The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller(33)
After some time, he noticed something missing. Doing a mental check, he sat back, still steadying Shaun’s hands on the rod. The sun shone down on them from a cloudless spring sky. A few waves rocked the pontoon, and the far-off whine of a boat motor could be heard intermittently. He finally realized he felt peaceful. His mind wasn’t clogged with worry or apprehension, and the lack of it had thrown him off. Hugging Shaun close, he kissed his hair, just above his small ear.
“Shaun, are you having fun?” he whispered.
“Fun,” Shaun said, yanking the pole back as something tugged on the other end of the line.
“Wooo, you got one, buddy,” Evan exclaimed. “Reel it in. Reel it in.”
Shaun cranked and fought the fish until it gradually surfaced, flashing and leaping from the water in a shower of droplets beside the pontoon. Evan hauled the fish aboard when it got close enough, and Shaun shrieked with delight, flapping his arms so hard it was a struggle for Evan to balance him and unhook the bass at the same time.
“We’re keeping him, pal,” he said, putting the fish on a stringer. “Supper.”
“Sup-por,” Shaun echoed.
They whiled away the time until early afternoon, catching a small mess of fish for a meal. Shaun’s head kept dipping on the ride home, and Evan held him tight, smiling as his son fought to stay awake. Evan docked the pontoon and carried Shaun up to the porch, laying him on the most comfortable reclining chair. Shaun grinned at him once and then shut his eyes, exhaustion dragging him into sleep before he could say or do anything else.
While he slept, Evan cleaned the fish on a small wooden table he found to the north side of the house, his eyes shooting to the porch over and over.
We’re both going to have to sleep in the house tonight anyway.
He threw the fish guts in the woods and took the white fillets into the house to soak them in cold water. The urge to pick up the phone and invite Selena over for supper struck him, and he went so far as to pull her business card out of his wallet. Sliding it carefully into its slot again, he put it back and went to the porch.
Evan lay down on the daybed beside Shaun, the sleeplessness of the night before finally claiming him. The sun and fresh air paired with the low tinkling of the wind chimes became too lulling, and his last thought before he fell asleep was he should’ve propped a chair against the basement door.
He barely makes it into the hospital bathroom before throwing up. The vomit courses out of him, sloppy ropes landing in the toilet water. As he heaves he feels the round container in his hand, even though it isn’t there anymore; he’d dropped it back into the bag the moment he pulled it out.
“Honey, I’m sorry, I—”
But her voice is lost in another gagging hack as he doubles over again. When the nausea lets up enough for him to flush and wipe his mouth clean, he leans in the doorway, not looking at where she rests in bed but at the crumpled bag on the floor, at what lies inside.
He moves forward, his feet full of lead, his head throbbing in time with the pulse running like a jackrabbit in his chest.
“Goddamn you,” he says, still not looking at her.
He bends, feeling the urge to throw up again, and grasps the bottle, pulling it free. Its contents rattle in his shaking hand. When he looks up, Elle is gone.
Instead of her bed, the clock lies on its back upon the floor. Its three glass doors are different; they are rounded and made of the same polished mahogany as the rest of its body. The three cases look like coffins. His mouth falls open, and the pill bottle slips from his hand as he takes a step back— —and watches the middle lid rise, pushed from inside.
Evan cried out, his arm spasming as he rolled off the daybed. His fist struck Shaun’s recliner, pain blossoming in each knuckle. Shaun’s eyes leapt open, and he made a frightened sound, something between a shriek and a moan. Evan landed on his hands and knees, panting, his stomach roiling with sick. Sweat hung in beads from his hair and rolled down his forehead. His arms threatened to drop him, and he pushed himself back onto the bed with enormous effort.
“Da?” Shaun asked, his eyes wide as he struggled to sit up.
“I’m okay, buddy, I’m okay. It was a dream.” He spoke more to himself than to Shaun, and when he looked up, he saw an expression of concern on the boy’s features. “I’m fine, honey, just a dream.”
“’Kay?”
Evan’s brow creased and his throat constricted. He stood and then sat on Shaun’s chair, holding his son’s hand in his own.
“Yep, Dad’s okay.” He summoned a smile, shoving the residue of the dream away, praying that it would fade further. “Are you hungry?” Shaun nodded. “Okay, let’s rustle up some food.”
~
They ate on the porch, Shaun downing his roast-beef sandwich in wild bites while Evan nudged his around and picked at the few potato chips on his plate.
After lunch they ventured down to the dock, Evan carrying a frying pan, an ice-cream-pail lid, some bubble solution, and a small bottle of dish soap. He set Shaun in his chair beside the beach and began to work, talking to him as he did so.
“You have to be careful not to cut yourself, but you also have to make sure these edges are smooth,” Evan said, carving the center out of the ice-cream lid with his pocketknife.
After a few minutes, the lid was only a thin ring, the flat center lying discarded on the dock. “Now, this next part is the real art.” Evan poured the entire container of bubble mixture into the frying pan. “You can’t put too much or too little dish soap in with it, it’s got to be just enough.” He squirted the blue soap into the pan, swishing his fingers through it to mix it in. “Then we check it,” he said, standing.