“Lisa!”
“Well, let’s call it a bluff,” she said.
Tom fell back against his chair, staring at her with his mouth open. After another moment, he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” said Tom. “Just remind me never to play poker with you!”
Lisa’s cheeks turned so red her freckles all but disappeared. A moment later she was giggling helplessly.
14.
Hurry!” Tom said to her now. “We don’t have much time.”
He took ahold of Lisa’s elbow as she stepped into the house. Before he shut the door behind her, he cast one last look outside, across the front lawn. Sheets and tendrils of mist were coiling up the drive and over the grass, casting a ghostly pall over everything. At the bottom of the driveway, the fog was gathering quickly. As Tom stood staring through the cloudy air, he thought he saw a shadow move in that thicker whiteness. A malevolent. Waiting for the moment when it could reach the house; reach him. Soon.
Tom shut the door.
“Come on,” he said.
He drew Lisa down the hallway to the kitchen. They sat face-to-face at the round table in the nook, just as he’d sat with Marie. Outside, through the windows, a faint mist had begun to gather over the backyard as well. Tom knew it would get thicker quickly. The malevolents were on their way.
Still gripping her elbow, Tom leaned toward Lisa. She had opened her raincoat now. Beneath it, she was wearing the pink blouse he knew was her favorite. The top button was undone, and a gold necklace with a little gold cross shone against the white skin of her throat. Tom could not believe how good it was to see that quirky, freckled, pug-nosed face of hers. He felt certain she would be able to help him find the truth. She always had.
“I was shot, wasn’t I?” he asked her. “That’s why I’m here. Someone shot me in the chest.”
Lisa nodded quickly. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked serious, pale, worried. “That’s right.”
“Who was it? Who did it, Leese?”
“I don’t know. No one knows. The police are still trying to find out.”
“But it must’ve been someone who was angry at me about our story, right? Someone who was angry because of what I wrote about the Tigers.”
“Probably. That’s what everyone thinks, anyway.”
“I should know who it is!” he said. “But I don’t remember.”
“Well, you’re hurt.”
“Right. I’m in a coma, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I’m lying unconscious in the hospital, and the doctors can’t wake me up.”
Lisa frowned, her eyes growing damp. “Yes, that’s right. It’s awful. We’re all so frightened.”
Tom tried to take this in, to think it through. He was still holding loosely on to Lisa’s arm. Lisa moved her hand to his. Her cool touch was comforting.
“And so all this,” he said, gesturing at the kitchen. “All this is happening in my mind, in my imagination.”
Lisa tilted her head, her expression uncertain. “Well . . . yes . . . but . . .”
“But what?” said Tom. He could feel the time passing, could feel the fog moving in. He knew that every second counted. “Tell me. Don’t hold anything back.”
“Well . . . just because something is in your imagination doesn’t mean it’s imaginary.”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Your imagination isn’t just some kind of fantasyland or something. It’s a way of seeing things that your rational mind can’t see or doesn’t want to see. It’s a way of knowing things you can’t know any other way. The things you see with your imagination may not look like the things you see in ordinary life, but they’re just as real in their own way. And all this—everything that’s happening here, Tom—it’s all real. And it’s serious. It’s like . . . It’s like your imagination is the battleground on which you’re fighting for your life.”
“Right,” said Tom, trying to stay with her, trying to understand. “The fog, the monsters, the malevolents . . .”
“They can kill you—really kill you. They already have killed you. Twice! Your heart has already stopped beating two times.”
Tom nodded. “Yes. I know. I died. I even saw heaven, I think.”
“Well,” said Lisa, looking uncertain again, “I don’t think it could have been heaven. Not exactly. Not the real heaven. This is your imagination, remember—and I think heaven is probably beyond anything you could imagine.”
“But if I died, maybe I saw it for a second . . . ,” Tom started to say. His voice trailed away as he remembered the things he had seen in the park, the strangely unhappy-looking people.
“Maybe,” said Lisa. “It’s possible.” She smiled. “But, like I said, I don’t think so. The road to heaven isn’t death, Tom. It’s life.”
Tom went on thinking about it. He went on thinking about the beautiful parkland with the Greek temples and about the people he’d seen there—the people who weren’t serene and happy the way you’d think they would be if they were in paradise.
“There was a guy there,” he murmured. “A thin guy with long blond hair. I think he’s in the hospital with me. I think he’s the guy lying unconscious in the bed next to mine.”
“Yeah,” said Lisa. “The doctor said he was some kind of drug addict, hooked on meth or something. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tried to slash his wrists, to kill himself. They don’t know whether he’s going to make it.”
Tom thought about the long-haired guy standing in front of the temple, how he looked lost, like he was trying to find someone who could give him directions. So Lisa was right. The parkland wasn’t heaven. Even though Tom’s heart had stopped, the place he had seen was still some part of his living mind. If he really died, then there would be something else, something more. Something, as Lisa said, beyond his imagination.
Tom glanced away from the anxious expression on Lisa’s face. He glanced out the window into the backyard. Already the mist was noticeably thicker out there. He could see it wafting in, blowing in, more and more of it every second. Soon it would be thick enough to bring the malevolents. Very soon.
