as though uncomfortable, “… but she should be getting over it. Maybe she did it.”

Mark wondered if his teeth were about to shatter from the pressure of his jaw, but before he could speak, Michael did, “No, I already called her boss, she was there from seven thirty, to twelve fifteen. He remembered seeing her, but he pulled her timecard to check the times. It wasn’t Roxy.”

“And I left with Roxy this morning and we sure as hell didn’t leave a stabbed puppy on our kitchen table!” Mark barked.

Paul held up his hands, defensively. “Okay, bro. I didn’t mean anything, I was just saying.”

“Well, sometimes you say too damned much,” Mark said and turned, leaving the room. As he stalked to the door he could hear Michael asking Paul more questions. He stepped on the porch, breathing in the cold air and wondered if he could still smell skunk. He glanced toward Mrs. Durham’s windows and saw Roxy looking back. He held up a finger and she nodded.

I’ve been thinking about it, though, ever since Jane said it. This life has held me as a constant victim and perhaps I accepted my perceived fate as a truth that couldn’t be questioned - as my station in life, as my destiny. Perhaps I have been wrong.

Perhaps it’s not a curse, but also, certainly not a gift. I know good and innocent people have died and I know I carry the weight of their deaths daily, but maybe it has less to do with me than I believed. And maybe it has more to do with me than I ever imagined.

It was a harsh reminder to see that little dog killed on my table, a warning, I suppose, from the people who fear me, but a reminder, as well, of ole’ Fetch. Fetch died trying to protect me, that rattlesnake would have certainly killed me, killed me quicker then it did Fetch who outweighed me by a good thirty pounds. So here’s another dead dog …

Could the people, the darkness in people, know about Fetch? Or are they just doing their spells in ignorance?

Over the years, I have tried to make sense of my experiences and tried to define the whole, damned, pajama thing. I’ve never made much headway and just discovered a phobia of sleepwear. For years I’ve slept in sweats, t-shirts, flannel shirts, long johns and shorts, terrified of even cruising the lingerie department. Hell, Stella bought all my bras and underwear after Jesse died and the phobia has grown so intense that now Mark, despite his embarrassment, has taken up the chore.

I must have had pajamas from the age of two until six when Rose was hit by the car, why did nothing bad happen? Of course, my memory of those years is absent, so maybe they did. I don’t think I got shot though, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.

I’m missing something.

“Guess what’s up there?” Michael asked, pointing to the multi-family house next door.

“What?” Mark asked, having calmed from his interaction with Paul.

“Puppies - Pomeranians, according to Gladys Brandings. Some black, some black and white and I wonder if there may have been a white one. She said she is not missing any, but I don’t know. We’ve got to get a vet or something to determine what that puppy was, but I think she was yanking my chain, I didn’t like her.”

Mark looked from Mrs. Durham’s windows, where he could see the top of Roxy’s head, up to the building that overlooked his driveway. “Really, puppies, how old?”

“Little, I don’t know dogs. They’re crawling around, yipping, chasing each other, I don’t know dogs.”

“It was a small dog on my table, I know dogs a bit, you can’t help to down in Georgia, everybody has a dog. That sure wasn’t a lab or a hunter, it was a small dog, a lap dog.”

“I don’t know, we’ll need a vet,” Michael said.

“It was a lap dog,” Mark repeated. “It was tiny, just perfect to fit into that fucking thing they left carved on my table!”

“Whoa, dude. I feel you, but whoa. We are here to detect, we can’t get all emotional and damn … I know it’s emotional to you and if I had a wife, it’d be emotional to me too. Just rein it in. We’ll check out everything.”

“I know, Mike, but damn.” Mark shook his head and looked back to Mrs. Durham’s windows to see the top of Roxy’s head. “You read the articles, she’s been through too damned much,” he paused, “and I didn’t see this. I could have seen it, but I was tired, it was easier to blame her. Shit!!” He grabbed his head and leaned it against a pillar. “I didn’t see it.”

“Hard to see it when it’s happening in your own life, much easier to see it when we’re objective and coming in fresh. You can’t be blamed.”

Mark looked back at the blond head he could see through the windows of Mrs. Durham’s kitchen. “I’m not so sure.”

December 22, 2000

Mark called me at work, a rarity. He’s been called off his job to escort the President Elect to his home in Kennebunk. He’s stressed and so worried about me and evidently; I will have an officer on my front porch when I go home.

