Page 82 of All Saints Day
In my mind, the horrific short film keeps rewinding and replaying as I search for a clue.
It had all been so terrible. So much blood in a space that held so many beautiful family memories; Thanksgiving dinners, birthday parties, graduation luncheons, and countless meals shared between me and my loving parents for as far back as I could remember.
Every last memory marred beyond repair in an instant by such a profound, singular act of violence.
I had sat in the back of the ambulance wrapped in a mylar blanket, staring at my hands, my parents' blood still lingeringunder my fingernails as the sirens flashed blue and red against the shining white automotive paint and chrome surrounding me.
Uncle Martin’s car had come screeching down the street—barely managing to pull up behind the police cars and the coroner's van.
He had left the driver's side door open as he ran to me, shock, dismay and confusion on his face—so much like my own father's.
He was too far away for me to hear the conversation between him and the lead officer on duty. They exchanged tense words, and my Uncle Martin had flashed his badge before the detective pointed to me and made his grim explanation.
I’d watched as the color drained from Martin’s face and he doubled over, then snapped back up, his gaze fixed on me with pain but also relief.
We had just held each other then—both of us began sobbing uncontrollably. I don't know for how long.
Hazily, I remember talking to a few more officials, Uncle Martin helping me into the passenger seat of his sedan and waking up the next morning on the pull-out sofa bed in the parlor of his Commonwealth Avenue apartment—completely rudderless and heartbroken.
I had thought the two of us were the same; that we had shared this pain, if nothing else in this world.
Now I know better, but I still couldn't see the signs I had missed.
No matter how many times I look back, no matter how many times I try to come at it from another angle.
Quentin, who had channeled his own nervous energy by stalking into the woods in an attempt to get a stealthy first look at old Uncle Marty as he made his way toward our camp, now emerged back into the clearing—a charged look on his face.
“He's almost here,” Quentin warns breathlessly, and I find myself staggering to my feet—gun still clutched in myhand.
I hear him before I see him; his footfalls soft, but not silent in the leaf litter and dry twigs.
Even though I've spent the last several hours contemplating his betrayal, my body still involuntarily lurches toward him, longing for a comforting embrace when I see him push through the trees in a dark green fleece and a pair of khaki shorts—navy-blue ball cap pulled down over his thinning, graying red hair.
It's almost like an echo or a reflection—maybe even a ripple of that day; him standing on my parents lawn with his eyes fixed on me—that expression of purest relief and deepest sorrow as he reaches for me, his pinched brows and watery eyes shifting as he registers that I’ve raised my gun to aim at his face with the safety off.
“Louise! Oh Thank God you're alive!” His voice dies on his lips, his hands rising—open palms out to show he is unarmed.
“Why did you do it?” I manage to croak out, tears blurring my vision, sadness threatening to squeeze my throat closed.
His expression turns from one of surprise, to one of shame, but he doesn't dispute me—only lets his hands fall from the air to hang limply at his sides.
“Louise,” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper.
I do my best to swallow my tears, my gun still at the level of his eyes.
“Why did you do it?” I repeat.
“Have you seen the tapes?” he asks quietly, his blue eyes sinking to his toes.
I feel my head begin to spin—stars dazzling at the corner of my vision like I might pass out. I'm not sure I can keep taking all these surprise blows—but I breathe in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth closing my eyes to regain composure before I respond.
“About the virus? Or are there more horrible family secrets left for me to uncover?”
“About the Zeitnot, about the cure,” he answers, careful with his words in front of my Saints.
“Yes, I've seen it. We've all seen it,” I bite out coldly before Quentin pipes in.
“Some of us lived them.”