He faced Lisa again. “What about you?” he said. “Are you real?”
“You know I am, Tommy.”
He smiled, in spite of his worry and fear. Tommy. Lisa was the only one who ever called him that. And she only did it when she was emotional, when she forgot to control herself and call him Tom like everyone else did. “But I mean . . . are you really here now?” he asked her. “Really here with me?”
“I’m sitting beside your hospital bed. I’m holding your hand just like this. I’m talking to you. The doctors said that if I talked to you, you might be able to hear me.”
“I do hear you,” he said. “I mean . . . I don’t think . . . I don’t think this is what you’re really saying exactly. I think a lot of this conversation is me talking to myself in my own mind. But I hear the sound of your voice and . . . I can feel you’re there. And I’m glad you’re there, Lisa. You’ve always been a good friend.”
Lisa tried to smile, but her mouth trembled down quickly in a deep frown. The lenses of her glasses grew misty. And a thought flashed through Tom’s mind, a new thought, one he’d never had before. It was a thought he could barely believe, but there it was anyway. He thought that maybe Lisa liked him—really liked him, not just as a friend, but as more than that. Funny, all that time they’d spent together in the Sentinel’s office, and he’d never noticed it before. Until this moment, he’d been thinking about Marie so much, yearning for Marie so much, that it never crossed his mind.
Lisa’s grip tightened on his hand. “Tom,” she said softly. “Listen to me. The doctors say . . .”
She faltered. He answered her grip with his own. “Go on.”
“The doctors say if they lose you again, if your heart stops beating again, they doubt they’ll be able to revive you. They doubt you’ll be strong enoug
h to make it back. And you’ve got to make it back, Tommy! You’ve got to. I don’t think I could . . . I don’t think your mother could survive if she lost you like she lost Burt.”
“Right. Right.” Tom took a deep breath, braced himself. “What are my chances?” he asked her. “Did the doctors say? What are the chances I’ll come out of this coma alive?”
“They said . . .” Lisa’s voice broke. A single tear spilled from behind her misted lenses, rolled down her freckled cheek. “They said they didn’t know. They said it was fifty-fifty. It could go either way.”
Tom made a noise: whew. “Fifty-fifty,” he repeated. “And if I die again, I’m done for. So I only have one more chance, and if the malevolents get me this time . . .”
Lisa only nodded, unable to speak.
Tom swallowed hard. “Fifty-fifty. One chance. Live or die. Man, that’s scary. I’m scared, Lisa. I’m seventeen. I’m not ready to die. But I don’t know if I’ve got the courage to . . .”
“Shh! Shh!” She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Then she pulled her hand away to wipe her cheek dry. “You have plenty of courage. All you need. More.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Tom. “I was never the hero type. Not like Burt.”
“Yes, you are,” Lisa told him, crying harder. “You’re just as brave as Burt ever was. Just in a different way, that’s all. That’s . . .” She couldn’t finish. She bowed her head.
Tom looked at her, looked at the top of her head, the part in her hair where a line of white scalp peeked through the wavy red. He didn’t know why, but the sight of it made her seem fragile to him somehow. Which was funny, seeing as he was the one in the coma, on the brink of death! But he was sorry now that he’d shown her his fear, sorry he’d made her cry. Even if she couldn’t really see it sitting there in the hospital next to his bed, he wanted to give her strength, to send his strength to her, his courage to her.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Fifty-fifty. It’s better than nothing, right? I’ll take my chances. But what do I do? How do I find my way out of here? How do I get out of this coma and get back to you?”
It was a long moment before Lisa could lift her head, could speak again. Then she said, “I’m not sure, but I can tell you what I think.”
Tom knew that the information she was giving him was really information coming from the depths of his own mind. But he needed to hear it. He needed to hear it spoken out loud. He said, “Go on.”
“I think there’s something holding you here, something that won’t let you leave.”
“Okay. Like what?”
“I don’t know. Believe me, if I knew I would tell you. But there’s something, something that wants to keep you in the dark, that wants to keep you in this coma, that maybe even . . . even wants you to die.”
“Whoa.” He swallowed hard. “Whoa,” he said again. “How do I find it, then? How do I get rid of it?”
“Well, whatever it is,” Lisa said, “it must be here somewhere. It must be something inside your own mind. Something you know but can’t get to somehow.”
“You mean, like, something I’ve forgotten. Or something I’m blocking out.”
“That’s right. I think . . . ,” Lisa went on—and Tom could tell she was working it out as she spoke. “I think maybe if you could find out what happened to you, find out who shot you—who shot you and why—then you could break the barrier, break through and face the truth and wake up.”
Her damp eyes gazed into his with so much feeling that Tom looked away, embarrassed. He looked down at the table.
“That’s got to be it, Tom,” Lisa said. “Find the truth. The truth is always the way, even when it’s scary, even when it’s hard. It’s like the Bible says, you know. Find the truth—and the truth will set you free.”
