《Dead in the Water》 Chapter 1: I Wasnt Born Here... Looking up at the sky, I could tell it was roughly around 6 in the afternoon. How the sky turned into that deep orange has filled me with anxiety since I was a kid. It always meant that it would be dark soon, and the night used to frighten me. But not because I was afraid of monsters or ghosts; to me, it meant that I would have to go to sleep and go to school the next day. The orange-colored sky meant that the day was coming to an end, and strangely, it meant that I was getting older. When I was a child, I didn¡¯t know that I was feeling that kind of existential dread, but now that I am in my mid-20s, I think about it more than ever. The soft color shines on the rest of this town, only to be contrasted by the intricate shadows cast by the clouds and buildings blocking the sunlight. The black asphalt of the road bounces the light perfectly; it almost seems like an oil portrait painted by someone who has never seen black asphalt before. Some no-name artist not burdened by the modernity of man. As far as I know, I just exited one of the many alleyways to this old town and needed help. Despite not knowing where I was, I decided to walk down the street. I looked at the businesses and little storefronts on both sides of the road to see if I could recognize where I was. Looking towards the south, I could see those beautiful green mountains that always loomed over me. So, I know that I must be somewhere in St. Anthony, but where? I had no idea. All the little storefronts looked very familiar, but at the same time, they looked foreign; like I¡¯ve visited these places before, but nothing feels right. I tried to read one of the signs for the stores, and it was barely legible. The words were all jumbled up and blended; it was pure gibberish. Then, a thought occurred to me. Where is everyone? If I was right about the time, the streets of St. Anthony were usually packed with people going home from work or the older kids returning from the ferry ride from San Francisco. But no one was walking. The streets were utterly empty. Cars weren¡¯t even roaming the streets. I thought to myself, ¡°Was there some kind of evacuation? No, the sirens would¡¯ve been going off!¡± But the eeriness of the situation began to creep into my soul; something was going on, and I must¡¯ve been left behind. I decided to start 2walking to the nearest port, wherever that was. I just had to walk alongside the island¡¯s edge, and I would come across a dock. As I walked, I tried to remember how I found myself as the last one left in St. Anthony, but no matter how hard I attempted to recollect my memories, I couldn¡¯t. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve been drinking the whole day before and had a significant blackout. But why would I be drinking? I usually drank for a reason. Suddenly, in the distance, I can hear the whirring of a helicopter coming towards me. In relief, I looked up in the sky, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, but I couldn¡¯t see anything. Nevertheless, I was still relieved that I was hearing something other than the deafening silence I was experiencing up until then. A spotlight shone down on me, but when I looked straight up, it seemed like the light was coming from a slow-moving cloud above me. ¡°Maybe the helicopter is above the cloud,¡± I said aloud, ¡°At least I can see it.¡± As I began to feel joy that I was being saved, the light turned off, but the sound persisted. I stood still and waited for the helicopter to come down, but it never did. Puzzled, I contemplated whether I should just stay and wait or try to get on one of the building¡¯s roofs, ¡°What if it has a hard time coming to ground level?¡± I thought. But something inside me was urging me to continue walking towards the port. So, I did precisely that, and the whole time I walked, the dreadful drone of the helicopter¡¯s blade never left my ears. The tone of the whirring blades began to have an ominous presence; despite my best efforts to be calm in this situation, I was starting to be on edge. That sound must have followed me for about 20 minutes before something happened. I suddenly fell to the rough road from a sudden sharp pain in my chest. It stung like someone must have stabbed me in the heart. I thought someone must¡¯ve shot me. On my hands and knees, I lifted my head to check my surroundings and see what happened to me, ¡°Did the helicopter have a sniper?¡± I questioned. There was nothing all around me. Just myself and a soft wind: that I can swear that I heard carry a voice. I hoisted myself up from the ground and tried to collect myself, but the gentle breezes continued to blow into my ears. I thought I might¡¯ve been imagining it, but no! I can swear there are voices in the wind. I stood still, looking around, and listened closely to what the voices were saying. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°How long...¡± ¡°... Dead?¡± The voices sounded distinct, like they all belonged to different people, but I had never heard of these voices before up until now. But it wasn¡¯t something that scared me; the voices sounded like they were concerned. Still, I was strangely calm, like these agents encouraged me to continue my journey. ¡°Don¡¯t stop fighting...¡± ¡°Please, just...