Henry Franks(19)

“No?”

“My dad told me, ‘There was an accident.’ I remember him telling me, about the rain, the construction; I should have died.” Henry slumped down in the chair, his hands falling open on the seat. One deep breath after another. He held the last one, counting to ten, mouthing the numbers. “There was an accident. I should have died.”

“And?”

“There was an accident.”

“Henry?”

“I should have died.”

He slumped there, moving only enough to breathe. His eyes twitched to the side, the rapid tics out of place in his pale motionless face.

“There was an accident.”

“Henry,” she said, walking across the office to sit on the couch next to him. “It’s Dr. Saville. Can you breathe for me?”

He took one long shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

“Henry?”

“I had another dream.”

His hand flopped to the couch between them, as though it wasn’t even attached to an arm. The scar wrapped around the wrist glistened with sweat. The back of the hand had a dusting of fine pale hairs that almost reached the scar. Above the scar, up his forearm, dark hair stuck to the skin in the heat.

“Anyone you know?” she asked.

“Elizabeth.”

“No one else?”

“Strangers,” he said.

“Dead?”

He nodded. A wall of bangs fell into his eyes and he left them there.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t recognize them at all?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did Elizabeth?”

“She told me she had a secret,” he said.

“A secret?”

“They’re always dead.”

“Elizabeth’s secrets?”

“She didn’t do it,” he said.

“Did she tell you that?” she asked.

“Doesn’t have to. I know.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t know them.”

“Henry?”

“Just a dream, right?” He raised his head, looking at her.

“Your nose is bleeding.” Dr. Saville crossed the room to get a tissue, but when she turned back around Henry was standing right behind her. She stumbled against the foot of her chair.

He reached out his blond-haired hand to steady her, leaving a bloody print on her sleeve. Trails of blood had streaked around his mouth and down his chin; drops splattered on his shirt.

“It’s the meds. They make my nose bleed.” He smiled at her, his white teeth sharp in a sea of red. “You okay?”

Dr. Saville pulled her arm out of his grasp. “Here,” she handed him the box of tissues. “For your nose.”

He sat down, head back, and counted his breaths. “Just a dream,” he said, talking to the ceiling.

“Does she have any other secrets, Henry?”

He shrugged and then looked up at her. “I think more people are going to die.”

Blood had stained his teeth, but his nose had stopped bleeding. Dried red flakes remained on his lips and chin when he smiled.

“Henry?”

“There was an accident,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I should have died.” He closed his eyes and the silence stretched out as he took one deep breath after another.

The alarm shattered the quiet. Henry stood up, next to Dr. Saville as she dropped the pad down on the desk. It landed next to a folded-over copy of the Brunswick News. He could only see half of the full-color photograph of police cars beneath a banner headline about the two bodies found the day before. The top sheet of paper on the pad, beneath Henry’s name and the date, was blank except for the one drop of blood that had fallen on it.





twelve




Justine was in his seat when he climbed up the steps onto the bus. As Henry walked down the plastic runner, her mouth fell open and, as he sat down next to her, she pushed it closed with her index finger.

“You own a white shirt?” She smiled before her mouth fell open again in mock surprise. “Really? White? I’m shocked.”

“Does it ruin my look?”

“You have a look?” She laughed. “I guess shorts would have been too much to ask for?”

“I—” He looked at her. Her bare legs were tan and a stark contrast to his dark jeans. A green tank top hid her bra strap but little else, and he swallowed before looking away. “I never wear shorts.”

“What do you swim in?”

“I don’t know how to swim.”

“Is that another one of those things you don’t remember? Maybe you used to swim? How would you know?”

“My father made a scrapbook,” he said. “With a bunch of pictures of me from before the accident.” Henry ran his fingers through his hair, but it fell back down in front of his eyes anyway.

“Any with you in shorts?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, never looked.”

“Can I see?”

“Me in shorts?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” she said before shaking her head. “No, the scrapbook.”