The Resurrected Compendium Read online

  What bell saved me, folks?

  The short answer is…I don’t know.

  I can’t be more honest than that. I just don’t know. I don’t know why I died, because I didn’t see it. All I can say is that every step I’ve taken in my life has led me here, to this place. To this point, this stage, in front of you all gathered here in this tent with open minds and hopefully, open hearts.

  I can tell you what I think, though.

  I think that I was meant to die, and to return, because that got your attention. Didn’t it? How many of you knew who I was one week ago? Two weeks ago? A month?

  A few of you, and I thank you for your support. We’ve been traveling a long strange journey together, my friends. I see some familiar faces out there. Barry, hi there. Maureen, thanks for coming and for the casseroles. Maureen, everyone, stand up and let everyone take a look at you. Maureen’s been making sure I eat and get my sleep since I came home — that’s right, everyone, listen to her. I’m the worst patient in the world. She threatened to actually tie me into a chair and force-feed me macaroni and cheese.

  See? You all can laugh at that. We laugh together, and isn’t that a much better feeling, sharing that laughter, than it is to face each other warily and without trust? Now listen, I want you all here to do something for me. I want you to turn and face the person next to you. Go on now. Don’t be shy, even if it’s a stranger. Face the person next to you, look into their faces.

  Now, think to yourselves, what would I do to help this person in front of me?

  Sure, we all like to think we’d help each other, wouldn’t we? But the truth is, we don’t always make the best choices for other people. We think of ourselves first, don’t we? There’s no shame in admitting that. I can tell you that when the voice started showing me all the choices I could make and where they’d lead, there were many times I went for the easier path, the one that benefited me. It’s the natural choice. It’s the…human…thing to do.

  No, I’m okay. Just give me a second or two to catch my breath. It’s not easy, you know, coming back from the dead. Just let me clear my throat. Maureen, can you give me a glass of water, please?

  Thank you.

  Where was I?

  What was I…

  Oh…right.

  Let me just catch my breath.

  15

  Nothing much about the house had changed. The yard wasn’t mowed, the flowerbeds not weeded, but that wasn’t terribly unusual. She’d always been the one grubbing in the dirt. Ryan had hired someone to come and do the yard work after she’d moved out, but the service had been sporadic, and nobody had been able to care about the hydrangea bushes the way she had…

  “Stupid,” Abbie muttered. Stupid to stand here in the driveway, her car door still open like she might hop back in and drive away if anyone came to the front door, and think about the grass. The grass didn’t matter.

  She didn’t want to remember the times she’d spent on this porch, waiting for the door to open for her like she’d never lived here. The screen door hung open a little, like someone had run out and not bothered to close it completely. She pushed the doorbell, but heard nothing from inside. Abbie waited a minute, then opened the screen door and used the brass knocker she and Ryan had bought on their honeymoon. It was in the shape of a pair of hands holding a heart. The claddagh. Symbol of love, loyalty and friendship. It rang against the metal with a hollow thud that made her fingers tingle.

  Abbie waited another few minutes, craning her neck for the sound of running feet, the shouts of “Dad, someone’s at the door!” Nothing. She would’ve checked her watch, if she was wearing one. What time was it? For that matter, what day? She tipped her face toward the sky, but that was useless, clouded and gray with only a hint of sun.

  She couldn’t remember the date. Were the boys at school or had they already been let out for the summer? Was Ryan at work? She took two steps back, her heels on the edge of the concrete porch, and studied the door and windows next to it. If she pressed her face against the clear design in the frosted glass she might be able to get a peek inside, but what would happen if someone was in there, watching her or waiting for her to go away? She’d look like a lunatic. Likewise if she hiked into the overgrown flower bed to look in the dining room windows.

