Between Seasons (3 page)

Patrick was too late to make it out the front door before it closed. He stopped and clenched his fists, preparing f or the feeling of passing through its solid mass . Leaning forward, he took a running start at the door, hoping to get it over as quick as possible, wondering if he’d be able to ride in the backseat of his parents’ Buick or if he’d sink through the seat and what it would feel like to move through metal. Patrick’s vision darkened as he passed through and brightened when he caught a glimpse of the blue sky… and then nothing.

The smell of vanilla and butter hit Patrick so abruptly, he rolled off the bed and hit the floor, his nose half-smooshed against the wood. He’d clearly been dreaming this whole death thing. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs and pushing himself onto his knees. The clock by his bed read one o’clock, and his room was bright.

“Shit!” he yelled, looking around wildly. He was late for work. It was only when he reached for the knob on his door that he realized his death hadn’t been a bizarre fantasy; his hand passed through the knob, the sickening heavy feeling making him wince.

“Shit,” he repeated, backing away, shoulders slumping. And what the Hell? That had to have been some kind of fluke, the passing out as he tried to leave the house thing. Patrick grasped at his hair, pulling in frustration.

He stomped downstairs, stepping around the spot where he’d died, and ran at the front door. The sunlight hit him square in the face, and the excitement sizzled in his chest for a second until everything dimmed, spiraling out to oblivion.

Pancakes. His nose twitched, and Patrick sat straight up in bed, remembering exactly what led to his reappearance there . The bedside clock read five o’clock, and he groaned. He couldn’t believe it – until he was escorted to Heaven , he’d be stuck here in the house.

He turned his face upward, glaring at the ceiling. “Why are you doing this to me?” he screamed.

God was obviously not on his side. Patrick stomped across the floor of his room, muttering obscenities under his breath. The scent of pancakes still lingered in his nose.

Patrick studied Andy carefully, a half grin lifting his mouth. He looked like a dork in the brown suit with broad lapels, and Andy tugged at the wide, striped necktie that appeared to chok e him. He always thought it was kind of silly to dress up for wakes, and it was even dumber to make anyone get gussied up for his wake.

The neighbors and friends of Patrick’s parents milled around the house, everyone looking appropriately stricken and somber while picking over the huge spread of food laid out in the kitchen. His mother sat on the couch in the living room, s h ell -shocked eyes and downturned mouth in place , his dad hovering near the front door as if he might bolt any second.

It wouldn’t be the first time Patrick was jealous of the living.

A group of guys he’d played football with came trooping into the house. Instead of pads and jerseys, they all wore dark suits, another kind of uniform. After stopping to say a few words to his parents, they disappeared into the kitchen.

“He was such a good boy,” his Aunt Jenny said, eyes red and puffy.

Patrick snorted and crossed his arms. “You didn’t think so when I broke your window.”

Come to think of it, he really hadn’t seen much of her and Uncle Bob since then – it had only been a few years ago.
Window . Huh.
Maybe he could get out of the house through a window. Maybe it was only the front door… he’d have to try it out. Embarrassment washed over his face as he wondered why it never occurred to him before, but then he shook his head. He hadn’t been dead that long, and he’d been in a constant state of shock – how could he be expected to think of every possibility?

“Yes, he had such a bright future.” His high school shop teacher stood by his aunt’s side, giving her the eye.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to get lucky at my wake, man.” Patrick chuckled and moved away, gravitating toward Ginny and her parents. He couldn’t believe what people were saying about him – hearing all about what a good guy he was, how generous he’d been, how kind and giving. Most of these people had barely known him. Dying transformed him into a hero, apparently, although that shouldn’t have surprised him – he’d been to a funeral or two, and no one ever said anything shitty about the person who’d kicked the bucket.

When the old guy down the street had a heart attack, Patrick’s mother had dragged him to the viewing. The man had been a real jerk, chasing kids off his lawn and stealing newspapers off his neighbors’ porches, but everyone had gone on and on about what a saint the guy’d been .

