Getting Out of Jersey

Getting Out of Jersey

By

M. P. Esham

Copyright Matthew Esham 2011-2012

Published by echolearner.com at Smashwords

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0982762305

EAN-13: 9780982762301

Revision 11

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Chapter 1

The police interviewed me for hours, making me go over and over my morning. I’d tell the same thing to one detective, and then he’d leave and a different one would come in and ask me the same questions. I should have been pissed. The only blood on me was on my shoes, which they took and bagged, but this was a small town, and the police were struggling to come to grips with what they’d found in the house.

They didn’t cuff me, but they walked around me in the conference room as if I were something dangerous, looking at me from the corners of their eyes as they paced back and forth. I answered their questions the same way each time they asked, watching through the glass wall of the conference room as a whiteboard outside was filled with a series of disturbing photos.

The officers couldn’t quite come to terms with why I was the one who was at the house; it was just too much for them. What were the chances the town mental case was going to be out running and happen onto the scene of a slaughtered family?

After six hours of going back and forth, I asked them if I needed to get an attorney. The room emptied out for fifteen minutes before the desk sergeant came in and told me I was free to go after confirming my address.

By the time I got home, my father was in his study dictating final patient notes for the day, and I was blessedly able to slip in and go upstairs without having to explain where I had been all day or why I was wearing orange detainee slippers.

I took a long shower and lay down in bed.

Falling asleep took some time. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw the inside of the house, and my memory was torturing me with details that hadn’t registered in the heat of the moment. The brief seconds I’d been in the house slowed down, playing out in high resolution as my mind picked out recognizable patterns on the floor. An ear, finger, hand, a small foot, a section of torso sitting on the couch as if it were unaware it was missing so many important parts.

It was hard to get my heart rate down so I could relax enough to fall asleep. The only blessing of the day was that my stepmother was oblivious so far and my dad was too busy with finalizing some last-minute work before vacation to realize I’d been gone all morning and afternoon. I was sure he’d hear about it later, but at least I was being left alone for the time being.

The air conditioner was on high, but I was still sweating lightly under the blanket pinned beneath my chin. It made me feel good to have the blanket up to my neck, and the growing heat trapped under it helped me fall into a drowsy stupor.

At six feet one and over two hundred pounds, I was not the usual sufferer of midnight terrors, but since I had returned home from the marines, the night had plagued me, making me question myself. It’s not a comfortable feeling, analyzing your memories and your life, wondering which parts you can trust.

On official USMC medical documents I was listed as Daniel Ryan, with a formal diagnosis of 309.81, or post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, or whatever shorthand the psychiatrist decided to write on the form that day. The terms bothered me deeply. To think that a string of numbers or letters could categorize me so easily offended my sensibilities—especially when I disagreed with the diagnosis. Post traumatic stress disorder implied that what I was thinking or feeling was flawed, that my memories and feelings were corrupted by the events of the past.

I didn’t believe that. The memories were so real, the nightmares bordering on hallucinations as they replayed themselves in my dreams. As sleep took me deeper into darkness, my memories started to break through the conscious barriers my therapists had worked so hard to put in place.

Fear gripped me as I sank down into memories I didn’t want to remember.

I sat bolt upright in bed, throwing off the covers and scanning the darkness, my heart pounding and sweat running down my face. I got up and went to the bathroom, drinking from the sink and splashing water over my face.

I went back to my room and pulled the covers around me, but sleep was slow in coming.

Chapter 2

My dad, Dr. Ryan (and yes, that was how I thought of him in my head—it was the only thing I ever heard anyone call him my whole life), and his wife were both at the breakfast nook reading their papers and eating when I came through the back door from my morning run.

Joyce gave me a fretful look as sweat fell to the floor and then hid behind her paper when she saw I was looking. I glared at her, but a pair of wraparound shades shielded my eyes from the morning sun and kept her from seeing the hard stare pointed her way.

Although I had been home for a year, she still looked at me with a hint of fear and uncertainty. My dad was a great guy, dedicated and honest, but even he still looked at me with concern, worry plain on his face when he thought I wasn’t watching. He feared for me; Joyce just feared me. She was my father’s second wife, a woman who used to be his office manager. We were never close; she saw me as competition for his time, and I saw her as someone who had married my dad because he had Doctor in front of his name.

It didn’t help that she was also crazy religious—the infectious, have to push my beliefs on everyone around me kind. My father caught the bug from her, and while he was smart enough to temper it somewhat, he was still caught up.

I felt as if it was partly my fault. When I’d gotten home, I’d been so on edge my father didn’t know what to do. Joyce used the opening to feed him her religion, and I guess it helped him cope. Even after two months at a very expensive retreat (Joyce refused to say the words mental hospital) in Virginia, I was still strung pretty tight.

