Henry Franks Read online

  Henry sat in his room, staring at a blank monitor, fingers resting on the keyboard. A branch beat against the window in the summer wind, the sound harsh and grating. He spun around in his chair, knocking a plastic pillbox to the ground. In the small room, it only took a couple of steps for him to reach the window and pull up the blinds. A sliver of moon surrounded by haze glowed above the tree line.

  Across the backyard, through the branches, he could see a part of Justine’s house but the lights were off. He raised the window, and the noise of the leaves grew louder as branches skittered against the house. In the heat, he scratched at the scar around his neck.

  Leaving the window, he moved the mouse to wake his computer up but focused on nothing beyond the lingering images of the dream. A ghost of a memory, a little girl calling him Daddy. And then, like his life, she was gone.

  He took a deep breath. Another, counting to ten as he struggled to hold on to the memories until all that remained was his father’s voice, telling him about a life he couldn’t remember and a death he’d somehow forgotten.

  three

  William Franks rested his head in his hands, staring at his half-eaten dinner without seeing it. He rubbed his fingers into the skin of his temples, trying to knead the headache away. It didn’t help. He turned to look at the empty doorway that Henry had just walked through, trying to see even a shadow of his son, but there was nothing there.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the words quiet in the stillness of the empty room.

  The headache never seemed to go away lately. He sighed as he turned the lights off, blinking in a short moment of relief from the brightness before heading to the kitchen. He pushed the toaster to the side and pulled out another bag of fast food. From the cabinet above the fridge he took down a bottle of ketchup and spread some on two burgers before wrapping them back up.

  William walked to the back door, pushing the curtain out of the way to stare out into the yard. Shadows blanketed the ground and it was difficult to see. He rested his fingers on the light switch but didn’t turn it on.

  The house settled around him, with soft squeaks from his son walking around upstairs and the steady hum of the air-conditioner. He stared out the window until his eyes began to water and only then did he turn the light on, flooding the backyard and banishing the gloom. With a deep breath, he unlocked the door, opening it slowly to cut down on the noise from the hinges.

  The heat hit almost immediately, moist and almost too thick to breathe, hurting his lungs with each inhale. The pounding in his head returned with a vengeance, every beat of his heart stabbing through him. William took one step outside and placed the fast food bag on the back stoop, never taking his eyes off the shadows hiding behind the trees. His pulse raced as he slammed the door shut behind him.

  He took deep gasping breaths as his fingers crawled up the wall toward the light switch, flicking it down and plunging the yard back into darkness. Only then did he turn around and look out the window. Nothing moved beyond the swaying of the branches, brushing against the side of the house in the breeze.

  Half an hour later he was still standing there, and the bag of food sat on the stoop untouched. William sighed. He rubbed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars but it didn’t help the pounding. Grabbing his keys, he walked out the front door, closing it as softly as he could. In his car, he rested his head back against the seat, staring at nothing before finally backing out of the driveway.

  He drove slowly through Harrison Pointe, his neck on a swivel trying to see between every house, searching the shadows. William forced himself not to blink, unwilling to risk missing something. From the glove box he took out a flashlight and held it out the open window, shining the light around so he could see better. It didn’t help.

  Up and down Frederica, the flashlight beam moving in circles. Turning onto Sea Island Road, he studied the marshes until he reached Torras Causeway and continued his search on the mainland. He turned onto K Street and parked, closing his eyes long enough to lessen the pounding. Even with the air on high, it was too hot in the car. Still, he managed to doze off, waking with a start as the first hint of the sun broke over the horizon.

  Turning from K Street onto Putnam, he slammed on the brakes as a lone figure staggered out of the trees at the end of the road. Long hair flew out behind it in the wind. William jumped out of the car, running to catch up as the person walked into a house.

  Sheriff Calls Brunswick

  Murder Scene “Appalling”

  BRUNSWICK, GA—June 3, 2009: The mysterious death of a Brunswick woman has now become a murder investigation. Sylvia Foote, 41, was found beaten to death at her home Sunday morning. Forensic teams were still searching her house Tuesday for evidence, and Assistant District Attorney of Glynn County Brian Winters said that investigators plan to return to the Brunswick home on Wednesday as they try to figure out how and why Foote was killed.

  “From our perspective, this is being treated with the highest priority,” Winters said.

  An autopsy revealed that Foote died of multiple wounds and blunt force trauma. “The state forensics crime lab has been called in and they will be up at the scene doing some specialized searches,” Glynn County Sheriff Dan Bailey said, calling the scene one of the worst he’d ever had to investigate.

  The death of the popular teacher and mother of three has hit the community hard, as people continue to leave flowers and candles outside her home and at Brunswick High School, where she taught science and was instrumental in developing the Jekyll Island Sea Turtle Tracking curriculum for the district.

  Winters said that they have interviewed dozens of people. “It’s a process that takes some time.” He also announced a $5,000 reward for information leading to an arrest in the case.

