Page 48 of The Forest of Lost Souls

“No. Not you. Never.”

“Will I . . . be happy?”

“Your life will be full of good cheer and delight until there comes a valley of great suffering and sorrow. But if you do not despair, then beyond that valley will be new heights of happiness greater than anything you had experienced before. There will be dogs and one even better than dogs.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that prediction, what he should feel, whether he can feel anything other than dread in anticipation of that “great suffering and sorrow.”

As other questions come to mind and seem urgent, Sam rises from his chair, with the photo in hand. “I better go.”

“I am glad you came, Sam Crockett.”

“Me too. I guess.”

At the threshold to the hallway, he looks back at her.

Whatever draft caused the fire to dance high on the wicks has withered away. The candle flames are contained within the red-glass cups.

The kitchen has grown darker, but the woman has not, as though shadows are enjoined from diminishing her presence.

Outside, Sam puts the photo of his father in his shirt pocket. After he has cycled halfway home, he stops along the side of theroad and extracts the snapshot to look at it again. He considers tearing it up and throwing it to the wind.

He didn’t promise the seer to keep it. Not directly. Yet in a way, leaving that house with it was a promise. Breaking an implied promise is a kind of betrayal. He returns the picture to his pocket.

He doesn’t go directly home. He doesn’t have the heart for home just yet. He cycles, cycles, and the afternoon wanes, and the summer light distills toward a brandy hue.

His mother is back from work by now. Soon she’s going to start worrying about him. Whether he has the heart for it or not, he has to go home.

Leaving his bike in the backyard, he stands staring at the house. Then climbs the porch steps. He hears music. She hasn’t played music in seven months. It’s that Paul Simon album she has so long enjoyed. “Graceland” is playing when he steps through the back door into the kitchen.

His mother is spooning a mixture of sliced fresh peaches and raisins into a pie shell. The kitchen smells wonderful. She used to love cooking. But for a long time, they have been eating takeout, pizza, sandwiches.

She looks up and smiles. “Where’ve you been, Sammy? I was just wondering if I should be worried.”

Because he doesn’t trust himself to speak, he goes to her and puts his arms around her as she sets aside the ladle.

Hugging him, she says, “What is it, sweetheart?”

He cannot speak. He holds fast to her.

Smoothing his hair with one hand, she says, “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Sam finds his voice.“I know.”

“I mean it. We’re going to be fine.”

“I know.”

“For a while,” she says, “I didn’t think so. But then today, something changed.”

“What? What changed?”

“I don’t know really. A feeling. Suddenly it felt like none of it mattered so much anymore. I just knew we’ll be okay. We have each other, and we’ll be okay. I’ve been frozen in worry, like encased in ice, and the worry just melted. We’ll get through this.”

He says, “I know we will. And we’ll be happy.”

“Of course we will. Why wouldn’t we be happy?”

“No reason,” he says.

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