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Act 1: Going Home Tuesday Group Therapy session, Penn Hospice At Rittenhouse, North Philadelphia PA. 4/28/15, 4:22 PM  The group around Bobby Isaac sporadically lends its words of support - Cynthia and Dan support him at least. Cynthia is just trying to help him but Dan... well, if Bobby was even sure he could feel pity at this point he'd direct at his brother-in-arms. All three of them, really, had been outliers in the Aegle end-of-life hospice initiative. UPenn had brought them together to explore ways of living that might best ease the process of dying, and they were all dying. To the three of them it seemed like that last part made the whole exercise null, for some more than others. Bobby doesn't say anything in response - he wishes he could, wishes he could tell them that despite what a dick he's been he appreciates them - and the session ends quietly. He gives listless goodbyes. Cynthia squeezes his hand and he smiles for her. Then they leave, and he goes back to his apartment. - - - - - Bobby Isaac's Apartment, North Philadelphia PA. 4/28/15, 8:35 PM Bobby sits on his bed, the mask through which he practices his breathing exercises next to him, but when the time comes for them, he doesn't pick it up. He had gotten off the phone with his brothe, who sounded worried, but Bobby told him not to do anything rash, that he was fine. Maybe a bit of a cheat, that, given how relative a word like "fine" can be, given what his brother knew. But now he's actually feeling fine, in a strange, calm sort of way, a way that made some deep unseen part of him wildly alarmed. Was this happening? He had always thought that, were it to happen, it would be through his choice, but somehow he knows now that the choice has been made for him. And yet while his anger and resentment are still there, it feels like they don't matter anymore. Bobby lays back, his eyelids heavy. What have I done. The words flit over his thoughts as they slip under the shroud of sleep. - - - - - - Posting Conventions posted:"Bold for quotes" Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 07:49 on May 21, 2015 |
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May 20, 2015 07:51
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First Memorial Church, Philadelphia PA. 5/2/15. 10:15 AM 4 days after Bobby died, his remaining family held his memorial service. The short turnaround was understandable - this had been planned out for some time, after all. All the other Aegle patients, caregivers and doctors are here and dressed in black. There are flowers and smiling photos of Bobby big and small displayed all around the courtyard as old family friends and people from his past make the circuit and pay their respects. Daniel and Cynthia are here as well, and while it is a sad day the feeling is muted, for any number of reasons. After a time, they are approached by the man who seems to be directing things.  He introduces himself as Scott Isaac, Bobby's older brother. You know of him, of course - Bobby spoke of him sometimes in session, and they loved each other in the contentious way brothers set apart by years can (Bobby is - was - 33, Scott is 45). Not only that, but his face is recognizable from the paperbacks you'd come across whenever browsing airport newsstands - his last book's adaptation had starred Chris Evans and broken January release records. He almost lights up when he sees you. "You two must be Cynthia and Daniel. Bobby talked a lot about you, you know. Nobody understands better than me what a pain he could be, but he liked you guys a lot. Especially, even." He sighs and he seems to look far off, for a moment, before continuing. "That's why I've been meaning to track you down. The Isaac Family... Well, Dad left us a lot of money and obviously, a lot of Bobby's share he left to UPenn and the Aegle program, whatever he thought of it on his terms. But there was another thing too, a request in his will. He specifically requested that the both of you be brought up to Wakerobin Lodge. I don't know if he ever told you about it. It's... where we grew up. Copper River Valley in Alaska, we would fly out by biplane every summer back when he was well..." he's silent for a moment. "But it's just for a few days, enough for the proper funeral and some time in the area. I think he wanted you to enjoy it the way he did, maybe show you where he came from as he was laid to rest there." "It's an open offer, of course, and you don't have to go if you don't want to, but I know it meant a lot to him. We'd be leaving in about 6 days. So... what do you think?" Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 07:48 on May 21, 2015 |
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May 20, 2015 08:11