  2009 Hurricane Season

  Predicted to be Active (Update)

  MIAMI, FL—June 3, 2009: The National Hurricane Center has released their updated hurricane predictions as the 2009 Hurricane Season began June 1. Original forecasts called for 12–18 named storms with 3–5 having the potential to strike the United States. The update has increased the number of total named storms to 14–20 while lowering the risk to the United States to 2–4.

  Margaret Saville, PhD

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Thursday, June 4, 2009

  Patient: Henry Franks

  (DOB: November 19, 1992)

  A palm frond brushed against the glass, stirred by the thin summer wind that had dropped the temperature into the high eighties. Henry flinched at the sound, his fingers rigid where they pressed against his legs.

  “Breathe, Henry,” he said, hunched over so far he was talking to his shoes.

  “Relax,” Dr. Saville said. “You’re safe here.”

  He looked up at her, his pale gray eyes red from too many sleepless nights. His skin was dusky olive above the thin white scar on his neck and pale white below it, where the V of his shirt showed part of his chest.

  He took a breath, counted to ten, exhaled.

  “Any vacation plans now that school is out?” Dr. Saville reached for her pen and loudly clicked it open, waiting.

  “No.” As he shook his head, brown hair swirled away from his face and he smiled. “I know, Doctor,” he said, “no one-word answers. I remember that.”

  She smiled in reply and the pen flew across the paper. “So, what about Justine?”

  “She’s a friend, I guess.”

  “Friends are good.”

  “Girlfriends are better,” he said, and let his hair fall back into his eyes.

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No, no one. Not yet.”

  “Does ‘no one’ have a name?”

  Henry scratched his wrist with his discolored finger, then clenched his hands together. “No.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t think anyone at school even knows my name,” Henry said before brushing the hair back from his eyes.

  “Justine does.”


  “She lives next door, she has to.” He smiled as the sun broke through the clouds and lightened the room. The palm frond brushing against the window fell silent.

  “She has to be friends with you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Does she talk to you?” Dr. Saville asked.

  He laughed. “It’s Justine. All she does is talk.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Good?”

  “Her talking to you, Henry,” she said. “How would you feel if she stopped?”

  He took a deep breath, and then rubbed his hands over his face. “Doesn’t help.”

  “With?”

  “Life? Memory?”

  “Dreams?”

  He slid down in his seat, hiding behind his hair as he tensed up. He nodded, once.

  “The old dream, Henry?”

  Again, the nod.

  “How long has it been? Months?” She flipped through her notebook, then tapped her pen against her leg. “Did something happen?”

  Henry looked at her, and then reached for his backpack. He pulled out a card and handed it to her.

  HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, SON! blared a smiling cartoon father balancing a cake on a unicycle.

  Dr. Saville read the card, then passed it back.

  “He gave it to me yesterday,” Henry said.

  “Why?”

  “I woke up a year ago.”

  “Then the dream last night?” she asked.

  “Again.”

  “Anything new?”

  “I didn’t die,” Henry said. “Does that count?”

  “Well, that’s something, at least,” Dr. Saville said. “Anything else?”

  “She died this time.”

  four

  From where Henry lay on his bed, he watched the sunlight cast shadows on the wall. It was already hot, despite central air and the ceiling fan, and even in boxers and a T-shirt, he’d woken up drenched in sweat. Scars like railroad tracks leading nowhere circled around his legs and itched in the heat.

  Out his window he had a view of a corner of Justine’s front yard where her younger brother was bouncing a ball against their house. Justine was nowhere to be seen. He closed the blinds, dry-swallowed his pills, and walked downstairs in the empty house. A bowl sat on the table next to a box of cereal, waiting for him, but his father had long since left for work. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground when he pulled his chair out.

  Henry, he read as he poured the milk, Sorry about the card.

  From the street, a car blew its horn, and Henry walked to the front door to look outside. A pickup truck, overloaded with cheerleaders, sat in front of Justine’s house. As he watched, she jumped into the back and then they were gone. Her brother continued bouncing his ball as Henry went back to breakfast.

  He pulled the card out of his backpack and leaned it against the base of his monitor. One year. He rested the tip of his finger on one of the pushpins, staring at the patchwork flesh of his hand. The more he stared at it, the stranger it looked. The scar interrupted the lines on his palm, no longer telling any future he could imagine. Only the past interested him anymore. His own past. Even his name seemed to weigh strangely on him and the more he repeated it to himself, the less it seemed like a real word at all.

  The scrapbook lay where he’d left it, open to the picture of his mother, but no matter how long he studied her face, he couldn’t remember her; it was as if a stranger held his hand. Even his own face was alien to him, and he’d spent hours one night looking at his reflection trying to remember himself. He’d cried himself to sleep that night, face buried in the pillow, afraid his father would hear his sobs.

  Beneath the picture, his father had written Mommy, Daddy, Henry with a ballpoint pen. The pages were falling out of the book due to how often he flipped through it; the flimsy photo album was in danger of falling apart completely. Henry ran his finger over the words but couldn’t feel a thing, and suddenly realized he didn’t even know his mother’s name.