  She knocked again, longer this time. Waiting, she looked around at the yard again. Several of the trees had bent, limbs broken and littering the overlong grass. A section of the fence had been torn away. Around the side of the house, the shed roof bore its own load of scattered branches, one of which looked to have punctured a hole through the roof itself. She’d been unable to get concrete information on the damage done by tornados in this part of town, too much time spent on the road without access to national news, and no cell phone to call home or any of the neighbors, or to check social media sites. The newscasts she’d seen had mentioned uncommon storm activity all over the country, a rash of tornados in places that had normally never seen one, as well as especially aggressive wind and thunderstorms without tornadic activity.

  She’d passed through the closest town on the way here to the house, had seen evidence of storm damage there. A few downed signs, debris in the yards much like what she was seeing now. The storm had been hard enough to knock out power for a few days and cause a mess.

  Nothing, of course, like she’d seen in Oklahoma.

  Abbie left the porch and moved through the grass, which was long enough to tickle her bare shins and make her cringe, thinking of ticks. Around the side of the house, past a rusty scooter and a basketball abandoned to the weather. The closer she got to the shed, the more difficult it was to see the roof, but when she tugged open the never-locked door, she saw clearly enough that the big limb had indeed punched a hole straight through. As thick as her whole body on top, it tapered down to the width of her forearm by the time it reached the pile of chair cushions it had speared. It looked sort of like a giant spider leg, and Abbie recoiled though she knew, of course, it wasn’t any such thing. But the thought of a giant, hairy spider crouching on top of her, one leg ready to feel if she were there…God. Gross. She shuddered and looked around in the shed’s dim light.

  She smelled gasoline from the lawn mower, some other sharply bitter scent from the bags of fertilizer that hadn’t been touched since she left. Two of them, along with a half-used plastic sack of mulch, were in the oversized wheelbarrow exactly where she’d left them, along with an array of tools which ought to have been hung on their hooks. She always returned her tools to their proper places, so it would be easy for her to find them again…but then she remembered a haze of work, dumping mulch and spreading it with her hands because she wanted to feel the dirt under her fingernails. She’d been terrifically drunk. Terribly stupid.

  There was another smell too, underlying the others. Something sneaky about it, something sly. It tickled the back of her throat and her nose, and she sneezed rapidly. Dust motes swirled in the shaft of light that came in alongside the tree limb. Something skittered in the darkness toward the back, but it was small. A mouse, surely nothing bigger or scarier than that, or maybe a chipmunk.

  She moved toward the wheelbarrow. The smell got stronger. She sneezed again, dust in her nostrils but not so thick it hampered her from smelling this…whatever it was. She tore at the plastic, exposing the mulch to the light, such as it was.

  The blue and purple flowers.

  Abbie clapped both hands over her mouth to cover her automatic scream. She pinched her nostrils shut at the same time. She hadn’t had time to take a breath, and her head spun, dizzy, as she backed away. She’d seen them how many times now? Each time, they’d bloomed and died in minutes. These looked a little different. Thicker stems, fleshier petals. The smell was strong enough to seep through the gate of her fingers. She turned, panicky and unwilling to wind her way back through the maze of junk in the shed. She hopped over a snow shovel and a pair of skis, then fought with the handle until she could twist it and shove up the heavy garage door. It
stuck at first, then gave so suddenly she stumbled forward. Bent at the waist, hands on her knees, Abbie gasped and choked, wondering for a minute if she was going to pass out. The grass wavered, but didn’t spin. She breathed in, coughed out. She stood.

  In the shed, the light from the garage door spilled over the wheelbarrow, the mulch, the sickening flowers. Fresh blossoms bloomed, bigger than the rest, and then, just as she’d seen those other times, they withered. Faded. Died. Disappeared.

  Christ. They were inside her, weren’t they? Just like the others. Something in those flowers had worked its way into her lungs and settled there. When would she feel it? Would it hurt when her head exploded?

  Abbie breathed and coughed, breathed and coughed. She spat on the ground, something black tinged with red. A single flower bloomed and died in the spot, leaving behind a bare patch in the grass.

