Shades of Eva (68 page)

I had rented a storage unit just
outside
of town. It was large enough to hold a mid-size
automobile, and a few relics from my past. I took the chest with my
mother’s things from my grandfather’s Virgil’s disappointments room
and moved them to the storage locker. I put the xenon flashlight,
the driving gloves and the Ray Bans, the satellite encrypted cell
phone—stripped of most of its software—and the GPS, inside.
Finally, I drove the Impala in, doused the ignition and the lights,
and sat there remembering how excited I was to have been given such
gifts.

My thoughts turned to Abby. Dr. Norris had
seen fit to furnish Abby’s seclusion with some chosen artifacts
that might make her feel more at home. Several of Emily’s poems
were framed and hung on the walls about Abby’s room. Several of
Emily’s sculptures were placed strategically about. Her drawings
were compiled and Abby had sorted them into categories and placed
them into an album that she could leaf through. Her aunt had
sculpted a bust of her sister, Abby’s mother Martha. It sat bedside
of Abby’s bed, and I imagine it brought comfort to her in those
long and often poignant Asylum nights.

The poem, “Tiny Grave,” held a special place
of significance aside Abby’s bed, as well. She must have read it
each night before she went to sleep. I only hoped it offered Abby
the hope it had offered me in the days before all this.

Abby had become the daytime wind that sailed
my ship, and the nighttime love who caressed my hand and kissed my
cheek. She was the vengeful wind of daylight; she fanned the fires
of a teenager’s rage beneath the sun. And at night, she calmed. She
stilled enough to drift softly through the valley of peace and into
my thoughts, so often I could not count the times I lay there
missing her, thinking of her. I think Abby realized that my mother
had two sets of dreams—one a violent set, and another, more
gentile.

And aren’t we all like that? Don’t we all
make mistakes in our youth? The Institution was no different. And
perhaps, reader, you’ve recognized that I haven’t been calling the
Institution an Asylum, any longer. That’s because she wasn’t an
asylum anymore—not in the sense that she used to be. Asylums don’t
do what Anna did for me and for Abigail. Institutions do that, and
for that distinction, I was fortunate. I slammed the door of the
storage unit closed, placed a padlock on it, and put the key in my
pocket.

I had another stop to make
that day,
and someone to meet. I waited until dark as this someone said to
do, and once I had my nerve, I proceeded to the cemetery. Two
people were standing in the center of the grounds, waiting for
me.

I had purchased a cemetery plot next to my
mother’s grave. It would be here, the following day, where Elmer
would find his final resting place. I had only to purchase the
stone that would mark his tiny grave. I had only to determine what
name to etch into that stone.

Approaching the plot, I could see those two
figures in the distance. As I neared, one called to me. He said my
name. Mitchell. It was good to hear.

“Christian,” I called back.

He greeted me with an outstretched hand. “I
want you to meet Hannah. This is Dorothy’s granddaughter.”

“Hannah,” I said, reaching for her hand.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. Thank you for coming all this
way.”

She smiled. “It’s nice to meet you too,
Cousin Mitchell. I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through.”

I smiled in return. “I’m sure you have a lot
of questions for us,” I told Hannah. “I trust Christian was able to
answer a lot of them on the flight over.”

“Some,” she replied. “If you don’t mind,”
Hannah said, changing the subject, “I want to say a blessing over
Elmer’s grave. I know Elmer isn’t here yet, but I sense his spirit
about us.”

Hannah opened a Bible to the Book of Psalms
and recited the 23rd chapter. And then she reached into a pocket
and pulled forth a piece of paper. There was a poem written on it.
“This was read at Abby’s daughter’s funeral. Abby appreciated it. I
think Eva would appreciate it, too.” Hannah looked to my mother’s
grave. “I want to recite it here, for her and for Elmer.”

Thick layers of gauze,

Its contents, my heart.

A clinical perspective for friends,

Enough so the blood does not drip.

Only at the solitary presence of his tiny
grave,

Do I sit and unwind all the layers

And view the deep gash.

It will never heal…I will only wrap it
differently with time.

I looked down at my mother’s name. Eva Fay.
She had a last name—in fact, she had two. McGinnis and Rennix. I
looked to the vacant earth beside her and wondered what Elmer’s
stone would read. We knew who his father was—his biological father,
that is—but what about his last name? What name would he be given?
What name would he choose for himself if he were asked? Would he
choose his father’s name, Levantle, or was there another word for
what Fred Levantle was to Elmer?

And then I had to wonder what name Mom would
have given him. And once I considered that, it was an easy
decision. She knew the name a long time ago. Dad had given baby
Elmer his last name. Mom had agreed, even though it was not his
true name. It was a noble thing to do; a noble gesture that had
some other word to describe it. It wasn’t a lie or a gesture—it was
a wish.

Mom wanted a family. Dad wanted Mom to be
happy. He wanted Elmer to have a last name. His tombstone would
read Elmer Rennix. There was no other name appropriate for Baby
Elmer.

“I need forgiveness,” I told Hannah and
Christian, eying my mother’s tombstone. “I have lied, I’ve been
greedy, and because of those things, I have hurt people.”

I turned to Christian. “I need your
forgiveness,” I told him. “For what my decisions did to Sophia. I
don’t expect it, but I need it.”

Christian placed his hands on my shoulders
and looked me square in the eyes. “You didn’t kill Sophia,” he told
me. “So don’t ever think that.”

