"The Odd Couple" by Q. Kelly
The following excerpt begins in the middle of Chapter Two.
JOHN PATRICK SUDSBURY, Beloved Son, his grave marker read. Even though it had been nearly three years, Charlene faithfully brought toys and trinkets her only child would like. A baseball, a model car, a cool keychain gadget. No flowers, though. JP would have laughed at that. Mom! What am I gonna do with flowers?
Charlene talked to her son about anything, about everything: her day, a rude customer, or a generous customer who left a huge tip, the burgundy Plymouth Acclaim they had shared, which was on its last legs. JP had named the car Silver because of its silver driver's door. The prospect of cruising about in such a car would have mortified most teenagers. Not JP. Charlene had scored a deal on Silver and saved five hundred dollars, so JP made the best of the situation. He never grimaced at the mismatched door. He never complained or squawked about it. Within days, even JP's wealthy friends, with their BMWs and convertibles, were affectionately calling the car Silver, too. Her son could have made a friend of anyone, Charlene mused. Before the accident.
Sometimes at the cemetery, it was like the old days, before JP's football injury, when they would chat for hours. Of course, JP did not talk back anymore. This Sunday was no different. JP was as silent as ever.
Charlene slipped the airplane from the day before into her purse. She took out a turkey sandwich and a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Sundays were her sole day off most weeks, and she alternately dreaded and relished them for the same reason—more time with her son. She crossed her legs and nibbled at her sandwich. The day was heating up, despite the forecasters' promises that it would stay reasonable. Sweat slithered down Charlene's back, but she did not care. “I should be getting a pay raise soon,” she told her son. “Maybe I can set aside some of it for a new car. What do you think?”
She pictured JP—pre-accident, of course—and imagined his response, “Great idea, Mom. Want to go look at cars tomorrow?”
Charlene's heart tightened. She would miss Silver, that ugly, ugly creature. How JP had loved the damned thing. Charlene decided to wait a little longer to replace her car. Silver would be all right for a few months yet.
After Charlene finished her sandwich, she remembered that she was forty-one years old today. Another year had come and gone, another year without her child, another year of unanswered questions. She stuffed the empty sandwich bag into her purse. Miriam, her best friend, and Miriam's lover, Liz, would likely want to take her out that night for dinner. It was their tradition. And to think Liz had been so jealous at first, all those years ago, at how close Miriam was with an ex-lover, an ex-lover twenty years her junior, no less. Charlene fingered her rainbow bracelet, which had been a peace offering of sorts from Liz when Charlene turned thirty-four.
She traced the letters on JP’s grave marker. “Remember when you took me downtown that day?” she murmured. “You were so proud you could buy me dinner.”
Wind whistled through the treetops and swirled around the graveyard. Charlene closed her eyes, basking in the embrace. JP was telling her he did remember. “I wore my best dress. You were so handsome in your tie and khaki pants. It feels like it was just yesterday."
The wind stopped, and JP, bloody and broken, flashed into Charlene's mind. Her heart caught in her throat, but, as always, she was powerless to resist the abrupt, fractured moment her world changed forever.
The gunshot.
Breaking into his room, flinging herself on him. Shaking him. Move. Please. Open your eyes. Breathe. Please. Make your heart beat. Anything, anything. Please! Having the most absurd, ridiculous thoughts—hoping no one else in the apartment building had heard, praying that nobody would come. Postponing calling Miriam and Liz and 911 for as long as she could because this was the last time he would be in her arms, for her to cradle just so. Holding him until he was cool to the touch. Letting go of him as the sun slipped over the horizon. Calling Miriam and Liz then returning to JP. Miriam and Liz— a policewoman—rushing over, the other police and EMTs arriving, trying to coax her into releasing the body.
The body. Charlene bristled at the memory, but her retort had done its job. This thing you call a body is my child, thank you very much.
Charlene forced her eyes open. John Patrick Sudsbury, Beloved Son, his grave marker still read.