Tom felt a fresh energy go through him, a fresh fire of inspiration. He raised his eyes to hers. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Tom had the strangest feeling that he had never really seen Lisa before. Sure, he’d seen her face. He’d seen her goofy sense of humor and her insecurity about her looks. He’d seen her courage in trying to deal with her parents’ divorce and with the fact that she and her mom didn’t have much money anymore, even though they used to be rich. He’d seen her—but he’d never seen her like this, never seen the sweet whole of her, the way he was seeing her now, here in his imagination. It was a sight that filled him up in a way he couldn’t have described.
Slowly, she drew her hand away from him.
A new bout of fear went through him. “Don’t,” he whispered before he could stop himself. “Don’t leave me.”
“I have to, Tom.” She stood up. “This isn’t something I can do with you.” She tried to smile. “I’m just the editor, right? I can send you out on a story, but you’ve got to find the answers on your own.”
He looked up at her. He tried his best to smile. “Man! This imagination—it can be a pretty scary place, you know? I don’t want to be alone in here.”
“Oh, Tommy,” said Lisa. “You’re not alone!” Quickly, she reached behind her neck and undid the clasp of her gold necklace. She drew it off her throat and pressed it into his hand. Tom looked down and saw the gold cross gleaming in his palm. “You’re not alone, Tommy,” Lisa said again. “Just find the truth. And the truth will set you free.”
Tom closed his fist around her necklace and held it fast.
The next time he looked up, Lisa was gone.
15.
The moments passed. The house was silent around him. The fog gathered in the backyard. Tom knew his time was running out and yet second after second, he sat where he was, staring at his closed fist.
Find the truth, and the truth will set you free.
All right. Good advice. But how did he do it? How could he find the truth? Where did he begin?
Come on, he told himself. You’re the steely-eyed, big-brained reporter. Figure it out, bro.
He shook his fist as he went on gazing down at it. To find the whole truth, he needed to know who shot him—who shot him, and why. And hey, how hard could it be to get that information? He had been shot in the chest, after all. The person who shot him must have been standing right in front of him. He must have seen the person at the time it happened. He must already know who it was. So, as Lisa said, the answer must be here somewhere, somewhere inside his mind. But where?
Well, his memory, that’s where.
Being in a coma and all, being trapped inside his own imagination, there were obviously things he couldn’t remember. So to find those things, somehow he had to get from here, from his imagination, to his memory. But where was that?
Go to the monastery, Tom. That’s where the answers are.
He almost heard Marie’s gentle voice speak the words. Marie had told him to go to the monastery. That must be the way, and yet . . .
And yet, it didn’t make sense to him. The way to his memory should be through the things he remembered. But he didn’t remember being in the monastery. He didn’t remember that at all.
There was something else, too. The man in the computer. The Lying Man who had told him that the monsters were gone and it was safe to go out into the hall. The Lying Man had told him to go to the monastery, too. The Lying Man had also told him that’s where the answers were. Now, okay, maybe the Lying Man had told him the truth about the monastery just to trick him into leaving his bedroom. But Tom had a feeling that the Lying Man never told the truth, not really. Tom had the feeling that everything the Lying Man said was either an outright lie or some other kind of deception.
As he thought about that, an image came into his mind. It was the image of Marie, sitting right here, right in the kitchen, at this very table. He remembered the way she reacted when he wanted to answer his phone. The way she tried to stop him when he wanted to go downstairs to see his brother on TV. Why would she do that? Why would she try to stop him from seeing Burt? Why didn’t she want him to answer the phone?
It’s not that he did
n’t trust Marie, he told himself. That would be crazy. Why wouldn’t he trust her? It was just that . . . well, he didn’t want to do anything the Lying Man told him to do, that’s all. That’s all.
So where did that leave him?
The seconds passed. He went on sitting there, gripping the necklace, shaking his fist as he thought it through. And a fresh idea came to him. He wanted to get from here to his memory, right? So where was the borderline between the two territories? The border of his memory must be marked by the things he almost remembered but couldn’t remember completely. If he could find his way to something he almost remembered but couldn’t quite bring back, then he knew he could find his way from there to the rest of it, the things he had forgotten completely or had blocked out.
What do I almost remember? he asked himself.
The answer came to him at once. The woman in the white blouse. The woman who had called him on the phone and tried to talk to him through the static. She was the one who had called him back from the brink of death, trying to reach him, trying to tell him something. He knew who she was—sort of—but he could not quite place her, could not quite call her identity to mind.
But he knew where to find her, didn’t he? He knew where to start at least. She had told him herself.
The office of the Sentinel in the basement of the school. He had written her address down on a piece of paper there. That was where the memory trail began. If he could find that address, he could find the woman in the white blouse. If he could find her, he knew somehow that he could find his way back to the rest of it, to everything.
Tom let out a long, unsteady sigh and opened his fist. His hand was empty. Lisa’s necklace was gone. He didn’t mind. He knew Lisa herself was still there, still nearby, sitting by his bed, praying for him, waiting for him.
You’re not alone, Tommy.
He looked up. Looked out the window. The fog was now rolling in across the far edges of the backyard. Already, the hedges that marked the Laughlins’ property had vanished beneath a pillowy whiteness. Already, Tom could see hulking, limping shadows moving in that whiteness. The malevolents. Coming back for him.