Between Seasons (4 page)

CHAPTER TWO

May 2, 2010

Every day was exactly the same. Every season was exactly the same. Bright fall leaves turned to snow. Ice melted and revealed the spiky beginnings of flowers rising from the dirt, which transformed into the bright blooms Patrick’s mother had planted in front of the house. He used to think of spring as a time of renewal and rebirth, something drummed into his head in church because of Easter, but now he associated every new turn of season with the same sense of boredom and irritation. Being a ghost sucked.

Mrs. Stout came in from time to time just to check on the place. Patrick stood at the window and watched Jimmy mow the grass, wishing he could open the front door and smell the tar melting under the hot sun. Every fall someone would come and trim back the Black-Eyed Susans next to the porch, and he’d remember the day he learned the name of them.

He had no way of measuring actual time other than seeing the sun set. For the first month, he’d kep t track with a pencil found in his room –something his mother had forgotten, he supposed –but the lead wore down, and he didn’t have a sharpener. After that, time blended together. The years morphed into one long , never-ending day .

Patrick knew every word to every book he’d managed to stash in the house. The record player had only been useful for a couple weeks until the electricity had been shut off. He’d worried about the pipes, wondering why his dad didn’t wrap them before leaving, until Mrs. Stout let a handyman into the house to take care of it.

He spent years watching the world go by outside his house while he simply… existed. Waited. Sleep was his only reprieve. There were periods of time where he’d crash for twenty hours every day, and the only reason he knew how long he’d slept was the wind up alarm clock he’d managed to stash away. It had worked for a good long while, too, but it stopped eventually. Dead, like everything else. Patrick amused himself for a while by taking the clock apart and trying to put it back together.

Sometimes he rushed through the front door, hoping something would change. It never did – he always ended up in his room with the smell of pancakes in his nose, always hovering in the air where his bed had once stood. No matter what he’d been wearing at the time he tried to make a break for it (he went through a period of time where he’d wake up and just get naked) , he always woke fully dressed in the clothes he’d had on when he’d died – the boxers, the corduroy pants, the socks, a t-shirt, and a flannel shirt. Thank God his clothes never wore out.

It was music he missed the most, living for the moments he heard someone’s car drive down the street with the radio turned all the way up; he rarely recognized any of the songs. He hummed “Gimme Shelter” as he paced the hallway, strumming his hip as though he were Keith Richards and pursing his lips like Mick Jagger.

“Mom, can I have some strawberry shortcake?”

He missed food a lot too… the way his mother’s chocolate cake seemed to coat his tongue and the slick sweetness of licorice. He’d craved a pear for what seemed like years, and it could have been – years, that was –for all Patrick knew. He didn’t need to eat, but he missed the taste of things. He didn’t need to breathe, either, but he still did that – it was a habit he couldn’t seem to break.

Silence greeted his question, just like always, although he pictured his mother in the living room. Sometimes he saw her vacuuming or sitting on the couch doing needlepoint. Today she stood near the fireplace, arranging photographs that didn’t exist.

“I read a bit more of that algebra book today. Even after all this time, I don’t understand derivatives.”

He imagined his mother’s voice scolding him, encouraging him to try harder.

“I will. I just… I need someone to explain it to me.”

What are you doing this weekend
, his mother’s voice asked.

“Same old, same old. Maybe I’ll ask Ginny and Andy if they want to hang out.”

He wondered how his parents were doing. He hoped they’d settled in Florida and liked it. He’d been pissed off that they’d left him for a long time, but eventually let it go –he just wanted them to be happy. Maybe his mother would get the tan she ’d always wanted.

Sometimes Patrick still thought he was dreaming, or maybe someone slipped a tab of acid into his beer, and he was really just tripping, hallucinating the entire thing. He’d come down and yell at Andy for dosing him, and it would be just like normal.

That’s nice, dear. Don’t stay out too late. Your father will be mad if you’re not on time for work.

“I know, Ma. I’ll be home early. Ginny has school in the morning.”

She’s a nice girl. It’s too bad that didn’t work out.

“Yeah, but we’re better off as friends.”