I guess due to the chaos of the most recent election, they need every able-bodied man to ensure that Mr. Bush safely reaches his family home. I’m okay, despite the dead puppy on my table; I keep hearing Jane’s words in my mind. It’s almost like waking up to a song you haven’t heard in twenty years and having to dig through the record selection to find it and hear it again.

According to Mark, Karyn is indeed a relation of Megan and Karyn’s aunt lives in the next house over. I have to wonder about this world where I am forever trying to outrun the devil and God bless Stella for speaking so openly about it – especially since it seems, I moved right into the serpent’s net. Who could have known? Certainly not Mark, just trying to do the best thing and be a good cop and definitely not me, struggling under something I have yet to comprehend.

It’s no wonder that I have dreamed of Megan so much of late. We haven’t confronted Karyn or even talked to Paul about the connection, Mark feels if will be safer for me if we just ignore it through the holidays. And now, when I go home, I get to introduce myself to Officer Matt Pearson until ten and then, Officer Amy Hughes until Mark returns from his duty of insuring the President reaches his estate.

I am again sitting at my favorite table in Starbucks, ever waiting for Tyler to contact me again. Perhaps I am a little loony, or perhaps I am just a grieving mother. It’s hard to tell when the loss is so close. It’s hard to tell when the world thinks recovery comes in week, instead of acknowledging it may take much longer. It’s just damned hard to tell.

I was thinking, though, that I had never bought myself a pair of pajamas. I’ve had pajamas bought for my by my mom and my grand mom, I’ve had pajamas given to me by my lover, my co-workers and friends, but I’ve never bought my own.

I’m on Congress Street, looking out at the shops, the lights and the Christmas spirit I have tried to ignore. I haven’t bought Mark a thing for Christmas. I haven’t set up a tree or hung a light. I haven’t lit a candle or been thankful for … what … the fact I’m still alive? I opted out of the gift giving part of our company Christmas party citing the fact that we have little money and I don’t want to be embarrassed. I have worked as diligently as any human could to avoid this season, but the damned season is upon me anyway.

I think I’m going shopping.

I met Officer Pearson, he’s young, cute and tall and he helped me carry in my packages. I bought Mark a few gifts that I can’t wait to wrap and I bought a small tree, just three feet tall and kind of pathetic.

I also bought myself a pair of pajamas.

I spent more than I should, but they are a thick flannel with bells and holy leaves. I know what I am inviting, but as a somewhat broken woman, I believe I am ready. I am wearing them now, they’re warm and festive and I’ve set up the little tree and pulled the decorations from the closet.

A part of me is wondering if I am designing my own funeral. If moving forward after losing Tyler is so abhorrent to me that I would rather just await the fate of new pajamas. I don’t have the answer, but I popped a bottle of wine and I’m sipping it and watching the lights on the newly decorated tree. I’ll leave it in the hands that know more than I.

Christmas Tragedy

Portland Daily News

December 23, 2000

Portland, Maine – A gas leak on the 1700 block of Harper Street has led to the deaths of at least twelve people according to officials.

Neighbors stood on the street in their pajamas Friday night as the fire department worked to extinguish the fires in four of the houses along the block.

“It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen,” said responding officer Matt Pearson. “The street began to vibrate and then I heard explosions. We got everyone out as quickly as we could.”

“It happened so fast, the ground rumbled, I heard an explosion and the police were knocking on the doors evacuating all the residents. They saved our lives,” Roxanne Stone said, shivering in her pajamas with her neighbors.

A Sad Day In Portland

Portland Daily News

December 24, 2000

Portland, Maine - The names of those who died in the fires on the 1700 blocks of Harper Street Friday night have been released.

Gladys Brandings, Gayle Sullivan, Bethany DiGiacoma, Paul Stone, Karyn Brandings Stone, Susan O’Hara, Willow Knight, Jonathan Miller, Nick Shields, Mary Ann Redding, LeAnn Williams and Stuart LaVey all died when a gas leak caused multiple explosions.

The fire department is investigating how only certain apartments along the block were affected, while others were left unharmed. Red Cross is helping with the families who have been displaced and the Salvation Army is taking donations to replace the lost gifts.

Although only four multi-family homes on the block experienced fires, the entire block has been evacuated until the investigation is over.

Despite the loss of life there has been one small miracle. A Pomeranian with four puppies survived the blaze at 1706 Harper Street and all are up for adoption at the ASPCA.

“It’s truly a miracle,” said Detective Mark Stone, wiping away a tear. Mr. Stone lost his brother and sister-in-law in one of the fires.