  He took the stairs two at a time, jumping down them and calling for his father. “Dad!” echoed through the empty house. Where the hallway to the master bedroom began, Henry stopped. A wooden door stood at the end of the short hallway, a deadbolt lock above the knob. Henry took a deep breath, stepped forward, and knocked.

  The house was silent save for the constant hum of the air-conditioner.

  His hand rested on the doorknob; he closed his eyes as he tried to open it and failed.

  Hours later, when he heard his father return home, Henry started downstairs. The question of his mother’s name was on the tip of his tongue but would remain unasked. When his father’s voice drifted up the stairs, Henry stopped in the shadows halfway down, trying to see the person his father was talking to.

  “C6, C7,” his father said while emptying three bags of fast food out on the table. “Carbamazepine and phenobarbitol; maybe divalproex. C6, C7. So close, sweetheart, almost there, I promise.” But as far as Henry could see, there was no one else in the room.

  Dr. Franks piled the hamburgers up on the counter, then filled one bag back up and started walking to the dining room with it, grabbing a handful of ketchup packets on the way.

  Henry watched, barely able to breathe, as his father placed the burgers on the table.

  “Dinner,” his father said, calling up to him.

  He tiptoed back up to his room and then walked downstairs. By the time he reached the kitchen, the remaining pile of burgers on the counter was gone. On the dining room table there were only enough for their dinner. His father was already eating.

  As Henry looked at him, for just a moment, he thought he was staring at a stranger.

  After dinner, his father cleaned the table and then left the room. The deadbolt clicking into place on his father’s door was loud in the silence. Henry sat at the empty table, the question of his mother’s name still unspoken and barely more than a memory.

  Wind brushed leaves against the windows in the humid summer evening as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. In the kitchen, Henry searched for the rest of the food his father had brought home, but there was only one bag in the garbage can and no evidence remained that there had been any other hamburgers in the house. Somewhere, a dog barked. Then, with a crash of a branch against the side of the house, the wind hissed right outside the window.

  Henry pushed the mini-blinds to the side and peered out into the backyard. A light from Justine’s house sent hazy shadows across the summer-scorched grass. Barely visible from where he was standing, there was a bag of fast food on the back stoop.

  Henry dropped the blinds, staring at nothing while the image of that bag flashed across his vision every time he blinked. He took a deep breath before walking to the back door and flipping the light switch for the backyard.

  The single halogen flooded the area with light. A weak breeze stirred as Henry opened the door. He picked the fast food bag up. Aside from crumpled wrappers, it was empty. He dropped it to the ground and took another look around the yard.

  Old oak trees, gnarled roots poking out of the ground, were draped with Spanish moss. An ancient iron fence, more rusted than not, in some places ran right into the trees in its circuit of the yard. A gate swung open on broken hinges. Even at night, the heat brought beads of sweat out on his skin, catching in the scars.

  A branch snapped in two as it clawed against the house and he hurried inside, locking the door behind him. He took another deep breath, counting to ten as he leaned against the wall, staring out between the miniblinds as the Spanish moss hung motionless in the still night air.

  Margaret Saville, PhD

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Tuesday, August 4, 2009

  Patient: Henry Franks

  (DOB: November 19, 1992)

  “I’m alive,” he said. “I breathe.”

  “And the dream?” Dr. Saville asked.

  “I’m living the wrong life.” He sat up, hair falling into his face, and
he tensed his fingers, stretching them as far as they would go. Then, with a shrug, he slumped back down, melting into the cushion. “Or something like that. It’s me but it’s not me. Then I wake up.”

  “This is part of the process, Henry.”

  “Waking up is good.”

  “Then what?”

  He looked at her, then closed his eyes. “Nothing. No dreams during the day. You need memories for that, don’t you?”

  “What do you do during the day?”

  “I’m not exactly the beach type,” he said. “Sat out back last week where no one could see. Only part of me tanned.”

  “Hang out with friends? Justine?”

  He looked toward the window, where the palm tree brushed along the glass, and then shrugged. “She always says hi, I guess.”

  “Do you talk to her when she talks to you?” Dr. Saville asked.

  “She has her own friends.” He shook his head. “I have … ”

  “You have?” she asked, when he didn’t continue.

  “Was going to say my father, but he’s usually MIA, so it’s just me.”

  “Do you think you have any friends?”

  “I have pictures of friends in the scrapbook he put together. And nightmares. But I don’t recognize anyone from the photographs.”

  “Has anyone from the album appeared in a dream?” she asked.

  He stared back out the window past the palms to the sliver of the Atlantic visible between the other buildings. The distant horizon shimmered in the haze.

  “Mom.”

  “She’s the only person you recognize?”

  “No.” He shook his head, once more hiding behind his hair.

  “Who?”

  “The little girl. Calling me Daddy, over and over again.”

  “She’s in your scrapbook?” Dr. Saville asked.

  “No, but I always think I know her.”

  “Do you?”

  He shrugged. “Her name’s Elizabeth.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “She told me.”