¡± Then, a song began to play from what sounded like emergency sirens. I immediately recognized the smooth music and almost began singing along to it. It was San Franciscan Nights, but not the original version but the one by G¨¢bor Szab¨®r. I owned this record with this song and would play it nonstop when I first got it, but I would always skip the intro. The constant scratching of the vinyl must¡¯ve annoyed my mother and grandmother. Lost in the song, I began to recognize where I was at. I was in my neighborhood; the same streets and stores I roam during the day were all there but remained empty. With the music accompanying me, I walked through the dead streets and came across something I hadn¡¯t noticed before: a large house. I approached the gate leading to the house in awe and confusion. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen this place before,¡± escaped my mouth. ¡°You¡¯re finally home,¡± cheerfully called out a woman¡¯s voice. I scanned the house to see where the voice came from and realized a woman was sitting on the porch. Thank God, for a second, I thought the place was talking to me. But once that silly thought passed, I was ecstatic; finally, there was another person than me in this town. However, she spoke to me with this strange familiarity, and I can swear that I never met this woman before. ¡°You¡¯re finally home, my Frankie,¡± called out the woman again with a bright smile. As I entered the gate and approached the porch, I began to take in her features. She must¡¯ve been no older than me, with this bright reddish hair and pale complexion. My mother would tell me that most of the women, and even the men, were Ginger back in the old country before they moved to America. Besides myself and my family, we are the only red-headed people here, but even our skins weren¡¯t as colorless as the woman before me. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I don¡¯t know who you are. What is this place? Is this where you live?¡± I asked the woman. As I started to walk up the short stairs leading to the porch, I saw that she was breastfeeding an infant, but she was covering the child¡¯s face. ¡°Something is going on here in St. Anthony. Do you know what is going on?¡± I asked. She looked at me with her cheerful smile and pointed with her chin behind me. I turned to see what she was trying to show me, and she told me, ¡°There¡¯s nothing to worry about, Franklin; nothing is happening here. The streets are just quiet like they¡¯ve always been.¡± Confused, I asked her, ¡°Where is everyone?¡± ¡°They all went their own way: some left for San Francisco, some even left to farther places of this world, and some just stayed in the comfort of their own home.¡± ¡°So, people are just in their homes?¡± I asked the woman. ¡°Yes, isn¡¯t that why you came back here? To be beside me?¡± ¡°But... But I don¡¯t know this house. I¡¯ve never seen it before in my life¡±, I told her with conviction, and it was true. I have never seen this house once in my life, and I lived here in St. Anthony for the entirety of it. It¡¯s like this house just sprang out from the earth. The woman gave a small smile, although it wasn¡¯t one of happiness but instead one of compassion, almost as if she felt sorry for me. That made me feel uneasy. ¡°Don¡¯t say things like that, Frankie. I¡¯ve seen you build this house with your own two hands. I occasionally sat a brick down, but it was mostly you¡±, the woman said as she giggled, ¡°I remember you even told me it was your life¡¯s mission to build this place.¡± Shocked, I stood there on the stairs. How can I possibly forget about building an entire house? This wasn¡¯t even an ordinary-sized house either; this place could¡¯ve been the size of a small mansion. I looked up at the rest of the house and felt crushed by its presence. The size of it made me feel insignificant compared to it. There¡¯s no way these hands built something as giant as this. I did not know what to think or say, so I just looked at the woman and her warm smile. ¡°Who are you?¡± were the only words I could utter. A soft breeze blew by her and swayed her beautiful red hair, ¡°Just go inside the house, Franklin. You look tired.¡± She raised her hand and pointed towards the doors leading into the house. The song that was being played on the emergency sirens had come to an end. A soft breeze followed, and a voice that simply cried, ¡°Please... wake up.¡± I was looking at the ceiling of an office building, and my entire body was in excruciating pain. Chapter 2: Pale Blue Eyes ¡°Oh my God, he¡¯s up! He¡¯s up, my son¡¯s alive!¡± cried out the voice of my mother. I could hear footsteps frantically leave the room I was in, the hollow sound of heels hitting the ground ringed in my ears. I was still lost and disoriented; what had happened? Where am I? I tried to move my head, though something was keeping it in place, maybe a brace? Absolute stillness ensued, and everything went black; I could¡¯ve sworn I saw a spark in the darkness like a firework in an abyss. Did I pass out? My eyes opened fast and sporadically, almost as if I had no concept of how to control them. They moved independently against my wishes. Although I couldn¡¯t move my head, my eyes could scan the room and absorb every little detail of my surroundings. Am I in a hospital? I must be! I recognize those cr¨¨me-colored walls from all the hospital visits I had to take as a kid. Every time I came here in my adult life, it reminded me of the discomfort I felt in my belly from the appendicitis I had as a kid. Hell, even the day I woke up from the operation to have my appendix removed was like this. Pure confusion and not having a sense of what is up and down. But still, what happened to me