My previous relationship with Joyce, which I would have said was civil but strained, turned darker in those days. Somewhere in the midst of waking up screaming (thank god that had stopped over time) and the multiple visits to the psychiatrists—Joyce decided I was corrupted. In the Biblical sense. She only said it once. My father wouldn’t have any of it, but she still said it, and worse, she believed it.

Morning, Son, my dad said, folding the paper and putting it down on the table. The little rancher was on the front page, police tape cordoning off the front lawn as multiple officers stood around. I looked at the paper with suspicion.

Beautiful out today, I replied for the thousandth time, not pausing as I went to the sink to get a glass of water. Every morning I went running, and every morning we said the same thing to each other. It didn’t matter if it was raining or snowing.

I refilled my glass twice, drinking in long swallows. There was an ice water dispenser on the fridge a few feet away, but it took too long to fill a glass. The faucet was much quicker. I’m not sure why, but it really bothered Joyce that I drank from the tap.

It’s not too late to go with us, Daniel. We have the Ambassador’s Cabin, my dad offered. Every year my dad and Joyce went on a two-week cruise to Europe. Once in Europe they would spend some time in Spain and France and then fly home. My dad gave me a thumbs-up with a big smile when I stood there looking at him like an idiot. I couldn’t believe it. The gossip mill hadn’t spread the word yet, and my name must not have been in the paper. He was mistaking my slack jaw for amazement at his twelve-thousand-dollar cabin.

Tempting, Dad, but you enjoy it, I told him, recovering. Please, don’t worry about me. The hopeful look on his face turned to worry. He hadn’t left me alone in the house overnight since I’d come home. The look of concern crinkling the corners of his eyes stabbed a knife into my chest.

Can you do something for me, then?

Sure, I told him, just wanting to get off the subject. Joyce never moved her eyes from her paper.

Can you check in with Sam once or twice while we’re away?

My face must have changed before I could control it because my dad winced. I wanted to say no, but I was afraid my dad might cancel his trip if I did.

Dad, you can call him from the boat and check on me. It was a huge concession on my part. Sam was the counselor who worked out of Joyce’s church. She’d convinced my father that driving to Philadelphia or Wilmington was a waste when Sam was so close at hand. Our early sessions had not gone so well, and I’d managed to break away from him over the last several months.

You promise you will show? Dad pressed.

I want you to enjoy your vacation—I promise. Everything will be okay.

I struggled to make my legs move normally as I walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs to get a shower. I hated lying to my dad. I felt as if he knew something was up, and it made my stomach churn the way it had when I was a kid and he knew I was lying. He always seemed to know when I was doing something wrong.

The next twenty-four hours were torture. I kept expecting the news to break, for the police to show up at the door to ask me a few more questions and ruin everything. And as much as I wanted to hide from my father and Joyce, I forced myself to keep my regular routine. Doing anything else would have set off my dad’s alarm bells.

Halfway through the morning, my father stopped me in the hallway as he was lining up his luggage by the front door. I checked with the travel agent; we can still get you into first class on the flights home. The words hung in the air—not because I was thinking about the offer but because I was focused on the news broadcast coming in from the other room. Somehow my name had been kept out of the biggest news story in town in years.

It’s tempting, but you guys deserve some time alone, I told him, recovering as Joyce came down the stairs. She immediately had her hand on my father’s arm, nodding agreement and telling him I’d be fine for a few days on my own. I slipped away as my father reminded her in a clipped voice that she’d agreed to be supportive. She was trying to backpedal when I slipped into the garage to work on my car.

I spent the rest of the day waiting for the tide to break, for my father to come and tell me he’d found out what had happened yesterday, but he was busy wrapping things up at the office and packing for the trip.

When the car came and picked them up for the airport, I sighed in relief, feeling that I’d escaped, even if for just a little while.

My good luck continued into the night. I had no dreams.

I woke up feeling jittery. Part of me hadn’t really thought my dad was going to let me stay in the house by myself. I slept in a bit before getting ready for my morning run, hoping it would help settle me.

I took the same route I had the day before, heading through town to the football field. It was the opposite direction of my usual route, but I didn’t think I was ready to run by the house where the massacre had happened just yet. I used the bleachers to run sprints until my legs were burning and my shirt was plastered to my chest.

I hoped being tired would keep me from being too rude to Sam at my counseling session. I thought about skipping it as I jogged home, but until my father was well into international waters, I was going to have to behave.

The more I thought about having to go see Sam, the more anxious I became. I tried to tell myself I was getting stressed for no reason.

