the book aside.
“Are the Cochrans gone?”
“No, they’re not,” Marsh grated. “No thanks to you. What the hell did you say to Lisa?” Then, before Alex could answer, he went on, his voice icily cold. “Never mind. I know what you said. What I want to know is why you said it. She’s down there crying, and I can’t say that I blame her.”
“Crying? How come?”
Marsh stared at Alex’s serene face. Was it possible the boy really didn’t know? And then, as he made a conscious effort to bring his breath under control, he realized that it was, indeed, quite possible that Alex didn’t know what effect his words would have on Lisa.
“Because of what you said,” he replied. “About Mrs. Lewis, and about dying.”
Alex shrugged. “I didn’t know Mrs. Lewis. Lisa wanted to talk about her, but how could I? If you don’t know someone, you can’t talk about them, can you?”
“It wasn’t just that, Alex,” Marsh said. “It was what you said about dying. That everybody dies, and that it doesn’t matter how they die.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Alex countered. “Everybody does die. And if everybody dies, why should it be a big deal?”
“Alex, Marty Lewis was murdered.”
Alex nodded, but then said, “But she’s still dead, isn’t she?”
Marsh took a deep breath, and when he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “Alex, there are some things you have to understand, even though they don’t have any meaning to you right now. They have to do with feelings and emotions.”
“I know about emotions,” Alex replied. “I just don’t know what they feel like.”
“Exactly. But other people do know, and you used to know. And someday, when you’re all well again, you’ll feel them too. But in the meantime, you have to be careful, because you can hurt people’s feelings by what you say.”
“Even if you tell them the truth?” Alex asked.
“Even if you tell them the truth. You have to remember that right now, you don’t know the full truth about everything. For instance, you don’t know that you can hurt people mentally as well as physically. And that’s how you hurt Lisa. You hurt her feelings. She cares a great deal about you, and you made her feel as though you don’t care about anything.”
Alex said nothing. Watching him, Marsh couldn’t see whether the boy was thinking about his words or not. And then, once again, Alex spoke.
“Dad, I don’t think I do care about anything. Not the way other people do, anyway. Isn’t that what’s still wrong with me? Isn’t that why Dr. Torres says I’ll never get well? Because I don’t have all those feelings and emotions that other people have, and I never will?”
The hopelessness of Alex’s words was only reinforced by the tonelessness of his voice. Suddenly Marsh wanted to reach out and hold Alex as he’d held him when he was a baby. And yet he knew it would do no good. It wouldn’t make Alex feel more secure or more loved, for Alex didn’t feel insecure, and didn’t feel unloved.
He felt nothing. And there was nothing Marsh could do about it.
“That’s right,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what’s wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.” He reached out and squeezed Alex’s shoulder, though he knew the gesture was much more for himself than for Alex. “I wish I could fix it, son. I wish I could help you be the way you used to be, but I can’t.”
“It’s all right, Dad,” Alex replied. “I don’t hurt, and I don’t remember what I used to be like.”
Marsh tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. “It’s okay, son,” he managed to say. “I know how hard everything is for you, and I know how hard you’re trying. And we’ll get you through all this. I promise. Some way, we’ll get you through.” Then, unwilling to let Alex see him cry, Marsh left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Ten minutes later, when he had his emotions back under control, he went downstairs.
“He’s sorry,” he told Lisa and her parents. “He says he’s sorry about what he said, and he didn’t really mean it.” But a few minutes later, as the Cochrans left, he wondered if anyone had believed his words.
Alex woke up, and for a moment didn’t realize where he was. And then, as the walls of his room came into focus, so also did the dream that had awakened him.
He remembered the details, which were as clear in his mind as if he had just experienced them, yet there was no beginning to the dream.
He was just there, in a house very much like the one he lived in, with white plaster walls and a tile floor in the kitchen. He was talking to a woman, and even though he didn’t know the woman, did not recognize her face, he knew it was Martha Lewis.
And then there was a sound outside, and Mrs. Lewis went to the back door, where she spoke to someone. She opened the door and let the other person in.
For a moment Alex thought the other person was himself, but then he realized that although the boy resembled him, his skin was darker, and his eyes were almost as black as his hair. And he was angry, though he was trying not to show it.
Mrs. Lewis, too, seemed to think the other boy was Alex, and she was ignoring Alex now, talking only to the other boy, and calling him Alex.
She offered the boy a Coke, and the boy took it. But then, after he’d taken only a couple sips of the Coke, he set it down on the table and abruptly stood up.
Muttering softly, his eyes blazing with fury, he started toward Mrs. Lewis, and began killing her.
Alex remained still in the corner of the kitchen, his eyes glued to the scene that was being played out a few feet away.
He could feel the pain in Mrs. Lewis’s neck as the dark-skinned boy’s fingers tightened around it.
And he could feel the terror in her soul as she began to realize she was going to die.
But he could do nothing except stand where he was, helplessly watching, for as he endured the pain Mrs. Lewis was feeling, he was also enduring the pain of the thought that kept repeating itself in his brain.
And now, fully awake, the thought stayed with him, as did the memory of the feelings he’d had during the killing he’d watched.
Feelings. Emotions.
Pity for Mrs. Lewis, anger toward the boy, fear of what might happen after the murder was done.
Then, just as Mrs. Lewis died and Alex woke up, the emotions werfe gone. But the memory of them remained. The memory, and the image of the killing, and the words the boy had spoken as he killed.
Alex got out of bed and went downstairs. In the back of the third volume of the dictionary, he found the translation of the words the boy had repeated over and over again.
But vengeance for what?
Who were the thieves and murderers?
None of it made any sense to him, and even though he’d recognized her in his dream, Alex still couldn’t remember ever meeting Martha Lewis.
Nor did he know Spanish.
Then the boy in the dream couldn’t have been him.
It was just a dream.
He put the dictionary back on the shelf, then took himself back to bed.
But the next morning, when he opened up the La Paloma
It was, without any question, the woman he had seen in his dream.
