Chapter Two
The night is restless. What little sleep I manage is filled with nightmares. Flashes of hoofed creatures spitting blood, corpses melting into puddles and smoke that smells of rotting flesh tear me from slumber. With morning though, comes a new found calm. By the time the interview with Channel 12 rolls around I manage to lump the strange events of last night in with the barrage of dreams. It was all a nightmare. It had to be, right?
Dooming questions like “What was the creature that attacked me?”, “Who were those people who appeared from the fog?”, and “How was it that they seemed to know my name?” seep into the back of my mind.
The room designated for the interview is bright and open. Plants sit on tables surrounding two wicker chairs. The back wall, the one the audience will see behind us, is a large pane glass window showcasing a botanical garden lit by the bright winter sun. On the other side of the chairs, running across the floor, is a line of unbroken white tape. Behind it, prohibited from crossing, stands all the crew and the camera equipment as well as a service table stocked with doughnuts, bagels, apples, oranges, and a dark sketchy looking meat that really could be anything.
I sit down in my designated chair after gorging myself on sweets. The makeup team did their best to cover the dotting of freckles across my cheeks in an effort to make me look like a more appealing version of myself. One of the production assistants brings me a bottle of water and start’s going over the routine the interview is going to take. I pretend to listen to him, nodding along like a good boy.
"I think he's got it down by now."
Andrea Anders walks into the room and sits in the chair across from me. Her blond hair lay’s freakishly straight over her shoulders and she glows when she meets my stare. Obviously at ease, she gives orders to the flurry of helpers who circle her. One places a stack of papers on her lap, which she leafs through. She puts some on the table beside her but crumbles most up, throwing them into a wastepaper basket.
"Do you need anything?" She asks, never looking up from the stack.
A few seconds pass before I realize she's talking to me. "I'm alright.” I respond, running my palms across the gray slacks I brought from home.
"Good," she responds, clearing her throat and turning to the overweight man standing behind the camera.
"Let's start the countdown." The large man holds up three fingers, then two, then one. Finally he points to Ms. Anders, who snaps into attention.
"Welcome back.” she says brightly to the camera's red blinking light. "I'm here with Bell Watkins, inspiration for the Emerald Invaders book series. Release for the final chapter in the series, “Return Of The Four”, has been delayed indefinitely due to author Liam Mayweathers’ reported dissatisfaction with the quality of the current manuscript. ”It’s good to have you here Bell."
I nod as she sets her sights and digs in. "Your grandfather's a very talented man and obviously a perfectionist. Can you shed some light on what issues he might have had with his latest work?"
I shrug instinctively. Anyone who actually knows me would never ask me that, or any question about my grandfather's work. "I'm afraid I can't help you there.” I say quickly and diffuse the silence with a quick chug of water.
“Right, well, let's talk about the series up to this point. Now, while it's obvious the main character is based on you, is it safe to assume that the character of the Second Son is based on your grandfather, given the sort of paternal role the character plays in the books?"
"That's the way I always took it.” I don't elaborate, which causes Ms. Anders to give me a fraying look.
"A man of few words.” she mutters into her lap as she slashes lines into her paper with red ink.
"How about a fun question?” Diehard fans have been vocal about the real existence of some of the more fantastic elements of his series, touting run-ins they’ve had with witches, elves, and leprechauns."
Her eyes light as she tosses me what I'm sure she imagines is a softball question. "What are your thoughts on that sort of magic?"
I stammer a little, the question bringing up memories of the night before. Thoughts of the creatures’ claws, teeth and rancid breath brushing my face and the trio of helpers who eventually took it down, freeze me in my seat. My face must be transparent, because Ms. Anders begins to shuffle a bit in her chair. "Did you hear me Bell?"
I sit stone-like, still trying to make sense of everything I had seen, until she finally decides to move on.
"So, considering the...”
She's interrupted as the large man behind the camera steps into view and hands her a note. Reading it, she lets out a sigh. Glancing back up at me, I get the feeling she's trying to plan her next move. A few blinks, and it's done.
"Shut off the camera," she says.
"But if...”
"Shut it off!" She demands of the man.
"What's going on," I ask, leaning forward. She doesn't say anything, just hands the paper over to me.
News just hit the line that Liam Mayweather has been found dead in his home. No other details are available at this time. Get the boy's reaction.