"Remember what you did for me when you were four? No, you probably don't remember. That was such a long time ago. It was my birthday, and you made the cutest little card for me. You were so excited when you woke me up. ‘Mommy, happy birthday!’ you said. You’d combed your hair all nice. You brought in breakfast for us. A big bowl of Lucky Charms with extra hearts on top. A glass of orange juice. And…" Charlene chuckled. "That horrible mess in the kitchen.” She pictured the child, her JP, with his liberally freckled face, pert nose, carrot-red hair and shining blue eyes. They had eaten the Lucky Charms together and then snuggled in bed. In that world, in Charlene's memories and in her sorrow, JP would always live. She could even hear his laughter now, carefree and unburdened. She squeezed her eyes shut again as her son’s giggles continued. What she would give to hear them again, for real.
The laughter continued, and a little voice shouted, “Mommy! The caterpillar tickles!”
Charlene’s eyes flew open. That voice was real. Right across from her, just yards away, there he was. Her son, her JP. Four years old again and risen somehow from the grave. There was no mistaking him. He had listened to her, and he was back. Charlene went weak with disbelief. Her heart wobbled. OhGodOhGodOhGod. This was it, then. This was how she was going to snap and plunge into the valley of the insane. Because JP was dead. The gunshot. The holes. The lifeless eyes.
He was not back. He never would be. But how to explain this boy? Was he simply a figment of Charlene's grief?
The child laid something—a caterpillar?—on a tombstone and chased after a squirrel, coming ever closer. His laughter was music to Charlene's ears. This boy was no figment. Charlene was not going off the deep end. She was hearing JP.
Without thinking, she leaped to her feet. She opened her mouth to call her son to her. JP, JP, you're home, you're alive. How? No, no, tell me later. That doesn't matter. Just come here, come here. Let me hug you.
The boy skidded to a stop. He met Charlene's eyes.
She got a good look at his face, and her heart sank. In the summer, light tan freckles had covered most of JP’s features, but this boy was blessed with a mere sprinkling. Charlene thought once more that she must be going crazy. Then the child cocked an eyebrow, just like JP would have, and hope filled Charlene's whole being again.
“Hi,” the boy said, and he grinned hugely.
Charlene blinked back tears. Freckles or not, this boy was her son. She was being given a chance to redeem herself, to make things right. But a harsh, logical voice cautioned her to take a deep breath, to calm down, to just think a minute, to not say or do anything she would regret later. How could this boy be JP? She had held him for hours, for hours, those lifeless eyes. Still, she had to ask.
“JP?” she ventured.
The child shook his head and flashed another eager smile. “I'm Gareth. Like in the King Arthur story.”
Charlene struggled to reconcile the clash between logic and emotion, between mind and heart. Gareth. JP. Gareth. How could it be? How could this child, this so-called Gareth, have JP's blue eyes, his laugh, his hair, his everything, except for the freckles? How? Was it some cruel trick of fate?
Seemingly out of nowhere, a woman, tall and tan, with dark hair and dark eyes, appeared. She tousled Gareth's hair and offered a shy smile. “I apologize if Gareth was bothering you.”
A faint thread of hysteria washed through Charlene. She fought to keep it at bay. "Gareth. That's a nice name." No. No. That's JP. My son! My son! Why do you have my son?
The dark-haired woman grinned. "I've always loved King Arthur stuff. Anyway. Hi. I'm Morrisey." She stuck a hand out.
Charlene robotically took the hand but let go after a second.
"Are you okay?" Morrisey asked.
Charlene could not bring herself to answer right away. What she wanted to do was fall to her knees and take this other woman's son in her arms. She wanted to inhale his sweet little-boy smell. She wanted to feel him breathe and hear his heart beating. She wanted to tell him everything would be all right, that she was so sorry, so very sorry for having failed him. What she wanted to do was trace his face, look into those familiar, lively blue eyes, and reassure him that everything would be okay now.
She could not do that, though. That would be absurd. JP was dead, and no amount of pleading, no amount of tears and promises and deluding herself about this look-alike boy would change that.