“But—

He cut me off. “Mitchell, I would have done
the same thing you did. We all thought Ully had more to give to
make up for what he did. That money would have been put to good
use. We’ll get it back. Sophia didn’t die in vain.”

Hannah handed me and Christian some flowers.
After a moment, we laid them on Elmer’s gravesite—and then
Mom’s—her favorite flowers, marigolds. Then Hannah said a short
prayer. “Father in Heaven, forgive us where we have erred. Bring
peace to this family, and wisdom to know what is your will, and
what is to be left to you. May you let Elmer rest in peace aside
his mother. Please forgive Virgil and Brad and Ully, and please
forgive the Asylum. Please forgive us, too, for what we have done,
and for what we’re about to do. May you restore Eva’s legacy to its
proper place in your heart. Amen.”

We stood overlooking the graves for another
ten minutes absorbing the imagery of the cemetery and the sounds of
the place. The sun would rise on this land in the morning, a
sunrise declaring an end to my running and to my alcoholism, and an
end to the wars I’d waged, at least for a while.

“Where will you go, now?” I asked
Christian.

“I’m going to spend the next couple days
visiting Abby.”

“And after that?”

“After that, I’ve got business to tend to
down in Gary.”

“Ever the hunter,” I replied, offering
Christian a reticent smile.

Christian nodded and smiled in return.

“Is she going to be okay at Coastal State?”
I asked him, referring to Abigail. I was shaking my head. “She
ought to have kept an alias in case the Mafia decides to avenge
Jackson Greer.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Abigail. She’s
happy, Mitchell. For the first time in a long time, she’s
happy.”

I remembered thinking something about
happiness standing there in that cemetery. It had something to do
with forgiveness. It had something to do with a question I’d asked
my mother a long time ago about forgiving Dad.

Mom had told me not to be mad at him. In
essence, I had disagreed. I had asked her: what good does forgiving
someone do if they aren’t there to receive it?

Her answer could have applied to anyone
who’d hurt me. It could have applied to Ully and it could have
applied to Anna or Jake Meade or Fred Levantle. She said,
“Forgiveness isn’t for the forgiven, it’s for you!” And by
you
she meant
me
.

I had forgiven Coastal State, for whatever
sins she might have committed against me. I had forgiven my
hometown, each of my parents, and my ancestors past. I had finally
forgiven, which in turn, I hoped, would bring me the forgiveness
that I craved, and dare I say, a little bit of the happiness that
Mom wanted for me.

But what about Christian? I was thinking.
And what about Sophia? What about little Amy Angstrom, and what
about Joe? What about Baby Elmer? What would they say about
forgiveness? What would they say about happiness? My thoughts
turned to Corrie Ten Boom and Viktor Frankl. What would they say?
Were we all to move on with our lives? Were we to somehow try and
forget all that happened? Or was forgiveness a matter for the
angels?

Sometimes the answers to those questions are
beyond the scope of understanding. All I knew was that Christian
wasn’t ready to forgive. He had his Beretta 9 mm out and was eying
its sight lines.

“Mom wasn’t crazy,” I told them, placing one
last marigold on my mother’s grave.

“She was a good person,” Hannah replied.
“She was a good person.”

~THE END

Tim is also the author of
Hunting
Season,
Book 2 of his
Asylum Chronicles
. He is a 2000
graduate of Indiana University's department of psychology with an
emphasis in behavior analysis, as well as a 2010 graduate of Lake
Michigan College's division of radiologic technology. Tim has
enjoyed performing in several community theatre productions, and
has written one theatrical play called
Honeymooners Cult
.
Tim has worked in the field of special education as a classroom
teacher's aide for fifteen years, and is currently a radiologic
technologist for a community health system. He is married to
teacher and actress Stephanie Skinner. They reside in Dowagiac, MI
with their Malamute-Huskie, Wolfie.

Tim can be reached via email at
[email protected]
or at his Facebook page.

Thank you readers,
Tim

Tim is also the author of
Hunting
Season
, Book 2 of the
Asylum Chronicles
. Hunting Season
is a stand-alone novel set in the same town as
Shades of
Eva
. In this psychological thriller, a young man Jimmy Myerson
seeks answers after his wife Bonnie is killed in a hunting accident
opening day of deer season in the forest town of River Bluff, MI.
Jimmy comes to learn that answers don't come easily because humans
aren't the only ones hunting in River Bluff! He also comes to learn
that sometimes in the forest it's best to just blend in.

Hunting Season
is also available at
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/432943

Coming Soon

Rogue Planet

A Christian sci-fi novel

Light-years from the Sun, the days of the
planet Xenos in the Barnard's Star solar system are numbered. A
planet-killing asteroid is fast-approaching and Xenosians are
scrambling for salvation. From the days of his youth, Elias has had
visions of another planet. He reasons that his planet is not alone
in the universe, and that there is more to life than life on Xenos.
Confronted by dreams that seem to be leading him toward a far-away
planet called Earth, Elias sets out on a mission to discover the
origins of his planet's history, and the meaning behind a detected
radar pinging from beneath the Xenosian sea, a detection that
suggests an alien presence may have invaded his doomed planet.
Racing against time, Elias and others venture to the bottom of the
ocean to investigate the ping and stumble upon a planetary secret
that just might offer them the salvation their planet craves.

Rogue Planet
is an end time tale
about humanity and its quest for salvation as it comes to terms
with its own planet's fate and the role of its Creator. Characters
discover a human history rich in art, science, and religion, and a
secret about what it means to be saved before catastrophe delivers
them into oblivion.