this time? All I can feel is my body vibrating with a dull pain from my lower back through my right shoulder. I tried to move the rest of my body, but to no avail; my body felt like it must weigh more than a thousand pounds. My arms lay limp on my sides, and one of my legs felt wrapped in something. I must¡¯ve broken one of my legs. Was I in some accident? I hope it wasn¡¯t because of a car mishap. Man, I sure hope it wasn¡¯t my fault! I bet I don¡¯t even have enough money to pay for this hospital visit. Oh god! The ambulance bill! But at least I can feel my body, so whatever happened to me didn¡¯t leave me a paraplegic. I thank God for that. I can at least do overtime at the dock just to cover these hospital bills. ¡°Hello, Mr. Lambe. Welcome back to the land of the living¡±, said a woman¡¯s voice. My eyes bolted towards the direction of the unrecognizable voice, and there she was. The ginger woman from the house wore a nurse uniform, and her hair was tied in a knot; it wasn¡¯t let down like before. There was no mistaking it; it was the same lady. She had the same smile. I tried to speak to her, but my mouth did not move. I couldn¡¯t even produce a slight sound. ¡°Don¡¯t panic,¡± said the woman very calmly, ¡°I am Nurse Aisling, and I¡¯ve been over watching you since you were first admitted here at St. Anthony¡¯s emergency hospital. Can you speak?¡± My mouth would not move, but with just the expression in my eyes, Nurse Aisling could tell that I could not speak. That¡¯s kind of a funny name; the way she said it and the way it¡¯s spelled on her name tag sound very different. ¡°Ok, Mr. Lambe. Don¡¯t force yourself to speak; you¡¯ve suffered trauma to your neck and, therefore, your larynx: your voice box. So, you might remain mute for a while, but it should subside with time. For now, can you blink?¡± I furiously blinked my eyes to show her I was able to. ¡°That is how you are going to communicate for the time being until your voice returns, ok? One blink for yes, two blinks for no; the standard¡±, said Aisling with compassion. I blinked once. ¡°So, Mr. Lambe. Do you know why you are here?¡± I blinked twice. Aisling¡¯s smile dissipated, and her face became concerned. After a brief sigh, she explained, ¡°On the night of June 9th, 1974... You drove home from a night of drinking at the local pub, ¡°The Witches Brew,¡± and collided with a tree. The police report that your car spun out of control because of the heavy rain that afternoon. When the ambulance arrived, you were sprawled out on the floor with a broken leg and a major concussion from being ejected and crashing through your windshield. When they brought you in, you were at death¡¯s door.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. With an awkward smile, she says, ¡°Strange, right? Raining that hard at the beginning of Summer.¡± I was in the hospital because I was drunk driving? Dear God, what was I thinking? I almost died because of fucking alcohol. Although I couldn¡¯t speak, Aisling could tell that I was tormenting myself inside. My eyes began to swell and burn, tears flowing down my face. I was so ashamed of myself; I must have scared everyone just because of my stupid drinking! God help me! The sight of me crying had made Aisling uncomfortable, but she probably hated me; it wasn¡¯t an uncomfortableness out of sympathy but of disgust. God, if anyone else was on the road, I could have killed them! I wish I could scream out if I hurt anybody, but no sound came out of my mouth, and I grew even more frustrated with myself. As I berated myself, I felt something soft on my cheek. Aisling wiped away my tears and told me, ¡°I know this might be a lot of information to take in, but if you are worried that you might have injured somebody else. You didn¡¯t. This was a self-contained incident; you did this all to yourself. But still, it is no excuse to be doing these kinds of self-destructive things, you understand, right?¡± I blinked once. She gave me a weak smile, ¡°Now, please stop crying. You are still alive... Just please be more responsible with yourself from here on out.¡± I blinked once. When I blinked at Aisling, at the time, it felt like I was making a contract with her. For some reason, it filled me with dread. I did not want to promise this woman anything even though she spoke to me with such kindness, but still, my eyes blinked and looked dead in her eyes. ¡°Good¡­ That¡¯s good¡±, she gently said with a heartfelt smile, ¡°You know if you follow through with this, it won¡¯t just benefit you, right? Quite a few people would come in just to see you. I¡¯m sure if you took more care of yourself, the people who were by your side these past few months would also benefit. You know, the next time they get a phone call about one of your accidents, it could be a call from the coroners instead of the emergency staff.¡± The mixture of having someone I don¡¯t even know showing me compassion about my idiotic behavior and the startling realization that my stay had been for months filled me with horror. ¡°God, how long was I out? Who came to visit me? My mom? Grandma? Charlotte?¡± I asked myself over and over. There was no way for me to ask Aisling for any of this information. At that exact moment, my little world only became smaller. My body wanted to move, but I couldn¡¯t because of my own doing. My mouth wanted to speak, but I couldn¡¯t because of my own stunt. My soul was ensnared in a battered and bloodstained body; the only way a person could tell if I was living was through my eyes. I wondered if it was only my body that was abused. I can see my broken body, but there¡¯s no way I can look into my eyes the same way others gaze into them. How I wished I could; only then would I be able to tell if I was alive or not. The kindness Aisling gave me warmth, but without thinking about it, I thought, ¡°I wished I died.