His mother would pat his hand, smile sweetly, and go… busy herself making dinner or cleaning the kitchen. If he was hallucinating, why was he having such a normal conversation? Andy once told him the walls breathed and there were slow motion trails in the air.

Patrick waved his hand in front of his face. No trails.

The click of the front door startled him, and the scent of lilacs wafted through the door. He’d noticed them blooming in Mrs. Stout’s yard –he had a perfect view from his parents’ bedroom window. It had been too long since anyone had come to the house in the spring, and he rushed to the door, hungrily sucking in the smell and ignoring the stooped, older woman who staggered into the living room .

“… empty now for years, but it’s a lovely house.”

Another woman followed – a much younger woman. “I can’t thank you enough for sending me the photos and talking to me on the phone. I didn’t have time to fly out and do a real walk-through.”

“Oh, sweetie, no problem.” The older woman turned around, and Patrick was shocked to see it was Mrs. Stout. She had to be… Jesus, she looked like she was at least eighty years old. That couldn’t be, though –she was the same age as his parents. “Dara’s been a member of our church for years, so I was happy to get my Jimmy to email you those pictures.”

Email? What the Hell was that? The younger woman dropped a small suitcase in the living room and ran her hand over the fireplace mantle, a sprinkling of dust spiraling through the air.

“So, Dara said the family moved away a long time ago.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Stout smiled, face sad. “Arlene and Jack moved in the early seventies . Jack died about ten years ago, and I got a letter from Arlene a few years after that saying she’d been diagnosed with lung cancer. She passed in 2007, but with the economy and all, the house didn’t sell after her estate was settled.”

Patrick was stunned. His parents were… dead. He felt cheated that they hadn’t come back here to him. Deep down he held out hope they were keeping him tied to the earth, that when they died he’d finally make it to Heaven where they’d be reunited. And his mother died in 2007? What year was it now? The fact that the year was at least 2007 was freaking him out almost as much as his parents being gone. He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his pants and rocked back on his heels, glancing out the window. He thought by now there would be flying cars, like on The Jetsons .

The styles of cars and clothes changed from what he’d seen out the front window , but this thing with Mrs. Stout’s age snuck up on him. He supposed he had noticed her getting older... Jimmy, too... but to see Mrs. Stout now was jarring. Maybe it was her standing so close to a new person – a much younger person. Maybe she wasn’t as old as he thought .

“The house really stood empty all those years?”

Mrs. Stout nodded, white hair pulled back into a severe bun at the back of her head. “Jack wanted to sell, but Arlene wouldn’t hear of it. The house was paid off, so it wasn’t a big deal to keep it. She… well, she loved this house.”

The emptiness in Patrick’s chest grew, and he shook his head, still flabbergasted. His parents were gone, but he was still here. He didn’t even know what that meant. Were they still stuck where they died, like he was? He hoped not. He dropped to his knees, the movement not making even so much as a miniscule sound .

“Oh, good. Maybe I’m dying.” He felt like it, even though he was being sarcastic. His heart felt as though someone squeezed it, the bits not completely broken by the news welling from between phantom fingers.

“It’s in great shape.”

“My son still mows the lawn, and we’ve kept up the place.”

“They’re really… gone?” Patrick’s voice overlapped with Mrs. Stout’s words. The desolation echoed off his ribs, erupting from his skin. He felt even more alone than in all the years he’d been trapped in this Godforsaken house… which apparently had been damn near forever.

“Thanks again, Mrs. Stout. I don’t want to keep you.”

Patrick was a terrible judge of age, but this woman – did she own the house now? – didn’t look much older than him, maybe in her mid-twenties. She was rail thin and fairly tall.

“No problem at all, Sara. I’m pleased to see a young person in this house. You just let me know if you need anything.”

“Sara,” he said, trying out the name. There was no reaction from either woman. “My parents are dead.” Dis comfort rose the hairs on his arm – he slid his arms out of the sleeves of his shirt and tied them around his waist.

“I will. You and Jim have been wonderful.”

Even though Sara was being perfectly polite, there was something strange about her tone. Her voice sounded almost flat, emotionless. Maybe that was just her way. At that moment, Patrick could empathize. He felt empty himself in that instant.

