Henry Franks (6 page)

ten

Henry was awake long before the alarm; early enough to lie on his bed and watch the room lighten as the sun broke through the leaves outside his window. He moved his hand to the table and crawled it toward the clock until he could turn the beeping off. Then he rubbed his eyes but failed to banish sleep or the half-formed memories of his dream.

His heart beat too slowly, and it seemed to be more of a conscious decision to breathe than it should be. The thought,
inhale/exhale
, repeated itself.

“Breathe, Henry,” he said.

He rolled out of bed and rubbed his hands over his face as he walked to the bathroom. His fingers came away wet and red. He stared at his bloody palms. In his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his nose was bleeding and he'd rubbed blood over the bottom half of his face.

When he was finished washing up, his nose was sore, his eyes puffy, and his pale skin seemed translucent where he'd scraped it raw with the towel. The snooze alarm sounded as he was about to get in the shower. He dragged himself back to his room to shut it off and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. His nose started bleeding again.

“Breathe.”

Henry walked to the end of the Harrison Pointe subdivision to wait for the bus. The sidewalks were cracking where the roots of the trees were trying to escape and Spanish moss hung so far down that he had to duck under it at times, but he still managed to get some tangled in his hair.

At the bus stop he stood alone, the only student not wearing shorts. He kept his eyes on the ground until a pair of sandals appeared, pink-painted toes sticking out. Henry glanced up, far enough for his vision to travel halfway over long tan legs, a small scab healing on the right knee, before returning to her toes.

“Who died?” Justine asked.

“What?”

“You look terrible,” she said. “Well, all in black as always, so maybe you're in perpetual mourning. But, seriously, new heights of goth, very impressive.”

He looked up at her, meeting her gaze. His eyes still red from rubbing and his pale skin glistening with sweat, he swallowed whatever he had been about to say when he saw her smile.

“Henry?” she said. Her hand reached out but she didn't touch him, then she took a step closer and dropped her voice, her smile melting away in the heat. “I'm sorry,
did
someone die?”

He shook his head. “No. Just...” He lowered his eyes. “Just a dream.”

The bus pulled to the curb with a hydraulic groan, the door opening on hinges in need of oiling, and they filed on board. Justine sat down in the seat in front of him as the bus pulled away.

“I'm a good listener,” she said. “Well, I'm a better talker, but … ”

Henry rested his head on the window, the glass cool to the touch despite the heat, and looked at her. The bra strap once again matched her tank top, blue this time. “You don't match.”

“What?” she asked.

“Your toes. They don't match.”

She laughed, and he could feel other people on the bus looking at them. “I matched yesterday. Didn't you notice?”

He shook his head.

“You're blushing,” she said. “You noticed.”

“Sorry.” He smiled, and then looked out the window at the imposing bulk of the Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital. The towers at each corner of the barbed wire fence cast a shadow over the trees lining the road.

“Who died?” she asked. “In your dream?”

“I don't know.” Henry shook his head before looking back at her. “Strangers.”

“You didn't know them?”

“I can't remember.”

“Your dream?” she asked.

“No. If I knew them before.”

She turned around in her seat, resting her arms on the back. “That's what the doctor's for, right?”

“So I'm okay with not remembering.”

“Are you?”

He shrugged.

“What do you do when you're there?” she asked.

“Talk.”

“You? You never talk.”

“I'm talking to you.”

She smiled. Pink lips tilted upwards, honey eyes sparkled in the summer sun, the whole framed by brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stray strands had escaped and curled down along her neck, sticking to her skin in the heat.

Inhale/Exhale
, he thought.
Breathe.

Just breathe.

eleven

The school bus baked all day in the August sun. Even with the windows opened, it was still baking when the driver pulled into the parking lot to wait for students. Dressed for summer, they placed sheets of paper on the benches before sitting down on the hot vinyl seats.

As Henry walked down the aisle, Bobby was sitting in Justine's seat, his arm resting on the back of the bench. The bus slowly filled up and Henry briefly tried to lower his window but gave up without success.

“Justine,” Bobby called down the aisle. “I saved a seat for you.”

Henry looked up; even from a distance he could see her eyes widen as she saw Bobby sitting in her seat. She stopped for a moment as he patted the plastic cushion, then shook her head.

“Bobby, you're incorrigible,” she said. “That's Latin for ‘incapable of being corrected.'”

“Is that a good thing?” he asked, still patting the seat.

Behind her, a couple of students were backing up in the aisle.

“No,” she said, a bright smile taking some, but not much, of the sting out of the word. “It's not.” She took a step down the aisle and stopped at Henry's seat. She looked back at Bobby and then turned to Henry.