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 Daniel Worcek Daniel looks as out of it as ever with his slack-jawed stare and disheveled suit, but the truth is that he's more aware now than he's been in weeks. Pain has a way of throwing things into focus, and Bobby's passing hurt a lot more than he expected. It's the first time Dan has been this close to death and the loss is like a hot needle lodged in his heart. But there's also another hurt, a selfish, loathsome fear; Bobby was supposed to have another year, but he didn't even get another day. Without warning, he went from stable to stiff. FFI may be a slow killer, but it's as unpredictable as any disease. The sun could just as easily have dawned on a Daniel Worcek who couldn't think as it did on a Bobby Isaac who couldn't breathe. He hates himself for even thinking that, and the guilt stings more than anything else. When Scott greets them, Daniel almost wells up. He wishes he could just let it out, but he's done too much crying over the last couple of days to muster any tears now. Bobby did tell him about Wakerobin. The last few years before coming to Aegle, Dan had gotten into mountain climbing and nature hiking. Never on any serious basis; between professional obligations and personal side projects there just wasn't enough time. Still, he had enough disposable income and vacation time to afford taking a few days out of the year to admire some of mother nature's more forgiving wonders. He'd spent his fair share of time in nowhere towns and somewhere lodges and he'd bonded with Bobby over stories of that podunk life. Just once, Dan said he'd like to visit Copper River. It was just a thoughtless off-hand remark with the ever-present but unspoken if I even get the chance qualifier, but to think that Bobby not only remembered that, but thought enough of it (and him) to include it in his will was, well, another hot needle to the heart. "I'd love to," he says, his voice almost breaking. Terrorforge fucked around with this message at 13:28 on May 22, 2015 |
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May 20, 2015 19:57
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 https://www.dropbox.com/s/hh34wz7qf2qgkpt/cynthia.pdf?dl=0 I make sure to tell Scott what a strong person his brother was. I've always valued strength in myself and others, so I really appreciated getting to know Bobby. The group will be a little lesser without him, but I don't say that with Daniel around. Truthfully, I don't say much here at all. My relationship with death is a cold one. If it were up to me, I would have nothing to do with it. At funerals, everyone usually assumes I'm either a mountain of composure, or that I didn't care enough about the person to even cry. But I do care. The only difference is that I show it in the present moment, not after the fact, when there's no longer a person there to appreciate it. When it's too late to matter. There is a person here now who would appreciate a little something though, I remind myself. I smile at Scott and give him a nod. “Well, I'll need to find a sitter for my dog,” I tell him, “otherwise he'll go crazy if I'm gone even a few days. But I think I can manage that. It sounds nice.” Except for the part about having another funeral, no matter how "real" it is, but that can't be helped. Still, Daniel says he wants to go too, and he looks like he could use the support of someone else from the group. “Have you ever been to Alaska before, Dan? I haven't, but it's been on my list.” Orbs fucked around with this message at 05:47 on May 22, 2015 |
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May 21, 2015 06:47
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As the two of you accept, Scott smiles, if sadly. "Great, that's great. I'll check in with Aegle, secure passage for you both and a nurse, just in case. Wakerobin's remote, but it has everything you would need." He shakes your hands lightly, before someone taps him on the shoulder and whispers to him. His face drops a bit. "Ahh, well it was lovely to meet you, I wish the circumstances could have been better. I'll see you both soon." He hurries off, leaving the two of you to talk.
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May 21, 2015 07:46
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Dan turns to face Cynthia. He looks at her eyes, but not in them. As always, he seems to be staring at something just behind the brainpan and half a universe to the left.. "Alaska? No, but I went to," the name escapes him and he pauses for a moment. "Yukon. Last summer." The small talks is refreshingly dull. He'd grown to hate it as another pointless energy sink, but today it's a welcome break from poignant reality. "I brought my dog with me, that time. I'd take him again, but I can barely remember to feed myself these days and I don't wanna starve poor Gibson." He laughs half-heartedly. "My daughter is taking care of him for me. I could ask her if she'd take on your pup for a few days."
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May 21, 2015 10:40
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“Why thank you, Dan,” Cynthia says, beaming. “That's very kind of you to offer. Rico's still young, so he can be a bit of a handful sometimes, but he's sweet. I'm sure they'd get along fine, as long as your daughter doesn't mind.” She shakes her head and laughs as she recalls her mutt's antics this morning. Cynthia had dropped a lemon on the floor, and Rico tried to eat it. He spit it back out immediately, and then started barking at it, and her, as if offended that she would dare drop such a thing for him. “Anyway, I should head home soon. Before I go, what do you think I should pack? I've never stayed in a cabin before. Or hell—heck—even been that far north.”
