Chapter 9-3
1052 Words
Anne sat beside Evan on the couch in his living room, trying not to stare at Mr. Griffith. He’d charged right through the house without saying a word, staying in the kitchen for a long time. He’d only staggered back out when the paramedics arrived with grim faces, soft voices, and a stretcher piled up with all kinds of equipment she didn’t recognize.
Evan’s father had paced for a few minutes, still without speaking. Anne was terrified he would walk right to that closet and look for his gun, even with her sitting there. He’d glanced at the door every time he passed by, but he made no move to open it.
Once he finally sat in his favorite recliner across from them, her fear only worsened. Mr. Griffith stared at the coffee table between them, as if he was deeply offended by the piles of books and magazines that were always scattered across the surface.
He was still wearing his gray jacket, but he’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned his white shirt. Anne had never seen him looking so bad outside of her own strange memories, his thick brown hair standing up and his face blotchy. He started asking the same questions over and over again as soon as he sat down, but that wasn’t what bothered Anne.
Evan’s father vibrated like a cartoon character who’d been hit on the head with a giant hammer. She was sure it was one of her visions, something only she could see. His clothes didn’t move, and neither did his hair or the chair he sat in. But to Anne’s eyes, his face, eyes, and hands shuddered and flashed, shifting before she could figure out what was real.
She saw the red face, the messy hair. She saw his face pale and white, his son’s blood splattered across his cheeks and forehead. She saw his eyes rolled up and empty, much more blood and gore welling out the top of his head.
The gun was still too close. Anne hadn’t done enough to change what was coming. But she knew Evan’s father would stop her if she tried to get away now.
“Your class was supposed to last all day, wasn’t it?” he said. “Why were you here so early?”
Ed Griffith had asked that question already. He didn’t seem to be hearing or seeing anything around him. Anne didn’t know if she’d ever be able to explain what she’d seen back in the classroom to Evan, much what she saw now. She knew she’d never be able to explain any of it to Mr. Griffith.
She was too afraid her jittery vision meant the gun was the only thing he could focus on.
“We were bored with the class, Dad,” Evan said, trying again with the same lie. “We decided to come home. We were going to get something to drink because it was so hot. Anne’s parents weren’t there yet. Then I…I called you when I saw.”
Evan’s dad covered his face with his hands, shaking his head.
She couldn’t understand why she still saw the memories that hadn’t happened, any more than the unnerving appearance of him. The memories with the gun. She hoped those would fade away. At least his voice sounded singular, steady.
“You should have stayed at school, son. You were supposed to stay there all day. That was the plan.” Mr. Griffith got louder with every word. “That was what you told me. I would have never wanted you to see this. If you wanted to come home, you should have called me.”
Evan turned to Anne, tears running down his cheeks again. She wanted to hug him, but not with his father there.
“I didn’t think about calling. We just left. I’m sorry.”
“That’s just it, Evan, you didn’t think!” Ed Griffith shouted, clenching his fists and glaring at his son. “You never think anything through!”
Evan’s face went white. Anne finally understood why he and Gwen called their father Hurricane Ed.
“I think it’s time for you to go, Anne. Your mother…” Evan said, his voice breaking. He held his breath for a second. “Your parents are going to be worried.”
“Maybe that’s best,” his father said, looking at the floor. “I shouldn’t have shouted like that. We’ve got a lot to take care of before your sister gets home.”
Anne didn’t need the memories to know that was going to be awful. Gwen was as likely as Mr. Griffith to get angry when no one expected it, much more so than Evan or his mother were.
His mother had been. Mrs. Griffith would never be anything again.
Anne hated to leave her friend, but she wanted to see her own parents very badly.
She took Evan’s hand and stood beside him. He squeezed hard enough to hurt her fingers, but she didn’t let go. Evan picked up her backpack, but he didn’t seem to notice the extra weight. Anne was afraid to say anything to stop him.
“Thank you for staying, Anne,” Mr. Griffith said, still looking down. “I still don’t understand why either of you were here so early, but I’m glad Evan wasn’t alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne said to Evan instead of his father. “I wish I could do something.”
All three of them jumped when the kitchen door opened.
“I’ll walk you home,” Evan said, and they left without looking back.
He didn’t let go of her hand or say a word on the walk, two doors down and across the street. They sat on the swing on her porch, facing away from his house.
Anne didn’t want to watch the paramedics wheeling his mother out. She didn’t want Evan to see either. Neither of them spoke until the silent ambulance drove by.
“Are you going to be okay tonight?”
“I don’t know, Anne. I’ve never had one of my parents die before.” He looked at her for a second, then he hugged her hard. “Thank you for trying to stop me.”
He was down the steps before she could say a word. Anne stayed where she was, staring at the oak tree beside her house, not wanting to watch him go back home.
She remembered now that Evan and his father were going to have a terrible night. It would only get worse when Gwen got there.
She kept waiting for the other memories to calm down, but they were still strong within her. The crashing boom echoed through her mind, and Anne knew she had to get rid of the gun. If she took it into her house, her parents would find it. They’d guess where it came from too, with Mr. Griffith’s initials on the holster.
The early evening was still uncomfortably warm, but she grabbed her backpack and walked around to the garage to get her bike.
- Writer