¡± ¡°It is now September 9th, 1974. Exactly three months¡­¡± Aisling told me with a bit of remorse, but her cheerfulness immediately returned, ¡°We will keep you here a little bit longer, just until you¡¯re able to eat and walk upright on your own. It might be a few days, but lucky for you, that fracture on your knee healed mostly while you were in a vegetative state. So, the hardest part of its healing is over. It might be awkward to walk on, but that will pass.¡± She walked towards the bed and looked at me. I can get a good glimpse of how beautiful her eyes are, how bright and green. For a second, I forgot that I had a girlfriend. But I couldn¡¯t help myself; her glance entranced me. ¡°I know you¡¯d like to see your family, but right now, considering how you are, it might not be the best. I¡¯ll let them in when you regain your speech¡±, said Aisling. She looked away from me, and my eyes followed her. She raises two fingers and slowly places them on my neck. She gave me a small giggle and told me, ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I guess I also can¡¯t believe that you¡¯re awake. What a fool I would¡¯ve been if I had been talking to a corpse this entire time.¡± Did she not see my eyes? I am alive, right? Something catches my eye as I think about this: a window by my bed. It¡¯s wide open, and the moon is perfectly cut in half. Chapter 3: Cracklin Rosie Two days had passed since I woke up. The hospital staff was courteous enough to let me play the records my mom brought from home. The only problem was that they didn¡¯t have any way to play my music, so my mom had to drop off my record player. But luckily for me, last year, I bought myself one of those new GE portable phonographs. The quality can¡¯t compare to the one I have installed at home, and it can only play 45s; still, it is much better than anything. It beats the boring talk shows we get from the San Francisco radio stations; all they ever talk about is the war ending. ¡°It could help him in his recovery process,¡± said Aisling the day my mom came in with the phonograph, ¡°It can help him with his speech through humming or even singing.¡± I don¡¯t know whether that is medically true, though I felt it has helped me. Sometimes, I sang along or even forced myself to get out of bed to replay a song or switch it to another. Sometimes, Aisling would join along in singing with me whenever she came in to check on me. She is fond of the song ¡°Cracklin¡¯ Rosie¡± by Neil Diamond. She always requested that song whenever she came into my room to change the sheets, IV, or something. She¡¯d sing the entire piece with perfect synchronicity while doing her things. I always thought she had a pretty singing voice. I asked her on the evening of the third day, ¡°Why do you like that song so much?¡±. ¡°Cracklin¡¯ Rosie?¡± she asked, confused, while changing the sheets on my bed. ¡°Yeah, Cracklin Rosie.¡± ¡°It just brings me back to a brighter time in my life,¡± she told me while forcing a smile, ¡°I could stop asking for the song if I annoyed you with it. I probably asked you to play that song about 50 times these past couple of days.¡± I immediately felt terrible; I didn¡¯t mean to upset her. I tried to tell her, ¡°No, I¡¯m not annoyed by the song. I was just curious, is all. You just seem like you have a great time when you sing along. I just wanted to know why it made you so happy. I actually really like it.¡± She jokingly said, ¡°I know you like the song; why else would you have the record?¡± but her eyes weren¡¯t smiling. Her face began to sour, and she made a look that I didn¡¯t even know a person like Aisling could make. The sorrow I saw in her eyes morphed into an emotion that I knew; it was one of hopelessness and frustration. She gave me a slight grin, but it made me uncomfortable. Her little smile was full of life, but her eyes were empty. ¡°I just really like the song. I guess you can attribute it to why I am a nurse.¡± We awkwardly looked at each other and shared a moment of silence. At that moment, we understood each other a little more without exchanging words. I grabbed my phonograph, loaded the 45, and began to play the track for her. I sang with all my heart; she joined along halfway through. When she sang with her soul, I could see the life flowing back into her eyes. On the morning of the sixth day, I woke up a little earlier than I anticipated, I suppose with all the excitement of seeing my family and, most importantly, Charlotte. The whole time I was bedridden, I spent most of my time thinking about her. What was she doing? What is she thinking about? How is she feeling? A piece of me, for some reason, didn¡¯t want to think about it. In a weird way, I thought I was getting excited for no reason; like, am I really going to be happy about returning to my life? I¡¯ve lived here in St. Anthony all my life; this is the only place I know and probably will ever know. I must¡¯ve walked up and down the main road over a million times by now. The same road I used to walk just to get to elementary and Junior High is the same road I take to get to my job at the docks. Not much changes on this Island; the people just get older and are replaced with more children. If those kids are lucky in life, they get to leave this rock for 8 hours a day while they go to High School. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. On this small Island, there is only enough room for grades below 9th. If the kids want to attend a High School, the closest one is in the San Francisco Bay. Roughly 10 miles of empty sea, the only way to get across is through the ferry that comes by daily, but the problem is that it has a ridiculous cost. Seventy-five cents for a one-way trip. A dollar-fifty for a round trip. Most people working at the docks don¡¯t make that kind of money, even with us winning the war in Vietnam and President Nixon supposedly putting all efforts into helping the American People. What a load of shit¡­ I only make thirty-five cents an hour. The minimum wage must¡¯ve been worse when I was a kid. At least that¡¯s what I tell myself whenever I used to get bitter about never going to High School. My girlfriend, Charlotte, went to the school in San Francisco. I used to patiently wait for her at the ferry¡¯s loading dock every day after work. Those days I look back on very happily. I could¡¯ve had the worst possible day at work, but just to see her would make me forget every little bad thing that happened that day. Since I used to get off at work at five and the ferry from San Francisco would arrive at six, I would have an hour to kill. Sometimes, I would just sit down and smoke my cigarettes until the boat arrived. I never smoked more than three at a time. If I smoked one more after my third, my throat would hurt. Sometimes, I would stop by Miracle¡¯s Bakery and get a pastry that she liked. She really enjoyed her sweets. Charlotte would only kiss me if I smoked before I saw her. I asked her once, ¡°Why are you okay with kissing me after I just burnt one?¡± With an awkward smile, she told me, ¡°Because¡­ Your breath smells, and the tobacco makes it go away.¡± I never cared for my teeth, and then again, I never saw a dentist. There isn¡¯t one here on this Island. I used to walk her home, and she would tell me about her day, the people she saw, and how weird the hippies were downtown. I used to get a little envious of her because she got to see all these crazy things and just because of the fact that she gets to experience a whole other world that I only hear in music. But I tried not to; I knew that I was in the wrong for even having those thoughts. I just had to be happy for her. One time, she got me a gift. ¡°You know, Franklin, there is one thing I always really liked about you.¡± ¡°What?¡± I asked. ¡°Whenever we listen to music together, you, without fail, always have this expression,¡± she said while reaching into her bag. Embarrassed, I ask sheepishly, ¡°Is it like¡­ a weird face? Does it look like I am doing something like I am not doing?¡± ¡°No!¡± she giggled, ¡°You have this face like you¡¯re trying really hard to understand the song. Kind of like¡­ You¡¯re trying to understand where whoever we are listening to got the idea to write the song.¡± Charlotte got done rummaging through her bag and pulled a pretty psychedelic-looking vinyl. ¡°The guy at the record shop told me that someone like you would enjoy it.¡± She handed me the record, and I read the cover aloud without thinking, ¡°Wind, Sky and Diamonds? G¨¢bor Szab¨®r and the California Dreamers.¡± Looking at the record sleeve, I can already tell it would be some heavy psychedelic rock. I don¡¯t have anything personal against this genre of rock n¡¯ roll, but I wouldn¡¯t say it¡¯s something I am quick to pick out. While reading the track list, I asked Charlotte, ¡°Who is this guy? I never heard of him before.¡± She shrugged, ¡°I don¡¯t know, but the shopkeeper told me that it was a groovy record. Why?¡± Charlotte paused, ¡°Do you not like it?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± I tried to explain to her with a slight chuckle, ¡°It¡¯s that I don¡¯t think I ever heard him on the radio, is all.¡± ¡°Oh¡±, she replied. As I read the track list, I noticed they were all covers. The Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, Joan Baez, hell, it even had ¡°Guantanamera.¡± That song has been covered by all sorts of artists, even if it is a Spanish song. No wonder the record shop owner picked this album for Charlotte; it is a pure cover album of some of the biggest hits of the 60¡¯s. It¡¯s most definitely a safe pick. ¡°You wanna come over and give the record a listen?¡± I asked Charlotte, ¡°It is Friday.¡± That evening was the first time we made love while the record played in the background. I didn¡¯t even know how we found ourselves in that position; all I know is that I thought the album was far out. So was Charlotte. ¡°Where¡¯s Charlotte?¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t come with us,¡± my mom told me. Chapter 4: Let’s Fall in Love My mother and grandmother sat at the end of my bed in these small, discolored chairs. The wooden frame of the seat looked like they were covered with tattoos: marked and covered with graffiti. They must¡¯ve brought those chairs from the local Junior high. The only reason why I can tell is by the amount of dicks drawn on it. ¡°Why? Did she¡­ Did she tell you why she didn¡¯t come?¡± I asked, disheartened and in a bit of disbelief. My mom¡¯s eyes had this expression of analyzation when she looked at me, ¡°I called her over the phone yesterday. Charlotte said that she was unable to come because she had business in San Franciso.