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May 22, 2015 05:46
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"I guess they'll be a perfect match for each other, then," he says with a chuckle. It's not really true; Evelynn has only ever caused trouble by standing up to genuinely bad people, but it's a good joke. An easy one. When she asks for advice, he stops to sort through his thoughts for a moment. "Good boots, a good jacket and a good book for sure," he says. "Maybe a sleeping bag. You'll have to ask, uhm." Dammit, what was his name? "Scott. You'll have to ask Scott for details." He fumbles his cell phone out of his pocket. Not the expensive Android he got himself for his birthday, but a bulky thing with physical buttons and a battery that doesn't punish you for forgetting about it for a week. "I need to make some calls. Before I forget," he says and starts down the garden path, towards the nearest buss stop. "See you later," he adds without turning around.
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May 22, 2015 14:29
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With that, Cynthia and Daniel's engagement at the memorial service concludes, and after some cursory chat with acquaintances hovering about the exit, they leave. On the drive out, Cynthia notices Scott engaging with an old man and a woman outside the church - Scott is clearly agitated, the woman tense, but the other man is calm. But the confrontation seems caught at its end - Scott walks off in a huff as Cynthia's car takes her away. - - - - -  Airfield outside Echo Lake AK. 5/8/15, 6:30 PM The plane touches down some 10 hours after the original takeoff from Philadelphia and 3 hours from a connection in Juneau to a small airstrip in the Alaska range, outside the mill town of Echo Lake. From Juneau they’d ridden a small single-engine biplane and it had been a tight flight, but they had packed lightly – Scott had assured them everything they needed would be accounted for at Wakerobin. Accompanying them is a nurse they’d known from Aegle, a retired army medic named Toby. He was a stocky and burly man, covered in tattoos with a trim grey beard, and in his emails Scott had joked that Toby would fit in amongst the native survivalists that scraped out lives in the sticks, but in truth he looked more the part of a biker than a compound-dweller. Still, he had a soft demeanor, was well-liked in the program, and had spent time in AK in years past. So he had been chosen to chaperone. His bulk had put unexpected stress on the biplane pilot, who had to make adjustments for weight on the small craft. But they’d made the trip with minimal delays all the same. It feels like it’s been forever since Cynthia and Daniel had been so remote from civilization, if they had ever ventured so far. Rural Alaska seems positively unspoiled, with boreal forests stretching from the banks of rivers and streams in the valleys to the tree lines of the range. The thin air straddles the lower boundary of comfort, with the sun still fairly high in the sky (the pilot had mentioned, on the way over, that daylight lasts around 17 hours at this time of year) against a wet wind. A large SUV awaits the the party as they step out of the plane - Scott has been here for a few days already, making arrangements. The car drives through the thick forest, only some of the roads paved (and even then, patchy and webbed with tar), climbing in elevation, until they clear the southern forest and drive through the town of Echo Lake, so named for the body of water that Wakerobin Lodge overlooks. Scott points out points of interest along the way – common houses for the migrant loggers and mill workers living in town during the summer, the watering hole, the church-schoolhouse, the butcher / general store, the town tavern, the all-in-one city hall / library / sheriff’s office / jail, the ornate bridge in the middle of town over the winding stream the lake empties into. The whole town sits on the edge of a valley, hugging the gentle slope of a mountain, the residential roads snaking uphill from the town center. And barely visible from the main street, Wakerobin Lodge, high up the slope like a beacon, the mountains beyond towering over it. The drive from Echo Lake to Wakerobin is a rather spectacular and winding climb, and its name becomes more obvious as the truck rounds a bend onto the property itself.  Wakerobin Lodge. 5/8/15, 7:35 PM The lake is, strictly speaking, not a true lake but an impressively large tarn, crystal clear and calm, formed in the depression caused by some long-melted glacier, and surrounded on most of its circumference by formidable, dizzying peaks – a gigantic bowl of water. Wakerobin Lodge sits on its edge, and as the truck enters the gate emblazoned with the Lodge’s name, a clutch of buildings come into view, some in log cabin style, but the main lodge itself is a structure in classic Pacific lodge style – cedar and pine wood, high vaulted ceilings, a lot of glass. A lot of money has clearly gone into it. Scott mentions that, in addition to the practical requirements of rural living, stocks of food and supplies to last months, the lodge had been installed with medical facilities to modern standard, in anticipation of Bobby’s