piano. She looked out the window at the clouds. Grunting in frustration as she struggled with a stack of papers in her hands.
They were Christmas cards.
Christopher was startled, but he did not back away. It was another message from the nice man. He was sure of it. He moved to the old woman. The Christmas card on the top of the stack was old and yellow. The dyes and ink faded.
TOO OFTEN WE UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF A TOUCH…
Christopher touched the woman’s shoulder. In an instant he closed his eyes and felt the stroke that took half of her mind and most of her speech. He saw that the old woman was young once. She was beautiful. Christopher looked down at her hands and saw that the old woman’s fingers were now crippled with arthritis. Jagged like the branches of the tree in the clearing. He took her hands into his and held them. The warmth from his body seemed to move through him to her.
Christopher let go. The old woman moved her fingers like butterfly wings waking up from a cocoon. She suddenly remembered when she could play the piano and how the beautiful boy in her mother’s parlor complimented her song choice. Blue Moon. Later, on their honeymoon, they found a piano in that big hotel in Niagara Falls, and she played him the same song. The old woman smiled. Her fingers were now relaxed enough to turn the page of the Christmas card.
A HUG, A SMILE, A KIND WORD,
ALL WITH THE POTENTIAL
TO TURN A LIFE AROUND COMPLETELY.
Christopher saw a personal message written in black ink right underneath it.
So, go see your mother right now.
She needs you.
Suddenly the old woman’s daughter walked into the attic with grilled cheese and soup on a TV tray.
“Remember when your father gave you this card?” the old woman said and smiled.
“Yes, Mom. We talked all about it yesterday. Don’t you remember?” the daughter said.
“I played the piano for him. Your father was such a beautiful boy. We swam in the Ohio River together,” the old woman said.
The wife gently took the Christmas card out of her mother’s hands.
“Hey, Mom,” the wife said, pleasantly surprised. “Your hands seem a lot better. And your words are much clearer. How are you feeling?”
“There’s someone in the room right now,” the old woman said.
“Okay, Mom. Let’s not get upset.”
“Go see your mother right now! She needs you!” the old woman yelled.
“Mom, please calm down,” the wife begged.
“See your mother! She needs you! Right now! Right now!” the old woman screamed.
“Gary! Help!” the wife yelled downstairs.
If the first card told Christopher to follow his nose, the second was unmistakable. He had to see his mother at Shady Pines. As the husband ran into the attic, Christopher backed out of the room and quickly exited the house.
He looked back across his neighborhood and almost screamed when he saw them. The streets were suddenly lined with people. They all stood still as mailboxes. Lining the yards. A woman in a blue dress. A man in a yellow hat. A wrong yellow. A sick yellow.
Their eyes were sewn shut.
Some with zippers.
Others with thread.
Just like the kids in his nightmare.
The mailbox people were all holding a string. Each one. A string leading to the next person and the next. All the way. Down the street. For as far as Christopher could see. Where did they all come from? Where were they all going?
Never come in here without me. Never be in here at night.
Christopher looked up at the sky. The sun had moved down the horizon. Hanging low like the white plastic bag on the branch. He had maybe forty-five minutes until the sun set. He had to get to his mother, but he couldn’t possibly run to Shady Pines fast enough. He didn’t know how to drive a car. He needed some kind of transportation. He scanned the neighborhood, and his eyes finally landed on…
A bicycle.
It was a three-speed. The kind that used to come with a basket on the front. But this bike was older. Rusted. Sitting alone on a kickstand in the middle of a driveway.
At the house on the corner.
Christopher ran down the street toward the bike. He passed a couple standing in the middle of the road. They were asleep like two mannequins, kissing one another, blood running from their mouths. Whispering:
“Please make it stop. We’re not helping him.”
Christopher grabbed the bike and stopped when he saw the little nameplate on the handlebars.