¡± ¡°¡­Do you know what she was doing there?¡± I asked. ¡°No,¡± my mom said before changing the mood, ¡°But aren¡¯t you happy that we¡¯re here?¡± I smiled at her, ¡°Yeah, of course I¡¯m happy. I missed both you and Grandma. How have things been while I was sleeping?¡± ¡°Sleeping?!¡± my mom¡¯s mood quickly changed. With just that little slip of the tongue, I could tell she was about to chew me out. Then again, I did kind of deserve it. ¡°That¡¯s one way to say it: you had me and your grandmother worried sick! Jesus, Franklin! What in God¡¯s name were you thinking? Or were you not thinking at all?!¡± While my mom insulted my intelligence and common sense, rightfully so, I looked at my grandma. She sat there silently and lost as ever. Man, I was away for three months, and she looked so different from what I could remember. I could recognize that it was her, but when I stared into her eyes, someone other than my grandma peered back. She hadn¡¯t been able to care for herself since I was 15; she became dangerously confused and had become very forgetful of everything. It started first with her forgetting what she did the day before, then forgetting why she left her house, then forgetting if she ate, and it escalated to where she was lost in the street, not knowing where she was or who she was. As far as I know, my grandma might not even know what humans are and just see us as disjointed and repulsive monsters. About three years ago, she stopped talking. I remember that day, I was really concerned, and my mother was bawling her poor eyes out. We thought for sure that this was the beginning of her death. I pleaded with my mom that we should take her to the hospital in San Francisco because the hospital here in St. Anthony doesn¡¯t have a geriatrician. If anything, the hospital here has very little and is incredibly ill-equipped to handle such diseases. ¡°I know Franklin, I want to take Grandma too¡­ but once we get there, then what?¡± my mom said with tears in her eyes, ¡°The bills, the medicine, the doctor visits. We can¡¯t do that. We just can¡¯t!¡± That day really hurt me. I had never felt so broke in my life. I had no choice but to agree with my mom. We didn¡¯t have that kind of money; the truth is there aren¡¯t many old people here in St. Anthony, not because they move away but because people just don¡¯t reach that kind of age here. Her condition worsened with time. Several months later, she stopped talking entirely. I think she no longer knew what she was. The idea of her humanity and ego was gone; she was just left as a pair of curious eyes. She was alive and awake, but her mind was asleep; she would blankly gaze at things and not react. I¡¯ve spent many nights alone in bed, praying and hoping something like that won¡¯t happen to me or my mom when we get older. On my days off, and when I wasn¡¯t meeting Charlotte for a date, I would spend my time at home. My mom would wake up early and take the car for a drive through town and stop by Miracle¡¯s bakery to bring home pastries. I would wake up early and help my grandma from my mom¡¯s room to the living room. I would always sit my grandma on her rocking chair near the living room window to look outside, but she would always just stare at the clouds passing above our house. Afterward, I would make coffee and prepare our humble kitchen table before my mom would return. That way, we can all sit down and appreciate the pastries and coffee while they are both still warm. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. But there was always an air of sadness when we ate those sweet desserts. My mother, grandmother and I would sit at the table, but we never really spoke. My mom would be too preoccupied trying to feed my grandma and cleaning after her, or when we did have a conversation, I always felt sorry that my grandma couldn¡¯t interact with us. This one day in May, I woke up feeling particularly romantic for some reason. I think the day before, I took Charlotte out and got lucky. After moving my grandma, I played an Annette Hanshaw compilation album. This particular record belonged to my grandma; apparently, she was a big fan of Hanshaw. My mom once told me that when they immigrated from Ireland in 1928, Hanshaw¡¯s songs would constantly be singing her songs in the morning radio program in New York. ¡°Your grandmother didn¡¯t know a single fucking word of English, but she loved those songs truly. I guess she just liked how she sang or how the songs sounded: the melody? I don¡¯t know.¡± The song ¡°Let¡¯s Fall in Love¡± played softly from the living room while I was grounding that morning¡¯s coffee. As I went to grab a pot to boil water, I passed by the door leading to the living room, and I couldn¡¯t believe my eyes. I saw my grandma smiling with her mouth open like she was trying to laugh, but no sound would come from her frail, unused vocal cords. When my mom got home, she found me on the floor before my grandma, staring at her with so much wonder. When I tried to explain to her that I saw Grandma smiling and laughing, she didn¡¯t believe me. I mean, of course, she wouldn¡¯t believe me; we hadn¡¯t seen Grandma do anything but just stare at things for about a year and a half. That was until I played that Hanshaw record. At first, my grandma blankly watched the clouds while the album played, ¡°She¡¯s not laughing, Franklin. Are you sure you weren¡¯t imagining it?¡± my mom asked. ¡°I swear to you,¡± I tried to convince her, ¡°Just give it some more time.