Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,20
the beach.
The Bensens are the fifth and sixth deaths in Glynn County this summer, all allegedly from blunt force trauma. While preliminary research has not shown any connection between the victims—Sylvia Foote, Crayton Mission, Paul Wislon, Derrick Fischer, and the Bensons—police spokesperson Carmella Rawls has issued a “No comment” when asked for further details from the official autopsy reports.
Brunswick mayor Jim Monroe has announced a press conference and town hall meeting for August 20, 2009 at 7:00 PM in the Glynn Academy auditorium to discuss recent events. All interested parties are invited to attend.
Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)
The leaves of the palm tree, brushing listlessly against the window, were brown and dying. One sprinkler head peeked out above the dry grass but no water shot forth and patches of dirt had broken through. Henry turned back to the doctor, his fingers resting on his wrist, trailing the scar.
“Henry.” Her pen hung like the sword of Damocles over her legal pad. “I was wondering if you ever sleepwalk.”
He shrugged.
“Are you still tired when you wake up?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“When?”
He looked out the window, then pulled his hair down in front of his eyes.
“Henry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you try to remember for me?” she asked.
“Will that help?”
“Maybe. You might be having blackouts and not even realizing it.”
“Better,” Henry said with a shrug, “to ask Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Or Victor.”
“They’re not real, Henry.”
“I know. I’m forgetful, not crazy.”
“Amnesia doesn’t mean that. It’s a process to remember,” she said. “Your brain is still trying to understand the accident and, perhaps, it’s using your dreams to help with that.”
“There was an accident,” he said, each word its own sentence, distinct and harsh.
“Yes.”
“I should have died.”
“You remember that?”
He shook his head, hair flying away from his face, and his eyes couldn’t stay still. “No.”
“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