Ginny’s parents were deep in discussion about picking up milk on the way home, but Ginny’s lips clamped into a firm, white line. She looked upset , and even though Patrick thought this whole wake scene was idiotic, he was glad at least one person who really knew him – other than his parents – was sad he was gone. Well, not gone… dead.

“I have to visit the bathroom,” Ginny muttered, heading toward the stairs. Patrick followed, Ginny’s brown dress swish ing around her legs as she climbed, and she immediately turned into his bedroom instead of the bathroom.

“Patrick?” she whispered, startling him.

“Ginny?” He moved closer, sinking fingers in her shoulder. She wrapped her arms across her chest, shuddering and staring out the window. “Hey, can you hear me?”

She crossed herself and continued to stare at the yard below. “I can’t believe you’re dead .”

“I can’t believe I’m dead, either. It kind of sucks.” He wished she would open the window so he could jump through. Wait. What would it matter? He’d just toss himself out of it – he could move through the glass and screens, no problem.

A lone tear traversed the slope of Ginny’s cheek, and she allowed it to roll to her chin before she wiped it away with the back of her hand . Patrick moved around and sat on his bed – all the crying was killing him. It was such a drag, and it made him feel bad for dying. It was definitely a buzz kill to his idea about trying the window – he couldn’t let Ginny cry by herself.

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,” she mumbled , touching the glass.
Patrick’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. What was that from? “If you want me again , look for me under your boot-soles .”

It came to him in a few moments. “Nice.” He snorted in amusement. “Seeing me off with some Whitman. I hear it’s better than the mass during my funeral – Andy said it was like cats squealing or something when the soloist sang.”

Ginny bowed her head and leaned forward, turning her head and laying her cheek against the window. “I’ll miss you.”

“Hey, hey, don’t…”

She sighed and turned sharply, stalking out of the room before he could say another word.

Patrick watched her go and heaved a sigh before looking back toward the window. Well, might as well get it out of the way; he wasn’t missing much downstairs. He took a running start, groaning as his moved through the glass , but the smell of damp earth had him sniffing until he spiraled into darkness and the smell of pancakes assaulted him.
Crap .

“I can’t stay here, Jack.”

Patrick’s father shuffled slowly through the kitchen, quietly pulling out a chair and slumping into it. His grease-stained fingers pulled at each other, never at rest. He scratched at the bald patch on top of his head, face giving nothing away.

“Well, we can sell the house if you want. There’s a nice place that just went up for sale across town on Jackson Street.”

“Sell the house? Jesus, Dad, are you crazy? You can’t leave me here alone!” Patrick glared, eyes softening when tears sli pped down his mother’s cheeks.

“No. I can’t be here. In this town. I have to… I have to go. Somewhere else.”

Patrick wanted to throw things, but there was nothing here he could pick up. Over the two weeks, he’d come to understand what had been his in life… the things he owned or considered his alone … those were the only things he could move. He thought longingly of the Chevelle, still sitting in the driveway. If only he could leave the house - he could almost feel the vinyl seats and the smoothness of the steering wheel under his hands.

“Arlene, we grew up here. My garage is here. Where on earth do you want to go? I suppose we could move to Springfield or something.”

She shook her head, the short curls clinging to her head. “Let’s just… go. I can’t be anywhere near where… he’s dead, honey. Patrick is dead, and he died here. I can’t do it.”

“But… what am I supposed to do for work?”

Patrick’s mother slammed her hands down on the table. “I don’t care about your Goddamn business! My son is dead! I just need to get the Hell away from here!” Her breath came faster, the harshness of it ringing out in the small space.

Patrick was stunned - he’d never heard his mother swear before. His father reached across the table and folded his fingers around her hand , neither of them saying a thing.

“We’re forty years old,” his mother said. “We’re not supposed to outlive him.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I can’t believe this is happening!” Patrick screeched, pacing around the kitchen, barely feeling it when his hip half-sank into the counter. “How can you just… leave?” It was bad enough that God hadn’t shown up yet, but now he might have to deal with living here with people he didn’t even know?