¡± Sure enough, when that specific song began to play, my grandma smiled and tried to force out laughter. I looked over at my mom, and her eyes began to swell up with tears, ¡°Oh my lord,¡± she accidentally let out and began to cry. I put my arms around my mom to comfort her and cried with her. ¡°Look at her face, Franklin! My poor mother¡­ I thought she was really gone! But look at her, she¡¯s laughing! Even if it¡¯s just a memory, she¡¯s finally enjoying something at least.¡± Those words never left my head; they were forever seared into my mind, and that memory comes back to me every now and then. After that day, my mother and I decided that every Saturday, when we would sit down to drink our coffee and eat our sweet bread, we would play that specific Annette Hanshaw record. That way, when we would catch each other savoring our meal, conversation, or recounts of our past, my grandma would also be enjoying herself. ¡°Hello?! Franklin?! Are you listening to anything I am saying?¡± my mother asked. Throughout my entire mother¡¯s tirade about my foolishness, I completely blocked everything out and had that memory come into my head. I do feel guilty that I wasn¡¯t paying attention to my mother¡¯s lecture, but whatever she has to tell me, she¡¯s said to me in the past. The best I can do is nod and agree with her. ¡°Yes, I was listening, Mom,¡± I told her. ¡°You were, were you? Then what I was telling you?¡± I paused, and my eyes must¡¯ve widened. I was caught in a lie, but I knew I couldn¡¯t give up like that; I had to think of something clever to say to her. Judging by her face, I could tell that she was upset. That¡¯s a given. ¡°I know, I¡¯m sorry, mom. I won¡¯t do something that stupid ever again in my life¡±, I said, feeling very accomplished of myself. I know she was mad at me, and I know that she was chewing me out, so whatever she had to be talking about had to do with me. But she rolled her eyes; my fool-proof plan had failed. ¡°No, you dumbass! I was telling you that your cousin George is coming to visit you. Besides us, he was worrying for you.¡± ¡°George?¡± I repeated in shock. Hell, I haven¡¯t seen him in years, not since he was drafted. Chapter 5: A Dream Goes on Forever With the first few steps I took out of the hospital, it felt incredibly unreal and left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I waved goodbye to Aisling and jokingly said, ¡°It was a nice stay here, but I hope I never have to see you again.¡± She gave me a smile and waved goodbye as I walked out with my mother and grandmother. My Mom heard me say that and wasn¡¯t pleased with my rude joke. ¡°Why did you say that to her? You know that girl was taking care of you the whole time. As soon as they found you, she never left your side. She¡¯s Irish, too, like us. You must be more kind to our people¡±, my Mom said. ¡°Sorry, Mom. Bad Joke.¡± It was true; she had been nothing but kind to me. When I see her again, I¡¯ll apologize to her. On my walk home, I passed by all the old buildings and flat fields of corn, wondering if anything had changed in the time that I was gone. It was a hot Saturday, and most stores had lost power due to the heat messing with electrical lines. That kind of thing was common during the Summer, but it was strange seeing heat this late in the year. The stores lucky enough to own an external generator remained open during those times and were often more successful. Most of them were franchise stores from mainland America. When I was a teenager, a Dominos moved here to St. Anthony, and we have had pizza ever since. God bless the Italians. Sometimes, the bigger stores would share power with their neighbors. Still, most of the time, the small businesses would be closed until the primary circuit to the Island was restored. The worst one we experienced was back in 65¡¯, the power was out for about 13 days. My family and I were going to leave for San Francisco then, but we stayed here for two those miserable weeks. It got so bad that even the US government got involved. When that happened, many people feared it was happening because of the war. There was a lot of talk that the Russians were behind the power outage, but I thought it was all just a red scare ploy. It¡¯s kind of comical; despite us being away from mainland America, there is a good percentage of patriots on this Island. But I think they are all just paranoid since the Los Angeles bombings back in 51¡¯. We passed by the Miracle¡¯s Bakery, and my Mom asked, ¡°Do you want to stop by? To get some for when your cousin gets here?¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s ok,¡± I told my Mom, ¡°Anyways, I don¡¯t have any money. I missed work for two months and need to start saving money to pay the hospital bills.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it; I have some leftover money from the stuff I pawned,¡± my Mom told me. I looked at her worried and asked, ¡°What did you sell?¡± ¡°Things that I didn¡¯t need anymore, stuff that was just taking up space,¡± my Mom told me. I wasn¡¯t buying it; my Mom must¡¯ve sold something pretty expensive to make it for the two months that I was gone and to have some left over. I told her, ¡°It¡¯s ok, Mom, just save up that money for a better time.