Adermoor Cove: Donovan Road - 8. Chapter 8

“It’s official,” Ted Magyer said. “The lighthouse and everything your aunt owned has been passed onto you.”

Lane shook his head, looking at the titles for the lighthouse, The Netted Eel, and the Clam’s Pearl, as well as the yacht The Dionysia. He looked at his lawyer. “Are you sure about all this? Just like that? I didn’t even have to see a judge?”

“Trust me, Lane, you don’t have to keep asking. I wouldn’t tell you it is official if it isn’t official.”

“How’d you do it?”

Ted scratched at the back of his head. “It’s hard to explain. All I can say is we do things differently around here in Adermoor Cove.”

Lane took a second to think about what this all meant. I have a home now. I don’t have to live in my car anymore or stay in hotel room after hotel room. I don’t have to run. For better or worse I can stay here. He grinned, feeling happy for the first time since...he couldn’t remember. It literally felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I spotted a few bottles of Cognac in the cellar yesterday when I was looking over everything? Will you stay and have a glass with me to celebrate?”

Ted smiled. “Did you say Cognac?”

Lane took this to mean yes. The cellar door was just by the kitchen. He had to force himself not to take the steps three at a time. The steps were steep: the last thing he needed was to ruin the moment and fall down the stairs head first. Towards the back of the cellar was a wall of cubby holes; each hole held a bottle of cognac. Lane had resisted the urge to take one yesterday lest he get carried away. The outside of the bottle was dusty and covered in cobwebs,, indicating they’d been there for a long time. Lane decided he’d just brush away the cobwebs and wipe the bottle off.

Back in the kitchen, once the bottle was cleaned off, he found two glasses and a bottle opener. The moment he removed the cork he smelled the sweet waft of grapes that had been fermenting over time. He filled Magyer’s glass to the top and handed it to the older man.

Ted held up his glass towards Lane. “To Lane Hardy, who’s finally come home.”

They clinked glasses together.

Both men were just about to drink from their glasses when there was a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” said Ted. He set the glass back down on the table. Lane listened as his footsteps came back a moment later, followed by another set. The kitchen door opened and in came Ted, followed by Carlos. Lane felt his spirits shrivel and die. Carlos was still dressed in his uniform from earlier. In his hand he carried a paper bag, the top bunched up underneath his fingers. Lane could smell grilled beef.

He saw the two glasses of wine and the bottle of cognac in between standing on the table and chuckled. “Is there a celebration going on?”

“Lane here has just officially inherited his birthright,” Ted said jovially. Then he saw the intense look on Lane’s face and cleared his throat. “You two look like you have business you need to discuss. I’ll just get going.”

“It’s fine,” Lane said. “You can stay if you want to. Drink your Cognac.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mean to be wasteful but I have a lot of work I have to do at the office tomorrow. Perhaps you could just pour it back in the bottle.” And with that Ted was leaving the kitchen once more. Leaving Lane alone with Carlos.

“So, uh, congratulations,” said Carlos.

“Congratulations?” Lane laughed sardonically. “Didn’t you just tell me a few hours ago you wish I’d never come here?”

Carlos rubbed the back of his head. “That was a mistake. Really, I’m sorry.”

“Well my dad, Craig, used to tell me this story about this little girl who had to hammer a nail into a post every time she said something hurtful. Later, when she told her parents she was sorry she’d have to go outside and pull the nail out with the hammer. Moral of the story: Nails gone but the hole is still there. Just remember that story the next time you’re feeling frustrated and feel the need to take it out on someone else. What’s in the bag?”

Carlos held up the bag. “Two bacon deluxe cheeseburgers from The Treasure Trove. You gobbled down the last one I bought you so I assumed you like them. A peace offering. I figured one is for coming out to Ramona’s to help and the other is for me being an asshole. Or the two can cover me being an asshole and I’ll find some other way to pay you for your services.”