Sam was an upstanding member of the community, a deacon of the church with a therapy practice founded on his faith. He spoke at the local schools on the perils of drugs and alcohol and offered his counseling services to the needy pro bono. It made it hard to rationalize my feelings toward him.

I seriously disliked him.

I couldn’t understand how others didn’t see through his facade. Everything he did seemed calculated, designed to put those around him at ease. Sam had moved into the house next to ours when I was a teenager, but I’d only ever interacted with him once before Joyce convinced my father he would be the perfect therapist.

Sam had been standing inside his garage, watching several of the neighborhood girls playing. At first I thought he was just watching over his stepdaughter, but there was something predatory in his stare. I walked out and put myself between his stare and the girls, making sure our eyes met. He turned red and blotchy before turning away and shutting his garage door.

I was convinced I’d seen the real man in that moment, and that was the image of him that stuck in my head every time I thought of him. That was what I thought about as I showered and got ready to go to my session.

It wasn’t a long drive to the church where Sam housed his practice, and every light I hit was green, speeding me along my way. I parked on the side of the administrative building next to the church, trying to ignore the massive cross painted on the cinder block wall above the entrance.

I kept my pace steady as I entered the small waiting room, trying not to scan the inside for threats. I was surprised to see the door to Sam’s office closed and two people sitting in the waiting room. I guess I thought I’d be the most important meeting of the day and have the whole place to myself.

Two heads popped up to look at me as I entered. The one person I knew from previous trips to the church. Jason was in his early twenties and was the activities director for the youth center. He was always full of energy and unfailingly had a pleasant word. I frowned at him for no good reason other than that he didn’t share my distaste for Sam.

The other person had a slim build and was hiding inside a baggy hoodie, the sleeves of the sweatshirt coming down to the tips of their thumbs. I wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl until she said something quietly to Jason and got up, walking past me with a furtive glance. It was a brief moment, but her deep brown eyes locked on mine, and then she was gone. Even dressed for weather thirty degrees colder than it was, she was a petite girl, slipping out of the room like a weightless breath of air.

Daniel, Jason said, standing to shake my hand. How have you been?

Good, good, I mumbled to Jason as he pumped my hand vigorously.

Well, let me know if you feel like playing some basketball. We have a group of the older boys who play every Saturday.

Uh, no thank you, I said to him, pulling my hand away. Jason nodded solemnly and patted my arm before he left. The peace he exuded annoyed the hell out of me. I was pretty sure I could deck him and he would have been more concerned for my soul than his bleeding nose.

I sat down heavily on the couch and put my head back against the wall, trying to ready myself for what was coming.

The door to the office opened all too soon, and Sam waved me in. It’s so nice to see you again, he said with a broad smile on his face.

I entered and sat on the beat-up couch opposite Sam’s desk.

The same, I replied halfheartedly, trying to find a comfortable position on the couch. Too many people had flattened the padding over the years.

How are your eyes? Sam asked, leaning back in his chair.

I gritted my teeth and pulled my sunglasses off my face. They are fine—have been since I was six. I was born with a rare disorder called anterior basement membrane dystrophy of the cornea. My cornea was basically soft gelatin where it should have been more fibrous and tied down to protect the rest of the eye. It resulted in corneal erosions, which necessitated corneal debridements, a painful procedure to remove the damaged tissue around the erosions so they could heal.

Sam knew I’d been cured when I was a kid, or at least nearly so. One of the persistent side effects was light sensitivity, and while my eyesight was now 20/20, bright light still made my eyes water and gave me a headache after a while if I wasn’t wearing sunglasses. Looking through my family photo album was like looking at a book of bad Ray Charles wannabe pictures. I was always in dark glasses of some sort.

Of course, I guess in the end it’s helped you though, hasn’t it? Sam interjected smoothly.

I groaned internally. It was starting already. Not sure I follow.

Your night vision is superb, isn’t it?

No better than anyone else’s. It wasn’t strictly true, but close enough. My night vision was measured at the first percentile, but I was so used to seeing in shades of blue and black I was better at picking out critical structures in the dark than normal people.

Sure, sure, Sam said agreeably, a hint of a smile touching his lips. So how was your first day of freedom?

Just the usual. The house is quieter than normal, but I’ll manage.

Your father is still very concerned about you, Sam said.

I know. But I’m fine, I said slowly, trying not to let my temper get the better of me. He knew as well as I did that I wouldn’t have been sitting in his office again if it weren’t to put my father at ease.

He said you were still having the nightmares. You don’t wake up screaming anymore, but he can tell when you’ve had a rough night. There was nothing but pure understanding and sympathy in Sam’s voice, but I felt anything but warm and fuzzy at the moment.