I look up, unsure what to say. They're all staring at me now, though in a much different way than before, like they expect me to break or something. I glance toward the camera. The blinking light Ms. Anders had been so focused on before is gone and I realize how big a favor she's done me in seeing to that. A pang of guilt strikes me and I begin to wish I had been a better interviewee.
"Thank you.” I manage.
She nods and leans in. "Do you need a ride home?"
I nod my head. At this point it would be easier and quicker. To be honest, walking through the streets alone again isn’t my first choice. After a painfully slow ride in a news van, I arrive home.
I don't wait for the van to stop before jumping out at my house. The driver Ms. Anders sent says something I can't make out. I just thank him, close the door, and make a beeline through the front yard. Opening the door, I see that the contents of the letter were no mistake. Family, friends, and acquaintances populate the living room. Randy makes his way to me, working through the crowd with a series of nods and half smiles.
Placing a meaty hand on my shoulder, Randy gives it a squeeze. "Buddy, something has happened."
"I know. I heard.” I reply. "Where's mom?"
"She's on the back porch.” Randy says. "Taking a phone call, with your grandmother I think."
"And Terry?"
"In her room.” he answers as I pull away and head down the hall.
I find Terry curled up on her bed, knees pulled up to her head. She has Randy's wide set eyes and chin, a fact that infuriated me when she was a baby. But there's some of my mother in there too, and perhaps even a dash of me. Her tiny fingers stroke her phone's keypad as she pulls it from beneath the pillow. She probably hasn't even noticed me when I speak.
"Angry Birds?"
"Bowling," she says. "I'm a vegetarian now. I don't believe in shooting animals."
“Oh.” I reply, smirking and climbing into bed beside her.
"Mommy's crying," she says, still working her fingers.
"She's sad.” I clarify.
"Cause her dad died?"
I nod in response and she’s quiet for a minute. Terry has never even met our grandfather, so I'm not quite sure what she’s thinking.
"Did you cry when your dad died?" She asks.
I'm taken aback not by the question, but by the innocence with which she's asked it. “Yeah, I did.” I finally say, and lay my head against her shoulder.
I must fall asleep because the next thing I know it’s dark out. Terry is curled up into a ball and buried into my chest. I gently roll over and cover her back up. Walking back into the living room, I see it's now seven thirty. The crowds have thinned out now. My mother is still nowhere to be found, but Randy is tending to the few remaining visitors. Our closest friends brought food. Finger sandwiches and chicken wings set in picked over trays on the counter. A bur
st of muffled laughter comes from the couch. Randy is talking with Kara's mother, which more than likely means...
"There he is! I thought you had lapsed into a coma."
Kara appears behind me, munching on a celery stick.
"Have you been here long?" I ask.
"A couple hours," she admits.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"I'm a stalker. I wanted to watch you sleep." She nudges me with her shoulder. "How are you doing?"
We begin walking, instinctively migrating away from everyone so we can talk comfortably. "I'm okay. I mean, I didn't really know the guy. I'm mostly worried about mom. I still haven't gotten a chance to see her."
We settle on the front lawn. I cross my arms as the chilly night air cuts into me. Kara, for her part, seems unaffected by the cold.
"She's managing. I saw her about an hour ago. She was on the phone, looked a little stressed, but she was keeping it together."
"She's still on the phone? What the hell is grandma doing keeping her tied up so long?" The idea upsets me though I'm not sure why.
"She was talking to the airline.” Kara clarifies. "The funeral is in two days, in Ireland."
Of course, the funeral. I hadn't even thought about that.
“Oh.” I say. “Well, that sucks"
Kara and I keep away from the company, staying outside for the rest of the night and talking. Our conversations steer clear of subjects like funerals, interviews, or anything of substance. Before I know it, an hour has passed and Kara's mother is pulling her away. I wave goodbye and enter the house, which is now free of anyone but family. Randy is cleaning up. I guess I should help him, but I have more important things to deal with.
I knock lightly on the door of my mother's room and then enter. She's sitting on the bed, writing in a notebook. Her right hand is open, her fingers pressed against her temples. Her eyes are tired and puffy and her hair, red like mine, is pulled up off her shoulders in a sloppy bun.
“Hey.” I say, sitting beside her on the foot of the bed.
“Hey.” she echoes, closing the notebook.
I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. We've been here before, my mother and me. Suddenly, I'm taken back to another day, a lot like this one, the two of us on this bed, after the crowds have left, after the truth had set in. So, like I did back then, I lay my head on her lap. And she, like before, begins brushing my hair between her fingers.