“When are your things arriving?” Mrs. Stout shuffled toward the door and gripped the frame to step down onto the front porch.

The smell of flowers and air overwhelmed him; he hadn’t had access to an open door for more than a few seconds in... well, awhile. He hoped this Sara woman liked the windows open. Not that it would help make him feel any better about his parents and…
oh , shit .

He should be in his late fifties, at least. Patrick should have been old as dirt, but he’d seen himself just this morning in the dusty bathroom mirror –he looked exactly the same. Even that stupid dimple on the side of his face was still there, the product of a kindergarten classmate poking him in the cheek with a wire hanger.

“Uh, well, I don’t have a lot, but the truck should get here tomorrow morning.”

Patrick climbed to his feet and leaned close to Sara. Her skin was so pale he could see the veins beneath, and he followed a large, blue vein out of her v-neck top with the tip of his finger just above her flesh. She looked like she would be soft, even despite the angles of her bones poking at her skin. He wished he could crawl into her arms; he needed some comfort … not only because of his parents, although that was bad, but because he was set adrift. If they were gone, and he was still here… well, all his theories about God waiting to take him were for shit.

“Well, if you need eggs and such, there’s a grocery store four blocks over on Cannondale.”

That was new. When his mother had needed eggs, she went to a small shop down the street. He wondered what the grocery store looked like. There’d been an Acme across town when he died. Was it still there?

“Oh, thanks. The electricity won’t be turned on until tomorrow. All the utilities are supposed to send people out.”

Mrs. Stout smiled, and Patrick tried to see in her face the woman she’d once been. He could just make out her cheekbones, but it was her eyes that were the most recognizable. He still couldn’t believe so much time had passed.

“Good luck, dear.” She turned and carefully made her way across the lawn.

Sara sighed and closed the door, moving around the living room in erratic circles.

“Hey. I’m home,” she called, her breathy voice ringing in the silence. Was there someone else in the house? No, absolutely not. He would have known.

“I’m Patrick,” he introduced himself on a whim, wanting to be on good terms with this woman, even though he was… well, haunting the house, he supposed . He really had no idea what he really was, but it seemed as good a description as any.

“This feels so strange.” The wistful expression on her face made him wonder what she was thinking about.

“You’re telling me.”

“I drove here… by myself. I just… I needed it. And you’re still here.”

Either Patrick was crazy or she was. He knew
he
was a little off –his head had to be screwed up from spending decades alone, singing and talking to himself, but at least he realized it was nuts to have full conversations with the squirrel who lived in the tree outside his bedroom window. Sara… whatever her name was… well, he wasn’t sure if she understood.

She glanced around the living room and smiled sadly. “I bet a nice family lived here.”

Yeah, he supposed they’d had. Once.

Two huge guys carried in a sleek, red couch while Sara directed them to position it against the far wall, almost exactly where Patrick’s mother’s green couch had been. She was right; she didn’t have a lot. There was a small kitchen table with a few chairs, a large mattress and bed frame, a dresser, a coffee table, the most massive television Patrick had ever seen, and a few dozen boxes. Moving in her furniture and boxes took the men less than an hour, and then Sara wandered from room to room after they left , Patrick trailing after her.

“You took it all,” she yelled into the quiet stillness of his parents’ room, bitterness in her voice. A single tear marred her cheek, which she wiped away impatiently.

Patrick shook his head at her weirdness and touched a strand of her hair. He wondered if this was what was in fashion, this short hair. Dark blonde spikes seemed to defy gravity, although fringey bangs la y sedately across her forehead, leading him to notice how dark her eyes were –almost black.

“I’m taking it back,” she whispered, seeming determined now. “This is my house now.”

“Hope you don’t mind sharing it,” Patrick remarked, following her back downstairs.

The news of his parents’ death still had him reeling, but he was trying to deal with it as calm as he could. If he’d been alone, he might have thrown his books around for the satisfaction of hitting the walls. He didn’t want to chase Sara away, though –he doubted she’d be as excited about having to live here with a phantom .