The remains

Chapter 17

It was a bold statement, admittedly. And I’m not sure Michael knew how to react to it. He stood stone stiff, eyes wide open, unblinking. He’d gone silent.

“Let me get this straight. You think an autistic guy like Franny is trying to send you subliminal messages through his work.”

“Except there’s nothing sublime about them. I can read them just like I can read a stop sign. Even you can read them when pushed.”

“Let me ask you a question,” he jumped in. “When was the last time you had a conversation with Franny that lasted more than a few sentences?”

“That would be never.”

“But he has the ability to paint secret messages or at least words inside his design of his paintings.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Is Franny purposely putting words into those scenes? And if he is, how can he be sure I’ll recognize them?”

Michael cocked his head.

“Maybe it’s something he feels compelled to do. You know, like instinct.”

I grabbed my beer and, like Michael before me, took a very long drink. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “This is what I believe: come Friday it’ll be thirty years since Molly and I were abducted. Maybe thirty years bears some larger significance than say, twenty-nine years for instance.”

“Why?”

“Because for weeks now I’ve been having these vivid dreams about Molly, Whalen, the attack in the woods, the events leading up to it.”

“Vivid dreams.” Michael nodded. I got the feeling I was losing him.

“Yes, vivid dreams. And I also think that somehow Franny, despite his autism, has somehow found a way to turn his emotional disconnectedness around. Whether he’s aware of it or not.”

“So what are you saying, Bec?”

“I guess what I’m saying is that Franny knows something I don’t. He’s somehow perceived something. The future maybe. Now the only way he can warn me about it is through these paintings.”

Michael shook his head.

“Franny has a sixth sense?” Yet another question.

“From what little I know about savants, I know that they use their brains differently than you and me. They’re able to tap far deeper into certain wells of talent and yet not at all in others. Thus his unusually gifted talent for painting, for creating images, for putting together colors.”

Retrieving his empty beer bottle, Michael went back into the kitchen. He got a Pepsi, popped the top, and came back out into the living room with it. The difference between the new Michael and the old Michael was that now he could stop drinking after one beer.

Scratching his head, he said, “How can you be sure about any of this, Bec? Sounds like science fiction to me. Isaac Asimov Magazine.”

I pointed to the first painting on the left. “Listen.”

“Only a few hours after he gave me this painting, I dreamed of a field with a thick wood on its far side. Molly was walking ahead of me, leading us into the woods that my father forbade us to enter.”

“That’s no dream,” Michael said. “That really happened.”

“I was woken up from that dream to the sound of my cell phone ringing. I also thought I heard a voice.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

“It was his voice. I swear it was Whalen’s voice.”

“Do you remember Whalen’s voice?”

I shook my head.

“No. But I knew it belonged to him.”

“You must have been dreaming. He’s dead after all. Isn’t he?”

“Yeah, I was dreaming. But my eyes were open. I couldn’t move. I felt like I was glued to the bed.”

Now pointing his index finger at me to further stress his point, he said, “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t dreaming?”

“I agree. It’s not unusual to have your eyes open and be caught up in a dream state.”

“So who was calling you at that hour?”

“In the morning I checked the phone. There was no record of anyone having called.”

Michael smiled. But I knew he wasn’t happy about anything. “Then it all must have been a bad dream.”

“True, but…” My voice trailed off, as if it had a mind of its own.

“But what, Bec?”

“Then this afternoon Franny gives me another painting. This one matches precisely the scene of my dream-the landscape-almost precisely. He calls it ‘See’ of all things as if he wants me to see what’s about to happen.”

“Yesterday he wanted you to listen. The squiggly Sharpie lines. Maybe they represent sound waves.” He said it half joking, half serious.

I giggled. But it was a nervous giggle. Sound Waves… Listen… Michael had a point. He crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. I was freaking him out.

“What else, Bec?” he pushed. “I know you’re not done.”

“And tonight, in the parking garage as I was heading for home, I saw the shadow of a man.”

“Becca.”

I wasn’t talking now so much as ranting. Michael was staring at me, shaking his head. Not like he didn’t believe me. More like things were moving too fast for him.

My lungs were working overtime, my heart was pounding and there was a buzzing inside my skull.

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “Over the past few months I’ve received more than a few odd texts.”

“How odd?”

“Some contained only my name. Rebecca. More recently I started getting the word, ‘remember.’”

“Who forwarded them?”

“When I try to find out the sender’s information, all I get is ‘Unknown Caller.’”

“Then whoever is doing this knows how to block it. Did you know that if we had a number, we could cross-reference it on the web for a home address?”

I told him I had no idea. But then, what difference did it make? At least Michael knew everything now. At least I had finally been able to free the secret.

Silence draped over us for what seemed forever. Until my ex-husband escaped into the bathroom and washed his face. When he returned to the living room, some of the color had returned to his cheeks.

“I thought you told me Whalen was dead?” he said. “Isn’t that exactly what you told me a few minutes ago when you revealed the secret?”

“I’ve always assumed he was dead. That he died an old man in prison.”

“So Whalen didn’t just disappear,” he posed. “He was arrested and put in lock up?”

“Arrested and convicted in the abduction and attempted rape of an Albany woman if I remember correctly. Happened not six months after his attack on me and my twin sister. They put him away forever. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. When you’re twelve years old, thirty years sounds like a lifetime. Or in this case, a death sentence.”

Michael exhaled and once more crossed his arms.

“It’s been thirty years, Rebecca,” he said. “The lifetime is over, death sentence commuted.”

I felt a brick lodge itself in my stomach. The brick turned into nausea.

“You think it’s possible Whalen has been released from prison?” I said, voice trembling. “Michael, do you believe he could be alive? That maybe he’s stalking me? Texting me? Do you think Franny’s hyper-sensitive brain has somehow picked up on it, and the only way he knows how to warn me is through his paintings?”

He never said a word. Because just like Franny, I believe he already knew the answer.