His mother shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. But I need to leave the state. I’m going to die if I’m anywhere near here.”

Patrick couldn’t believe his eyes as his father nodded briefly. “Okay.”

His life… such as it was… fell apart. His father sold the garage, and his mother began packing. Patrick panicked - not only were his parents abandoning him, he was going to lose his stuff, the things he could touch. He’d been reading his way through the novels on his bookshelf, and now they’d be gone. He’d re discovered a book Ginny had given him for his birthday last March, some book about world religions, and he was twenty pages into it. If they left and took his books, he’d go insane. What would he do in this house with no one… and nothing? Or worse yet, strangers?

He hid things. His mother emptied his desk, shoving books into a box, and by night Patrick secreted them away. He hid his book on religion and his Bible in the basement behind the washer and dryer. Other books disappeared under the stove and behind the refrigerator. There was a spot under the insulation in the attic that served as a secret repository of the things that meant the most to him - a cigar box filled with sea glass and stones and other random things he’d collected over the years, his cop y of The Turn of the Screw and a collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe. A box of photos precariously balanced in the fireplace, above the damper. His records and record player were harder to hide, but he did it. There was a perfect spot under the stairs in the basement - he’d used it to play hide and seek with the neighbor kids when he was younger. It was full of cobwebs and dirt, mouse droppings and spiders, but Patrick didn’t care. Those things couldn’t hurt him or even touch him. He pushed his treasures all the way back, praying his mother wouldn’t get motivated to check the spot.

His car disappeared from the driveway one day, although he had no idea where it went. He hoped she was with someone who would treat her right, take good care of the motor. The missing car was like a hole in his heart... one more thing to piss him off or freak him out or bum the crap out of him.

His parents left on a Friday, two weeks after Halloween. Patrick spent the morning following them around the house. His father’s hair stuck out in the back, and Patrick wanted to smooth it down , so it wasn’t the last thing he’d remember about his dad. His mom wandered around the house rechecking drawers and closets, the slip hanging below her plaid skirt.

Mrs. Stout, the next door neighbor, hugged Patrick’s mother in the bare living room and received a set of keys with a sad smile.

“Just check the mail now and then, and I’ll send you some money for Jimmy to mow the lawn.”

“You’re sure you won’t sell? It’s a shame for this place to sit empty.” Mrs. Stout squeezed his mother’s arm and looked around.

“Come on, Ma, change your mind.” Patrick stood beside her, pleading with his eyes. Deep down, he thought they’d stay at the last minute… stay with him.

“I can’t live here, but I can’t let anyone else live here either. Not yet. Maybe one day.”

Patrick groaned.

“Are you ready, Arlene?” Patrick’s father smiled, a grin as empty as the house, from the front door. The crisp smell of fall air wafted through the door, bringing with it a few crimson leaves from the tall trees in the front yard and the smell of smoke. One of the neighbors must have been burning lawn clippings or something.

“No, not really. But let’s go.”

“Wait!” Patrick ran to his mother, draping his arms around her carefully and breathing in her powdery scent. They’d come back; they had to. This wouldn’t be the last time he’d see them – it just wasn’t right. “I love you, Mom.”

She shivered and reached across herself to grasp her own arms. “I love you, Patty,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

Patrick gasped and allowed his arms fall to his sides. He knew she hadn’t heard, but the thought made the space where his heart used to beat ache.

“Dad, don’t go.” His hair still kicked out in the back, and his shirt collar was folded oddly.

“Come on, Arlene. We need to get on the road.”

Mrs. Stout kissed his mother on the cheek and edged around his father at the door. “Call me when you get to Florida.”

His mother paused and looked around again, face tired and drawn. Without another word, she walked out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

“Stay!” he called, hoping by some miracle they’d hear him.

Patrick watched out the picture window in the living room as his father helped his mother into the car. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear his dad look ed straight at him , turn ing to face the house before climbing into the driver’s seat.