Lane laughed despite himself and this time it was genuine. “You’re good.” He came across the room and took the bag from Carlos. His face softened. “I’m not really angry at you Carlos. I know you must be terrified for your friend. And I have a pretty good idea what you’re going through. Most people, when they use that phrase, don’t really know what you’re going through but I do. What I said back at the house, about burning it down, I wasn’t trying to be a dick. But one thing you’ve got to know about me is I don’t sugarcoat things and I don’t believe in giving false hope. Understand?”

Carlos nodded.

Lane went over to the cabinets and grabbed two plates. “I’m not going to be able to eat both of these. Why don’t you eat one with me?”

“I can’t. I promised my dad I’d meet him for beer at his place.”

“No sense in drinking beer on an empty stomach. Just take five-ten minutes to eat. You look dead on your feet anyway. Eating something might help.” With the corner of his lip curled, Lane offered Carlos the plate. “Just so you know, I don’t take no for an answer.”

Carlos relented, sitting down at the table.

"You can have the Cognac too, if you want it. Did you go see your friend at the hospital?"

Chewing, Carlos nodded.

"How'd that go?"

"She was sedated heavily. Other than that I can't say. I didn’t stay long. I hate hospitals."

Lane smiled. "So do I."

Carlos looked down at his burger thoughtfully. Lane could literally hear the wheels turn in his head. Lane waited nervously. "Would you want to see her tomorrow?"

"Your friend? I don’t know."

"Why not?"

"I don’t know her. To me visiting someone I don’t know at the hospital is about as classy as going to the funeral of someone I don't know."

"Would you do it for me? As a favor."

Lane laughed. "What am I, your favor prostitute who pays me in cheeseburgers?"

Carlos smiled mischievously, took a sip from his glass. "This time I thought I might buy you a nice steak dinner. It would help her if you could talk with her about her experiences, you know, maybe make her feel a little less crazy?"

"Well when you ask with that little boy look on your face it's kind of hard to resist."

"What can I say? I'm irresistible."

"Don't push your luck."

"Say six tomorrow?"

"Six it is."

                 …

She dreamed she was running through the woods behind the house, chasing after the creature that had taken Ramona. It crashed through the trees like a giant, taking the woman she loved with it. One moment she was there and the next she was gone.

Still, Moira kept running. She knew if she stopped now she would never see Ramona again. A branch snagged at her hair. Another sliced into her cheek hard enough to draw blood; a drop fell through the air, exploding when it made contact with the forest floor. The ground rose into a small hill. She tripped on something, a root or a rock, picked herself back up, and moved on to the top of the rise. A few feet later she found something lying on the ground.

A single severed finger.

A few feet later, a foot.

Several feet after that, a leg without the foot.

The further into the woods she went the more body parts she found, spread further and further apart: the other arm, the other leg, the torso, and finally Ramona's severed head, staring at Moira in wide eyed terror, the mouth open in a silent scream.

Then Moira would wake up with a sense of relief. The nightmare was over. She was okay, she was alive. Then she would slowly realize the nightmare was not over. Ramona was still gone when she should be here by Moira's side. Her life had become a nightmare within a nightmare.

A few moments after Carlos had come to visit her - Moira really did like the flowers, and more so the gesture as meaningless as it was - her doctor Daphne Bowers, a middle aged woman with a round face and brown hair pulled back into a ponytail had come into to give Moira her prognosis. Moira at one point had been given an EKG. The scans showed she'd had a concussion from hitting her head in the woods. Daphne wanted to keep her in for one more night, just for observation. Moira did not like the idea of having to stay another night. In New York, unless the doctor had just rearranged your ovaries or some other major surgery, they pretty much gave you the boot after one night.

During the morning of her second day at the hospital Scott and Anne Sterling came into the room to see her, much to Moira's chagrin. The moment she saw their faces and the accusing look Scott kept giving her, Moira wished the bear had dragged her into the woods as well.