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be like that, Franklin. Come on, let¡¯s get some¡±, my Mom said as she grabbed my grandma¡¯s hand and walked inside the bakery. I followed her inside, and I saw Joey behind the counter. It was quite a surprise because I hadn¡¯t seen Joey in quite a few years, not since I was 18. I went to school with him when we were little and always remembered him as an intelligent kid. He used to go to high school with Charlotte in San Francisco, and from what I remembered, they were pretty close friends. I have to admit that I was pretty jealous of him at the time, but the only thing that somewhat brought me comfort, as funny as it is, I could beat his ass if given the opportunity. He was a thin, wispy-looking guy, and I was always big and wide. It would be easy if he and I got into it. I feel like a bully when I think like this, but it¡¯s true. He might have a higher IQ than me, but all his formulas and theories won¡¯t stop these beefy mitts when they punch him across the face. But once I got to know him, he was an alright guy. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. When he and Charlotte finished high school, I heard he was attending a university in Lincoln, Nebraska. That was so many years ago I couldn¡¯t remember what he wanted to become, but I can tell it wasn¡¯t just to come back here. ¡°Oh shit, Joey!¡± I blurted out to get his attention. He turned around from the shelf he was filling, and when he looked at me, his face turned white, like I threatened his life. ¡°Holy Hell,¡± muttered Joey, ¡°Frank, is that you?¡± he questioned as he adjusted his glasses and squinted his eyes. I spread my arms for a hug, and Joey¡¯s expression changed from confusion to happiness as he also turned for the embrace. He hugs me tightly and excitedly tells me, ¡°I thought you were dead, man!¡± ¡°You know me, man. I¡¯m too tough to die¡±, I jokingly said as I released him from the hug and lifted my arms to flex my biceps, ¡°You think some car accident was going to do me in?¡± Chuckling to himself, Joey said, ¡°Well¡­ No, but when I went to go see if you were home and your Mom told me that you were in a coma, I thought, shit, for sure Frankie¡¯s fascinations finally blew up in his face, literally!¡± ¡°Huh, what are you talking about?¡± I asked. ¡°What, you don¡¯t remember? You asked me if I know how to build a bomb-¡± I quickly cut Joey off before he could finish his sentence. I looked over to my Mom to see if she was listening, but she was busy picking up the bread with my grandma. I said to Joey with slight annoyance, ¡°Hey, shut up. My Mom is over there. She¡¯s going to think that I am a member of the IRA or some shit.¡± ¡°They¡¯re only in Ireland.¡± ¡°Shut up, Joey.¡± We both look over to see my Mom looking at us, and she begins to walk over to us. Joey quickly greets her in his dweebish way and a wave, ¡°Hi, Mrs. Lambe.¡± My Mom smiles, ¡°Joey, where¡¯s your father at?¡± ¡°My dad? He¡¯s back at home; it¡¯s just me here today. Is there something I can help with?¡± Joey eagerly asks. ¡°No, not at all. I was just curious where your father was. How has he been? Did the hospital give him something for his heart?¡± she continued to ask. Confused, I ask Joey, ¡°What¡¯s going on with your dad?¡± Joey¡¯s face scrunched up, and his usual goofy way of talking dissipated to a more serious tone, one that I had never heard him speak before. He told me, ¡°A couple of months ago, I got a phone call from my dad, and he told me that he was really sick. He said that he was constantly feeling tired, he had diarrhea and occasional vomiting. I thought he must¡¯ve had some kind of stomach flu, so I paid no attention to him. I told him to take a few days off from the bakery and see a doctor if anything worse happened.¡± His face further soured as he continued, ¡°I got a phone call from him a couple of days later, and he told me that he had heart cancer. I asked around at the university, and they told me that they had never heard of cancer of the heart. Only one person said they heard of it, and apparently, it¡¯s extremely rare.¡± His eyes begin to water up, but he fights the tears; he looks over to my Mom and tells her, ¡°No, they can only give him something for the pain.¡± ¡°Poor Joey¡± is all I can think about as I waved goodbye to him when we left. He waved back and gave me that goofy smile that he always had on his face. Behind those thick-brim glasses, I couldn¡¯t even tell there was that much sadness. As I walked home, my Mom randomly told me, ¡°You know what¡¯s worse than being broke and sad?¡± I looked over to my Mom and asked, ¡°What?¡± ¡°Being broke, sad, and hungry,¡± she gleefully says as she takes a piece of bread out of the bag and eats it. She offers me a piece, but I decline with a hand gesture. She looks at me with an understanding look and gives a piece to my grandma, but she looks at it and throws it on the ground. ¡°What are you doin¡¯ ma?!¡± Then it hit me. Considering what just happened to me and everyone around me, I am going to die one day. I got lucky once, but what if I am not so lucky next time? What if death doesn¡¯t come next for me but for someone I love? There¡¯s so much that I want to do, and now, I begin to feel a timer placed on me. I want to do something with my life: I want to get married, have children, own a place of my own. I want a family of my own, one I built, not one handed to me. Then I began to think about Charlotte and how much I love her. I began to imagine living with her and having at least two kids with her, a boy and a girl. That thought brought so much warmth and peace into my heart. If I had that, I wouldn¡¯t even mind living here on St. Anthony. ¡°I¡¯m going to marry Charlotte!¡± I accidentally blurted out. ¡°You¡¯re going to what?¡± my Mom angrily replies.