eventual return. Now they would be at the group’s disposal, should they have need. The town doctor, a jovial young GP, was on call for them for the length of their stay. Scott parks – showing the group an identical truck for their use – and ushers them into the foyer of the lodge, quickly pointing out all the features and amenities – a spacious living and dining area with all sorts of digital and analog entertainment options (truly a lodge, in that sense), living quarters on the first and second floor, an industrial kitchen (the freezers stocked with game carcasses), the medical facilities (as robust as he suggested). A massive window wall, like the chapel of a church, looks out onto Echo Lake, and through it can be seen small kayaks and sailboats, archery targets, a croquet court, a garden. The group is brought to a table where they’re given keys to their rooms, itineraries for Bobby’s funeral (3 days away), and walkie-talkies with good range, one for the Dan, one for Cynthia and one for Toby. With the tour completed, Scott retires to his study, but not before inviting the group to do whatever feels right to them. There’s still enough daylight for a short trip into town (the drive up to the lodge is illuminated, thankfully), or they can call it a night, stay in and explore the lodge – a room for Bobby’s effects is on the second floor of the living quarter wing. Outside, clouds have started to gather in the sky.  Toby rubs his neck and speaks in a Mississippi drawl. “Well, what do y’all think? Pretty swank, I'd say.” Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 08:47 on May 25, 2015 |
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May 23, 2015 09:39
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“It's so charming,” Cynthia tells Toby. “Thank you kindly, sir. Those mountains are incredible. I wish we could explore them, but... I know that's not realistic.” She shakes her head, then starts pacing the room, looking at everything, touching anything it seems she is allowed to touch. It is a habit, a reminder of reality and solidity. She doesn't touch the glass though, as she knows from long experience how annoying it could be to clean fingerprints off of them, and how ugly they look in the meantime. Cynthia is starting to get tired, but she tries not to show it. She was raised to have the instinct that taking a tour before eating or sleeping somewhere new was the polite thing to do. So she collects her thoughts, holds herself up a little higher, and turns away from admiring the decorations. “I'd like to take a look around the rest of the place, if you don't mind. Just the cabin for now, to get a feel for it. I'll be turning in shortly after that, I believe.” While she explores, Cynthia asks Toby about the garden, which she had never considered part of a nature lodge in her imagination. She has dabbled in gardening herself, although she lacks the patience and energy to be truly good at it. Nevertheless, she wonders if maintaining a garden in Alaska is any different than maintaining one in Pennsylvania.* *You don't have to actually explain any differences there might be. I'm just establishing some more of Cynthia's interests.
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May 23, 2015 20:32
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Dan hasn't been having a good day. He's been nodding off intermittently throughout the trip, but of course hasn't been getting any real rest. He didn't snap out of a state of bewildered half-sleep until they spotted Echo Lake, but he's been steadily perking up ever since he saw that big, perfect blue and when the truck finally stops and he gets his first deep breath of mountain air he feels, amazingly, refreshed. He's been wearing a big, goofy smile since then. "Almost too swank, I'd say," he says, stroking the expensive wooden surfaces. "I was imagining something a bit more rustic. Mostly when a place like this advertises a rec room and boating, it means there's a TV from the 80s and an old skiff without oars, and there's a certain charm to that. Not that I'm complaining." Dan isn't interested in an evening trip into town, either. He starts with a quick trip around the immediate grounds, but soon goes back to thoroughly investigating the cabin itself. He's not as tactile as Cynthia, but he looks at absolutely everything, from decorations to doorhandles, trying to get a sense of the place. On the surface it seems like a rich man's theme park version of outdoor life, but it definitely has a lived-in feel. The only part of the house he skims over is the medical facility, merely opening the cupboards and briefly checking what's available. It's not like drugs and bandages are of much help to him, anyway. Eventually, he finds himself in front of that second floor door. He's had enough time to take the edge off the grief, but standing here reminds him of the dull ache in his heart. Bobby lingers here, in a much more real sense than he does in the dolled-up carcass they haven't put in the ground yet. Only his death remains there, but behind this door is a slice of his life. Maybe seeing it would help him chase away the fear and the pain. Maybe it would only serve to break him down again. Either way, Daniel Worcek opens the door.