As far as I knew, my dad was no longer aware of my night terrors, but clearly he still suspected and had mentioned it to Sam. And now Sam was using it to try to pry open my skull again. I counted to ten before replying, forcing myself to bite back the anger.

I’m sure they’ve started to fade. I don’t wake up with any memory of them anymore.

I lied.

Sam stared at me. It was the firm but unyielding stare of a parent who has caught a kid with a chocolate-smeared face and the kid is denying having taken a cookie wholeheartedly. I had to look away; there was something in his eyes that didn’t make sense. It looked like anticipation, but that didn’t quite make sense. The anger inside mixed with uneasiness. I’d been in his office for just a few minutes, and already I was off kilter.

Really, you don’t dream about your unit anymore? Sam asked, rolling his chair into the middle of the room so he could get closer to me. The action set off alarm bells. This was the part that felt so wrong. I know that I was supposed to talk about my pain while I was in therapy, but with Sam it felt different, not like when the military psychiatrists talked to me.

With the military docs, there was a controlled empathy, even pity, as they talked to me. They understood I was the sole survivor of my unit, and they attributed everything else I said that didn’t make sense to them as memories corrupted with fear and guilt.

With Sam it was different. He kept it well hidden, but there was an undercurrent of excitement as he poked and prodded at my worst memories. Something in his eyes sparkled with pleasure when he caused me pain.

Have you thought about why you survived? Come to terms with it? Sam asked, his voice gentle and soft, full of compassion.

I froze as the words tore a hole in me. The deacon was pulling out all the stops now. He knew exactly where to strike to take away any resolve I might have built up. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said, but it sounded weak even to my ears.

Is this why you torture yourself? Sam asked, satisfaction clear in his voice.

I felt as if I were treading water while someone slowly pushed me below the surf with a booted foot. It was why I hated the therapy. Sam was a sadist, always pulling me back to the darkest part of my heart and smiling merrily while he went about it.

I think my dad wanted you to make sure everything was OK. I hoped it sounded like the indictment I meant it to be.

Of course, of course, Sam said, sounding very pleased with himself as he leaned back, crossing his legs. He said he was going to call me tonight but asked me to make sure you made an appointment for tomorrow. You’ll come by after lunch?

I was used to being the point of a spear, scouting at the front of the Twenty-First Marine Battalion with a long rifle and a compact machine gun. I wasn’t used to being played. But from the moment I walked in, Sam had pushed me off balance and kept me there. I’d been sincerely hoping I could get away with a nice, short visit and maybe a follow-up phone call in a day or so.

Yes, was all I said as I got up, leaving. I expected some protest, but Sam just shut the door to his office behind me and let me go. I guess he’d gotten what he wanted.

The rest of my day was ruined. All I could think about was having to face Sam again and what memories I would be forced to dredge up.

The worst part of the experience was my inability to categorize what was going on. I’d met a full range of psychotics as well as several truly sadistic people during my active duty cycles, but Sam didn’t fit into any category I knew. He seemed to enjoy the mental torture he was inflicting, but he never broke his disguise. At some point the sadists reveal what they are, if they even bothered to hide it, but the deacon kept up his curtain of steadfast concern.

It made it ten times worse.

I knew I wasn’t imaging his reactions to my pain, but even so, there was just that shred of doubt. It left me wondering if maybe, just maybe, everyone else was right and I was slowly losing my mind. I forced the thought out of my head.

I made it back to the house in a fog and sat in the family room, blindly flipping through channels. There wasn’t much on, and I was about to grab the keys to my Mustang and go for a long drive when the news broke into the normal programming.

We didn’t have our own news in Pennsville, so our so-called local coverage really came from across the river in Wilmington. But the newswoman was standing in front of one of the local churches. The news people never crossed the river in person unless something bad happened.

She was talking as they brought up a picture of a missing thirteen-year-old boy. His family had pulled off the turnpike early this morning to stop at the Burger King in town. They were on their way to the beach, the beginning of their family vacation. When they stopped for food, he was in the back seat sleeping. An hour later they tried to wake him up only to discover there wasn’t anything in the backseat of the minivan but one of their backpacks and his pillow covered by a sheet.

To make matters more complicated, the minivan had stopped for gas thirty miles down the road, and now the police were forced to divide their attention between both sites.

The news took all ambition out of me. The thought of getting up and getting in my car seemed like way too much effort.

Hours slid by as I watched bits and pieces of at least twenty shows. At some point I grabbed some food, leaving it mostly uneaten on the coffee table. Eventually I found an