  Oh, God.

  Fuck this. She was going in the house, and she was going to find her kids. She went to the back door this time, the sliding glass unobscured by curtains or anything else. Someone had written on the inside of the glass with one of those car paint markers, slashes making letters and words she couldn’t read backwards. A smiley face. Jordan, probably. He’d always been the one to leave his mark on everything.

  She pressed her face to the glass, hand shielding her eyes so she could look inside. Her kitchen had been destroyed. Table overturned. Pot rack hanging by one chain instead of two, the pots and pans scattered on the center island and the floor. The glassware that had once hung in the special glass racks was gone, and she thought she caught the hint of it in pieces on the floor. Flour or some other powder, maybe sugar, dusted the floor.

  And there, in the corner, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, was Benji.

  He saw her, she knew he did. His eyes glinted, but he didn’t move, otherwise. She couldn’t see much of him in the shadows, just his tuft of blond hair, uncombed as usual. She saw his sneakers, too, the ones with the stripes he’d insisted on though they were too big when she bought them and had tripped him up. He’d have grown into them by now, she thought. Abbie pressed her hands flat to the glass and looked in at her son for a long moment, drinking in the sight of him after so long.

  The door was locked. She gestured at him to open it, but Benji didn’t respond. His fingers twitched, his eyes widened, and his gaze cut, just briefly, to the family room. But he didn’t move. Abbie pressed her face to the glass again, searching for a sign of Ryan or Jordan. From here she could barely glimpse into the family room, her line of sight mostly blocked by the upended table.

  She saw a foot. A small foot, bare. Dirty. A gasp shoved its way up from her throat and fogged the glass in front of her. Her fingers scraped at it, squeaking.

  At the noise, Benji jerked. He looked terrified. He stared toward the family room, obviously seeing what she couldn’t.

  “Benji. Open the door!” Her boys had always been rambunctious and active, little bundles of chaos. But even at their worst, when her drinking had driven them to act out, they’d been good kids. Her discipline had usually been limited to limiting their TV and video games, or banishing them to their rooms. A stern command had often been enough to get them in line. She screamed, now. “Benjamin! Open this door!”

  Her older son scuttled along the floor on his hands and feet like some crawling beetle, ducking behind the table to pause for a minute while he stared at her with wild eyes. He was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, mouth open. He moved again, pushed the lock, curled himself back against the table again.

  Abbie shoved open the door and burst into the kitchen, expecting…what, she wasn’t sure. Silence greeted her, broken by the soft puffing breath of her boy, who’d now started shaking. She went to him. Gathered him up. Felt how thin his shoulders, the knobs of his spine. She clutched him to her and thought he might stay limp in her arms, if not outright resist her. That had been how he reacted to her hugs for a long time. But Benji grabbed her, fingers digging into her back as he buried his face in the side of her neck. His skin was hot and damp. He shuddered, and she stroked his hair. He stank.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  Benji said nothing. Voices broke the silence. The television. Someone in the family room was switching channels, rapidfire, not bothering to see what was on any of the channels before moving to the next. Some were blank, punctuating the manic sounds of game shows and explosions with quiet. Some were static, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually seen static on a cable station.

  “Where’s Jordan?” She pushed Benji away from her, just enough to look at his face. Everything in her screamed to go to her other son, but she had one in front of her right now who needed her. She didn’t want to think that the other one was beyond her help, but that was the thought that rose to her mind. “What happened?”

  “Daddy hit him, and he fell down.”

  Ohgodohgodohgod.

  Her stomach lurched, but Abbie didn’t have time for sickness or fear. She kissed Benji’s forehead, tasting salt and unwashed little boy. She held him to her, tight and close, then pushed away from him again. She got to her feet. Benji grabbed at her calves, holding tight, but without crying out. His eyes were wide, but dry. He shook his head.

