“Will the white one still be there?” Devon asks, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Do you think he will?”
“He might be. We’ll just have to see.”
My son watches the world fly past his window with the steady fascination that only a child can muster. I love watching him in these peaceful moments, and do I ever need one right now.
“Good,” he says, turning back to me with an approving nod. He pulls his feet up beneath himself, arms wrapped around legs. “I like the white one, Daddy.”
“So do I, kiddo,” I reply, then notice his sock choice for the day.
Devon looks curious, too, but I can tell our reasons differ.
“Your socks,” I inform him. “They don’t match.”
He studies them and says, “Yeah. I know.”
“Is there a particular reason? Maybe some sort of fashion statement?”
He looks out his window again and says, “Uh-uh.”
“Okay, then. Care to explain?”
“None of them match anymore.”
“None of them? You must have over thirty pairs. Where did they all go?”
“Dunno.”
“Well, where do you put your socks after taking them off?”
“In the hamper, just like Mom tells me to.”
“Hmm, I’d imagine she’s not very happy about this.”
“Nope. Said she’s gonna buy me some more.”
We reach the entrance to Anderson Lake. Before slowing, I check the rearview, but it’s not the road I see. It’s Jake, upright in the backseat. Eyes glued to mine. As if he’s been waiting all this time for me to notice him.
A thousand tiny ribbons of amber sunlight dance across the rippling water. I’m relaxed and in the present, simply enjoying time with my son. If it were possible, I would reach out and capture this moment in my hands and hold on to it forever, because the feeling is so authentic, so pure. But I know that’s not possible, and with this understanding comes another far more troubling. If my injury is serious, or if history is indeed repeating itself, then I don’t know how much more time I’ve got left before my mind checks out, before I disappear into another place, a much darker one.
Before I lose my son, and he loses me.
I banish the notion, give myself a stern warning not to stray from this moment. To enjoy it, because this moment is the only one that matters.
With that spirit, I settle on a park bench and share in Devon’s joy, watching as he runs along the shoreline, splashing water everywhere and having a wonderful time. He kneels to observe the ducks at play, and the excitement in his young eyes captivates me. It’s like I’m seeing magic in motion, and I’m compelled to join him.
I kneel alongside my son and place an arm around his shoulder. He looks up at me, squinting in the sunlight, and now we are both smiling, as if we know we’re creating this wonderful memory together.
“I love it here, Daddy,” he says, mirroring my thought. “Let’s stay like this forever, okay? Just like this.”
I pull Devon closer and tightly wrap my arms around him.
But the joy dissolves when over his shoulder and across the lake, the Evil Tree towers from a distant hillside. A symbol of impending doom, spreading its bloodred blanket of misery like a giant, toxic cloud. Mocking me, telling me there is no escape from its malignant and calamitous power.
I turn my head but find only a different source of unrest. Jake sits at the shoreline, his body ramrod straight, his gaze nailed to the tree. Then he looks my way, and a bitter chill shimmies through me, and the air in my lungs turns thick and ropy.
The dog is speaking to me.
Not with words. Not even with his stare. This is different and far more powerful. No mental impairment, no distortion. This is genuine. It’s primitive, and above all, it’s critically urgent. Like some kind of communication custom-made for me, only I still don’t understand what he wants me to know.
I glance protectively down at Devon, then amble toward Jake. When I’m about two feet away, he stiffens, lets out a low groan, and I feel another chill, this one absorbing through my bones. I’m still unable to discern what he’s telling me, but there’s nothing good about it. The message is dark and foreboding and dangerous. It makes my hairs stand on end.
“Daddy! Help me!”
Devon’s distressed voice rattles me. I spin around.
“I can’t get my sneaker on,” he says, looking down at his mismatched and wet socks covered in sand.
I exhale my relief. But then I glance toward Jake and my relief fades because there is an empty spot where he once stood.
I scan my surroundings and find him several feet away, staring at the tree again.
Backing away from it.
Ears lowered and pinned back, tail tucked between his legs.
Like he smells fear.
36
We walk toward a wooded picnic area, carrying the lunches that Jenna packed, but the lingering gloom from my encounter with Jake is a burden I can’t seem to lift. The dog trails several feet behind us, and while his mood seems less intense, it’s still noticeable. I steal a curious glance at my son, but just as before, he appears oblivious to Jake’s peculiar behavior.
“Devon?” I say.
He looks up at me.
“I feel like there’s something you might not be telling me about Jake.”
His expression falls flat, and he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that, Daddy.”
“Do you know what’s happening with him?”
“He’s just upset.”
“About what?”
“He can’t tell me.”
“I know, but I was wondering if maybe you had an idea.”
With sight aimed forward, he gives a mild shrug. “It’s just how things are.”
I raise my brows. “What things?”
“Since the accident,” he says. “That’s when everything changed.” Then he bolts toward a picnic table and shouts, “Daddy, can we sit at this one?”