"Hey sweetie," Anne said, pulling her chair up next to Moira's bed. Moira actually would have liked Anne if she'd stand up to her husband. She had sensed in her previous interactions with Ramona's mother she didn't always see eye to eye with Scott - nor did she dare contradict him. It was an if I say jump you say how high sort of relationship straight from the days when women couldn't vote.

Moira managed to muster up a smile. "I'm okay." Which was a lie because she wasn't okay at all. And then the tears came as the guilt overwhelmed her. Suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't contain the emotion welling up inside her. "I'm so sorry. I tried to save her but I couldn't. It was too fast and it just dragged her off into the woods."

"Shhh," Anne said soothingly. "It's okay. I know it wasn't your fault."

Not for the first time it struck Moira just how much Ramona looked like her mother. Same orange-red hair, porcelain pale skin and scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and on the back of her arms.

Only Ramona didn't act like her mother, but more like her father. She was a daddy's girl.

And then Scott said, "None of this would have happened if she wasn't gay." And he was looking spitefully at Moira as he said it.

"Scott!" Anne cried, appalled.

But it was already too late, the damage had been done. Moira felt as if she'd been hit by a wrecking ball. So here it is, the truth about how you feel towards my relationship with Ramona. Spoken plainly for us to hear. It had to come out eventually, didn't it? At first, despite the fact she'd already known the truth of how he felt, Moira could only feel hurt. Devastation. She felt her grief for Ramona and the hurt at Scott's treatment turn into anger, like gas matter turning into solid matter.

What was worse was this anger felt good. It reinvigorated her. It was anger that had been building up over time, brick by brick as she suppressed her anger to keep from lashing out at others. It's what happened to people who were passive and avoided conflict. Eventually they just explode.

She glared at Scott Sterling, a stupid bull of a man. At that moment she hated the sight of his reddened face, sunburned from working out in the sun. Before she'd always been intimidated. He was tall and fit and very healthy for the age of fifty-seven. His forearms were thick with thin wisps of hair. His face, as always, was looking down on others in judgement. Moira at least some of the times could understand why Anne Sterling kept her silence. This was a man you would not want to cross.

But Moira's anger made her brave. She was tired of always taking peoples' shit, always rolling over on her belly. She was tired of men like Tim Kelly and Scott Sterling, who bullied women because they thought they could get away with it. Well Moira was done holding back. She simply had no more room.

"You sack of horseshit," she said in a voice not her own. It came out low and gravely, the voice of another woman. Anne gasped in shock. Moira had never talked like this before. This is what happens when you push nice people over the edge. "How dare you come in here with your judgement and talk to me like this? I just watched your daughter get dragged out of a house by a fucking bear! Right through the window."

Scott's chest puffed out in indignation. "Listen here - "

"No you listen, you bigot," said Moira. "Get out. Just go. If you don't there's going to be hell to pay for the both of you." When neither of them moved she screamed, "Get out! Get the fuck out!" She was mashing at the nurse call button on the remote with both fingers, her teeth clenched together, her eyes bulging in fury. Both Sterlings, backing towards the hall, looked at her as if she'd lost her mind, and maybe she had. She didn't care. It felt good to be angry, to explode. I should do it more often, she thought.

                                 …

Lane and Carlos almost got trampled by an older couple as they came running out of the room. The man knocked into Lane hard enough to send him stumbling back a few steps. Lane turned his head to look back at the man. "Hey asshole, ever hear the words 'excuse me'?"

The man looked back over his shoulder, barely giving Lane a cursory look before rounding the corner with the woman, probably his wife, jogging to keep up.

"That was Scott and Anne Sterling," said Carlos. "Ramona's parents. Scott thinks he's God's gift to this town. Just like Lucille."

"Who's Lucille?"

"Annabelle's grandmother, the young woman who works at The Treasure Trove. Her grandmother has raised her since she was a baby. Her parents died in a car accident when she was six months old, crashed into a tree on Donovan Road. Lucille's a religious fanatic. She thinks everyone except her is going to Hell and so does Scott."