  Terrified, her son was terrified, and her husband had done something to him and Jordan. Fury and terror felt very much the same, she discovered. Fury because even at her lowest point, she had never raised a finger to harm her kids. Terror because all she could think about was Cal and Tony heading toward each other like charging bears.

  Abbie wanted to run into the family room, but forced herself to step cautiously. Her feet crunched broken glass. She wanted to weep. Ryan’s grandmother’s crystal — Abbie had left it behind because it felt wrong to take what had been in his family for years even though she’d been the one to clean it and make sure they used it for dinner on special occasions. If she’d taken it, even if to box it up and keep it in storage, none of it would be lying shattered on the kitchen floor now.

  If she’d taken her boys, neither of them would be broken.

  But it had been impossible for her to take them with her, of course, she was the reason why their family had split and shattered like the glass that glinted on the floor. Her weakness had broken them apart. Yet here she was, days gone by without so much as a drop, reaching for a chair leg to use as a weapon.

  “Ryan?”

  When she went around the table and into the doorway, she first saw Jordan, her baby. He was on his side, one hand curled beneath his cheek like he was sleeping. She saw no blood, thank God for that, but he hadn’t so much as twitched when she said his name. She knelt next him, felt for a pulse. His skin was flushed, almost feverish. He was alive.

  She straightened, holding the chair leg warily, looking for her husband. She could see the top of his head from here, just over the edge of his recliner. She glimpsed the remote in his hand as he raised and lowered it, still changing the channels.

  “Ryan.”

  He didn’t turn. Didn’t move. She moved closer, one step, then another. The family room was as trashed as the kitchen had been, and she could see through the front hall to the foyer and dining room. They looked equally as messy.

  “Ryan.”

  She came around the edge of the chair, her grip tight on the chair leg but not holding it up. Not wanting to threaten him. He didn’t even shift a look in her direction when she stood there, and Abbie had to swallow another scream.

  The man in front of her was dead.

  16

  Here is the truth, this is the truth, this is the way of things and I would tell them all out there in front of me about it, but it’s gone too far and I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t hear the voice any more.

  I haven’t heard the voice of my fathergod since he pulled me out of the darkness of the death he hadn’t seen fit to show me how to avoid. Everything that used to be lines of light, the things I could see and hear and choose, all of th
at went away. I go right. I go left. I don’t know which way to go, it doesn’t matter, as Metallica said so famously, nothing else matters. I always liked Metallica.

  I stand in front of the crowd. I look out at it. There are more people there than ever bothered to come see me speak before. More than the blog, the radio show, more than I ever had as friends on Connex. Some of them I know, sure I do. Some of them I don’t. Some come to tear me down, but many many more are here to lift me up because I’ve done something none of them have but all of them desire.

  I came back.

  Resurrected.

  Oh, yes, I know all about it, being raised from the darkness of death…wait, I thought about that already. I am pacing here. On this stage. It’s hot, and this suit is ridiculous. It’s fucking ridiculous. All of this is.

  I listened to that voice for my whole life, and for what? To bring me here, to this place and time, this moment, for what? What reason? Why am I here, why am I there, why are they all staring while I choke and cough and try to soothe this fucking tickle in the back of my throat that won’t go away? Why are they all staring? I’m drinking a glass of water, that’s all, it’s not like I’m doing some song and dance routine.

  I can’t hear the voice of my fathergod, I can’t see the lines that show me the path I’m supposed to take, I can’t think or see anything except all these fucking faces in front of me. They all stare. Some of them are pointing. Some laughing. Pointing and laughing, what am I, Carrie at the fucking prom? Where’s the bucket of pig’s blood?

  “I made it through the worst natural disaster to hit this area in twenty years, motherfuckers!”

  Yeah, that’s right. Listen to what I have to say. You didn’t survive the tornados, you were safe inside your houses while the winds blew.

  “What, you lost some shingles? You had a tree come down? How many of you here were actually in the storm zone? That’s right, raise your fucking hands!”