"You okay?" Morrisey repeated.
"It's been a long day."
"I understand. I've had more than my share of long days, too."
"My son," Charlene blurted out. "He reminds me of my son."
Morrisey's eyes narrowed. "Gareth reminds you of your son?"
Charlene's gaze dropped to the grave marker at her feet. "Yes. JP."
"How?"
Charlene looked back at Gareth, into JP's bright blue eyes, and fought to keep herself stiff. "How what?"
"How does he remind you of JP?"
"Oh, just…Nothing, really. I don't know. I'm silly, huh? I'm sorry."
"Don’t worry about it," Morrisey said, but her earlier friendliness had vanished.
"Mommy!" Gareth exclaimed. "Can I go back to Grandpa?"
"Sure," Morrisey replied. "I'll be right there, okay?"
Gareth darted toward a group of graves next to a cluster of trees. Charlene memorized every detail of how he moved, of how he played, and an unbearable wave of loneliness hit her. Her son, her JP, was gone, dead. Here was this bubbly boy, though, a haunting reminder of how JP used to be before the accident.
"Come here often?" Morrisey's voice was cool.
Charlene willed herself to look at Morrisey instead of at her son. "Yes, I come here a lot. Do you?"
"No. I don't like cemeteries. I don't belong here."
Charlene replied without thinking, "Do I?"
Morrisey blinked. She softened and took her time answering. "If being here helps you, then…" She shrugged. "Then you should be here."
Charlene liked this quiet, subdued answer. She was so used to Miriam, in her loud, forceful, no-nonsense voice, telling her to stop visiting JP so often, to stop cutting first dates short, to start going on second dates. Miriam loved to promote the virtues of "moving on,” but this new woman understood.
Or not. Morrisey went on, "Do you belong here? I don't think you belong here, no. This place is for dead people. I see the toys you leave for JP. It just seems…Oh, I don't know."
Charlene took a step back. "What? You just said that…Hey. I go on hikes, okay? I date. I volunteer at the rescue mission. I try. I try, I really do. But I held him in my arms for hours. He's what I see right before I fall asleep. He's the first thing I see when I wake up. I dream about him. Him, the blood, the holes in his head."
Morrisey squirmed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm talking about. I don't know you. Anyway, I should get back to Gareth. Again, I apologize that he bothered you earlier."
Charlene regretted her outburst. Now her tiny, fragile bond with Gareth would be severed. Don't let Morrisey leave. "I have a picture of JP if you want to see," Charlene said softly.
Morrisey glanced over at Gareth. He had moved several feet from the cluster of tombstones and was trying to catch a butterfly. "Don't hurt it!" she called.
"I won't!" Gareth scampered back to the tombstones.
JP, Charlene thought. That's JP exactly.
"I have a meeting," Morrisey said, all business-like. "Goodbye."
"No picture?"
"No picture."
Charlene knew there was no meeting, so she bent over and got her purse. She quickly found the photo she'd had in mind. It was one of her favorites of JP and had been taken on his third birthday. He was gazing adoringly at a cake with three candles on it. "They look alike," Charlene said as she held out the picture. "That's how Gareth reminds me of JP."
"I said I did not want to see."
"Please. It's amazing. They could be twins."
Morrisey's eyes darkened. "Fine." She snapped the photo from Charlene's hand. She stared at the picture for a long moment. It was as if she was not quite sure of what she was seeing, as if the picture was blurry or faded, which it most definitely was not. Morrisey's lips parted, and her breathing became shallow.
Unease stirred throughout Charlene. Something really is wrong here. There was something in Morrisey's expression, something more than mere surprise – maybe panic or self-doubt, maybe confusion or recognition. Whatever it was, Morrisey was in a hurry to hand the picture back. "It's amazing. Wow." She mumbled a few polite, trite phrases and returned to Gareth.
Just two minutes later, mother and child got into a red Cavalier that was parked near Charlene's Acclaim. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared.