“I sweat more just looking at you,” she said. “Move over.”

Henry slid to the side as Justine put down a protective notebook paper barrier between plastic and skin.

“Thanks,” she said.

Bobby swung around in his seat, leaning over toward Justine. “You'd rather sit with Scarface?” he asked.

Henry tried to squeeze even further into the window, but Justine simply laughed. “That's the best you could come up with, Bobby? You might want to work on that. And, if you need to ask, I was raised to believe that the choice of where to sit was mine.”

Bobby looked from Justine to Henry, then grabbed his backpack and walked to the back of the bus with the other football players. Justine waved goodbye but he didn't see it. As the diesel engine coughed to life, she giggled.

“Scarface?” she asked, looking at Henry. “I'm sorry, he's a jerk sometimes, but he's not as rude as he tries to pretend to be. He does have a slight problem with persistence, though.”

Henry shrugged, and then brushed the hair out of his face. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I'm not allowed to date,” Justine said. “Not football players, not pre-med students at Coastal College, not twenty-something teachers or the guy that sells pretzels at the mall.” She laughed. “Well, I'm exaggerating about most of that, but still.” She smiled. “My parents have made it perfectly clear that I'm not to date until I'm a senior, and then only in groups, if I keep my grades up. So persistence isn't necessarily a bad thing. Though, even if I could date, it wouldn't be Bobby Dixon. But it is rather pointless, don't you think?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out, so he shrugged again and simply closed his mouth.

“So,” she said, “you never really told me about your dream from last night.”

“What?” he asked, still trying to absorb everything else she'd said. Too many words in too little time, leading to such a random statement.

“You looked terrible all day, didn't even say hi when you shuffled past me in the halls,” she said. “Not that you noticed I was there. Don't you walk into walls staring at the ground all day?”

“I don't … ”

“I can't really picture you talking with a shrink,” Justine added with a smile. “You don't say much.”

“Is it my turn to talk yet?”

She laughed, then nodded. “Your turn.”

“No one-word answers,” he said. “It's on a sign in her office.”

“That's a start, at least.”

“I waved.”

“When?”

The blue straps of her tank top were wide enough to hide her bra, while leaving long stretches of tan skin exposed up her neck and down her shoulders. Beaded with sweat, she glistened in the sunlight. Henry ran his fingers through his hair, unable, as always, to figure out where to rest his eyes.

“When?” she asked again, leaning into him with the turns the bus was making on its journey home.

“After second period. You walked by me.”

“How do you know?”

“Pink nail polish.” He looked up in time to watch a smile crawl across her face.

“What will you do when I change colors?”

He shrugged. “I check in the mornings.”

She turned to face him, her smile as wide as he'd ever seen it. A slight blush spread across her skin and for a moment he not only forgot to breathe, he forgot how.

“You had a dream?” she asked, the words barely spoken out loud. He found himself leaning closer to her to hear.

“Dr. Saville says it's a part of the process,” he said. “I have these dreams, about people I don't know, places I've never been.”

“Are they from before the accident?”

“I don't think so,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Ever have the same dream over and over again?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Seem real, don't they?”

“Sometimes.”

“Mine are always like that.”

“Last night?”

“I have a daughter,” he said, hiding behind his hair. “Her name's Elizabeth.”

Her mouth dropped open and for a moment she didn't speak at all. “For real?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“In the dream.”

“Aren't you my age?”

“Sixteen,” he said, moving his hair out of the way to look at her.

“How do you know she's your daughter?”

Henry sighed. “She calls me Daddy.”

“Well, now I know why you don't think it's from before the accident.”

“Just felt so real. Then I woke up.” Henry turned and looked out the window as they passed the hospital. Police cars blocked the entrance where a local news van was parked, the antenna stabbing into the sky.

“It's not as creepy as it looks,” she said, her voice soft.

“What?”

“The hospital.” She pointed out the window as they left the facility behind. “My dad's cousin is in there.” She shook her head with a quick smile. “I've only met him once; he's a lot older.
Used to live in Waycross, I think. He's been there as long as I can remember.”

“I'm sorry,” Henry said, turning to face her.

She shrugged. “My dad visits him every so often. He dragged me along once. Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be from all the barbed wire, you know?”

The bus came to a stop and Henry followed Justine down the steps to the street.

“Almost as good as a breeze,” she said while swinging around in a circle, her hair flying out around her face.

“Almost.”

“Do you dream about dead people a lot?”

“Lately.”

“Been in the news.”

“What?” he asked.

“Dead people. Lots of dead people around town.”