"It seems like a lot of bad things happen on Donovan Road," said Lane. "You know, the longer I'm here the more difficult I find it to believe I'm from this crackerjack town."

Carlos was about to enter the room when Lane grabbed his arm gently. "I think it might be best if you let me go in there solo."

Carlos blinked.

"Just trust me," Lane said.

"Okay," Carlos said reluctantly, but not without a glimmer of curiosity in his dark eyes. "Don't make me regret this."

Lane grinned roguishly before entering the room.

                                  …

"Excuse me," said a voice, the voice of a young man.

Moira chuckled, looking down at her lap. "I don't mean to be rude but I'm really not in the mood for visitors."

"I'm sure you're not, considering what you've been through, but really I come in peace."

She looked up. The guy standing in the doorway was young, early twenties, and looked like a rockstar straight from a punk rock band. His raven black hair was cut into a Mohawk, spiked on top, shaved on the sides. Black eye shadow smeared all around, making him look like a raccoon or a crackhead. One of his eyebrows was pierced with a silver hoop. He was short and compact, even scrawny. His fingernails were painted black.

Despite his appearance there was something that immediately drew her attention to him, made her feel at ease. Perhaps it was the casual glint in his eyes, or the fact that even though he was short and scrawny he seemed to take up the center of the room.

"I suppose I can do one more visitor," Moira said. "Do you want to have a seat?"

                                     …

The woman looked like she'd been through hell. There was a band-aid on one cheek and a nasty bruise had formed on her forehead just beneath her hairline. Her hair was a tangled mess and her eyes were reddened from crying.

Lane sat in the chair, making sure to keep a fair distance away from her. The last thing he wanted to do was spook this woman who he didn't even know. His stomach was all tied up into knots of anxiety, yet he felt oddly compelled to talk to Moira. If he could assure another person who had had similar experiences to him that they weren't crazy, he'd do it without a second thought.

"I'm Lane, I just moved into town a few days ago. Your friend Carlos asked me to come by and speak with you. I heard about your situation. I'm sorry about what happened to your partner."

"Thank you," said Moira. "That means a lot."

Okay, Lane thought. Here goes nothing - the plunge. "What I came here to say, and there's really no easy way to say it, is I have a pretty good idea what you're going through. It's happened to me too."

The woman frowned. "What do you mean?"

Shit, I'm losing her already. "The same thing that infected your bear. I've seen it before, outside of town."

Her eyes widened when she realized what he was saying. "So I'm not crazy, I'm not just seeing things?"

Lane shook his head. "No, you're perfectly sane. It's this town that's crazy. And no matter what anyone tries to tell you, you need to remember that."

Moira nodded shakily. "Thank you. You have no idea how much it relieves me to hear someone say that."

Lane stood up. "Carlos is waiting outside. Would you like me to let him in?"

"Yes please."

Lane went back into the hallway where Carlos was waiting. He was suddenly very tired. "She wants to see you. I'm just going to wait out here, give you some time with her."

"You sure?"

"I'll just be in the waiting room."

Lane had taken a few steps towards the waiting room when Carlos called after him. "Thanks, Lane."

The younger man smiled. "No problem."

                                       …

When Carlos left, Moira was both relieved and horrified to learn she wasn't crazy. She remembered the dreamy hazy quality of the events that had happened at Ramona's house. Of course it all felt very real too, but she figured it couldn't have really happened, could it?

But there were two other people who had experienced similar incidents and Carlos was one of them. She'd listened in awe as he told her about what had happened with the lunch lady in the cafeteria, and the other incident when he'd gone to investigate the scene of Vanessa Stanton's death at the lighthouse.

He promised he would do anything he could to bring Ramona home. And then he kissed Moira on the forehead and left.

I'll hold you to it, she thought, and then went back to sleep.