And the point is: They gave him a medal for saving Mike Osborne. For throwing himself into danger with no thought for his own safety. And I wanted to tell you this, because I wanted you to know one positive thing about my dad at least.
Also: his experience in the war, and then Mom dying … they kind of made him who he is today. He’s an *******, it’s true. But there’s a reason why he’s an *******.
And Mike Osborne?
Mike Osborne was out on patrol a couple of months later when his team found a wounded kid. They’d gone to check on him, but the kid was rigged with grenades, and Mike Osborne was leaning right over him, about to give him CPR, when they went off. Mike Osborne was scattered over half a poppy field.
It’s weird. I’m writing this to you, and you haven’t walked into my life yet. But I guess you already know when you first saw me.
It’s like a wood in ancient Greece, a leafy glade. I’m here, and the voice is here—the echo—and we’re just waiting for you, for the real action to start.
Which is soon.
Things are going to go fast from here.
Are you ready?
Me, I held it together, just, for the next week. I kept going to the library, hiding out in the apartment. I read up on serial killers.
Meanwhile the voice was bad, but in a way I could handle. Since I had decided to try to find the Houdini Killer, it had let up on me a bit. I figured this was because it was the voice of the woman with the severed foot. I also knew the rules now. Sometimes I would get something wrong—I would forget myself, and go to sit on the couch or whatever, do something comfortable.
Then the voice would say:
“Give me a hundred or your dad will lose his legs in a car accident.”
And I would get down on the ground and do push-ups, like Dad made me do when he was teaching me to swim as a kid. Or I’d have to run to the beach and back, or up and down the stairs. I didn’t think Dad was noticing any of this stuff, but I guess, looking back, he was more perceptive than I realized.
It was when I had to leave the apartment that things really fell apart. You summer-renter boys weren’t moving in for a couple of days, but Dad wanted to clean the place, get it ready. I didn’t tell him the apartment was already sparkling. The voice loved to make me clean, over and over again. I figured he’d see that when he came in.
Last day of school was that Friday. It wasn’t a big celebration day for me. I moved back to my bedroom Saturday morning. Literally as soon as I did, the voice got worse, just like I’d thought it would. I walked into my room and it said,
“Look at this ******** place. Get a brush and dustpan and then get down on your hands and knees.”
“What?”
“Get a brush and dustpan and clean up the floor.”
“I can get the vacuum—”
“No.”
So I swept the floor. The whole floor. I wasn’t even allowed to use a broom. Dad was over in the apartment, changing the sheets or whatever. He and I weren’t speaking much. There’s this idea that there are optimistic people and pessimistic people. But the factor everyone ignores is that when these tendencies encounter the real world, are tested against experience, they can be dispelled or calcified. Take my dad: I’d say he’s naturally a glass-half-empty kind of guy. He always expects bad stuff to happen; my mom says he’s always been like that.
But then he was in the Navy and he got shot. He left, joined civilian life again, and lost his wife. So he’s naturally pessimistic to begin with. But now, because of his experiences, he’s also just miserable. Miserable and angry.
It took me like two hours to clean the floor, and then the voice wanted me to hurt myself, so I did.
That night, Dad brought pizza back from the restaurant, tried to get me to laugh, but I wouldn’t say anything to him. I just ate my pepperoni slice and left the plate for him to clear up, left him sitting at the table alone. Just like a bratty teenager, but in my defense I was being tortured by a voice I couldn’t see. I could have acted worse.
I only managed to hold on for a couple of days after that.
There were still some times even in those two days that were okay. When I was outside, for example. I ended up spending more time in our yard than I ever had before. I could tell Dad found it weird. I would sit in one of the old mildew-covered deck chairs and zone out.
A couple of times, Dad came out and tried to get me interested in bugs that were in the garden too, beetles and things that he brought to me proudly in the palm of his hand. That’s exactly what he was doing in fact when you arrived.
So this is the first scene that you were there for too.
EXT. A FRONT YARD ON A LOWER-MIDDLE-CLASS NEW JERSEY STREET. MORNING. OCEAN MIST IN THE AIR.
A TEENAGE GIRL SITS IN A MOLDY DECK CHAIR. SHE IS PALLID, HER HAIR AND CLOTHES IN DISARRAY, BECAUSE SHE IS BEING HAUNTED BY A GHOST AND DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH IT.
THE SUN IS HIGH IN THE SKY. THE TIDE IS UP.
DAD: (crouched next to me) “Look at this.” (proffering an insect that he has taken out of a FedEx box) “Australian spiny stick. Simple but fascinating.”
THE VOICE: That’s disgusting. Tell him to go away.