They stopped where the low metal gate swung open to the walkway to his house. It wouldn't stay shut; the hinges were rusty and the white paint was flaking off like dandruff. Since there was no fence anywhere else around the front half of the property, it didn't much matter, really, if the lonely gate was closed or not.

“Sweet dreams, Henry,” she said, and rested her hand on his arm for a moment before she walked toward her house.

“Thanks,” he said; then, louder, so she could hear, he said it again, standing on the sidewalk watching her walk away.

Hinges squealed as the door opened. William jumped at the sound, turning around just as Henry walked into the kitchen. The hint of a smile on his son's face faded as they stared at each other. William looked down at the bloodstains on his work clothes and tried to hide them behind his hands.

“Sorry,” he said as he pushed past Henry, pulling his consultation jacket off as he walked, leaving bloody fingerprints on the white sleeves as he slid out of it.

“Dad?” his son said, the word distant and barely more than a whisper through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

He looked over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys, trying to slide the right one into the deadbolt. “Didn't have time to clean up after work,” he called as the key finally slid home.

He slammed the door shut behind him, the echo storming through the house like thunder. William threw the coat into the corner and ran to the bathroom. Heavy curtains covered the window in there, as well, and he was rushing too much to turn on the light. In the dark shadows he turned the hot water on and began scraping at his hands to scrub off the blood.

The water steamed and turned red as he held his hands underneath it. He scrubbed, over and over, rubbing his hands together. His fingers trembled as he tried to get all the blood off. In the darkness it was difficult to see if they were clean or not, so he just kept scrubbing.

Tears fell into the sink, mixing with the blood as he stood there, boiling his hands until they were sterile. Still, he didn't stop until the water turned cold.

Discovery of Two Additional Bodies Leads to Calls for a Town Hall Meeting

Saint Simons Island, GA—August 19, 2009:
In what has become an all-too familiar scene this summer, Glynn County Sheriff's Officers were called to the beach beneath the village pier where an early morning fisherman discovered two bodies behind a piling.

Charles Bensen, 63, and his wife, Gertrude, 59, residents of Manchester, NH, were visiting family when they were reported missing earlier this week.

Preliminary autopsy reports list blunt force trauma as the preliminary cause of death.

“At this time, it would be counterproductive to speculate on any connections between this unfortunate occurrence and any other ongoing investigations,” said Staci Carr, District Attorney of Glynn County.

“We will continue to follow all leads and value all contributions from the community,” said Major Daniel Johnson of FLETC as they sealed off the beach.

The Bensens are the fifth and sixth deaths in Glynn County this summer, all allegedly from blunt force trauma. While preliminary research has not shown any connection between the victims—Sylvia Foote, Crayton Mission, Paul Wislon, Derrick Fischer, and the Bensons—police spokesperson Carmella Rawls has issued a “No comment” when asked for further details from the official autopsy reports.

Brunswick mayor Jim Monroe has announced a press conference and town hall meeting for August 20, 2009 at 7:00 PM in the Glynn Academy auditorium to discuss recent events. All interested parties are invited to attend.

Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)

The leaves of the palm tree, brushing listlessly against the window, were brown and dying. One sprinkler head peeked out above the dry grass but no water shot forth and patches of dirt had broken through. Henry turned back to the doctor, his fingers resting on his wrist, trailing the scar.

“Henry.” Her pen hung like the sword of Damocles over her legal pad. “I was wondering if you ever sleepwalk.”

He shrugged.

“Are you still tired when you wake up?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said.

“When?”

He looked out the window, then pulled his hair down in front of his eyes.

“Henry?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you try to remember for me?” she asked.

“Will that help?”

“Maybe. You might be having blackouts and not even realizing it.”

“Better,” Henry said with a shrug, “to ask Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?”

“Or Victor.”

“They're not real, Henry.”

“I know. I'm forgetful, not crazy.”

“Amnesia doesn't mean that. It's a process to remember,” she said. “Your brain is still trying to understand the accident and, perhaps, it's using your dreams to help with that.”

“There was an accident,” he said, each word its own sentence, distinct and harsh.

“Yes.”

“I should have died.”

“You remember that?”

He shook his head, hair flying away from his face, and his eyes couldn't stay still. “No.”

“No?”

“My dad told me, ‘There was an accident.' I remember him telling me, about the rain, the construction; I should have died.” Henry slumped down in the chair, his hands falling open on the seat. One deep breath after another. He held the last one, counting to ten, mouthing the numbers. “There was an accident. I should have died.”

“And?”

“There was an accident.”

“Henry?”

“I should have died.”

He slumped there, moving only enough to breathe. His eyes twitched to the side, the rapid tics out of place in his pale motionless face.