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May 23, 2015 22:54
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Cynthia Toby sniffs, "Seems like an oddity to me. Honestly a real garden up here would need a greenhouse, or a lot of soil work, given how cold it gets. Just a bit more northward and the natives basically live on fish year-round. Wishful thinking on the Isaacs' part, maybe. Might be able to cultivate some root vegetables, given a caretaker. Doesn't look like it's had one lately." - - - - - Daniel The cabin was obviously made with a fine attention to detail, as the design of the space was very open and nary an opportunity existed for splinters on the wooden floors or walls. Fixtures and doorknobs were of gleaming, polished brass. But in the little things - the way the lift and staircase to the second floor exposed, at its highest point, the fullest refraction of evening sunlight from the lake, the small windchimes hung at various points throughout the space or, most notably, the intricate carvings on the banisters, window and doorframes - it was also made with obvious personal investment. Scott had mentioned in days prior that while the land had been in the Isaac family for generations, it was his grandfather, the second CEO of Isaac Pharmaceuticals, who built the lodge as it more-or-less exists in 1974 (Scott and his father had both made additions in later years). Daniel marvels at the wood carvings - Scott had mentioned in the tour that his grandpa had incorporated the wood of his great-great-grandfather's original cabin, with minimal alteration, in the lodge's design, and indeed some of these carvings could be a century old or more. Walking through the lodge, he notices that several (but not all) of the arches on doorframes depict a somewhat crude, but otherwise unmistakable carving of a woman at their highest point. Her head and arms are shown, as if rendered in close-up. Her face is featureless (unskilled carver, Daniel thinks) but it appear her hair splays out as if blown by wind, and her hands are out and palms open, the fingers of the left hand crossed slightly over those of the right, as if in a state of giving, or perhaps supplication. The carving of the fingers extends just over the barrier between the band of carved wood and the smooth frame boundary, the hands pointing directly down at those entering the arch, almost, Daniel thinks, like a portrait reaching out from its painting. Daniel approaches to get a better look and moves on. The medical facility has beds and an actual operating table, enough equipment (and backup power, as Scott had mentioned) to keep a critical-condition patient stable while the cavalry came from Juneau. On one or two occasions a logger wounded on the job had been housed here before being flown out - the sheriff exercised that liberty, at least. Daniel approaches Bobby's room, collects himself, and enters. Or tries to - the door doesn't give at first and a harder shove gets it open, a sucking sound coming from under the door - the effects of pressure equalizing, as in a drafty room opened from an enclosed hallway. He flips on the light switch and sees that Scott or someone else must have arranged the room somewhat - there are framed photos of Bobby's on the dresser and the nightstand and he didn't seem the type to keep pictures of himself. Other than that, aside from plastic flower arrangements the room seems almost untouched. A 1997 Seattle Mariners penant is pinned to the wall, along with a signed vinyl copy of “Frampton Comes Alive!” An early-00’s Alienware computer sits in the corner on an ergonomic desk and an oxygen tank and mask sit next to it. Across the room, a pile of clothes sits next to the accordion-door closet. Daniel notices then that the closet door is slightly ajar. He’s suddenly aware that not only is the room silent, the sounds of distant car motors and flying machines (whisper-faint compared to civilization’s of course, but still there) echoing up from town aren’t there. For a moment he is certain that there wasn’t a pressure differential, that something was pressing against the door, leaning into it. There certainly aren’t any open windows in here. And from nowhere the thought comes that when he examined the doorframe carvings downstairs, they were flat carvings, but when he first saw them they seemed to protrude. Did that happen? Did he remember that? It’s very quiet. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 08:30 on May 24, 2015 |
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May 24, 2015 08:28
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Of course he didn't remember that. He can't have. No matter how good he feels right now, his perception is still spotty and his memory even worse. His brain is just playing tricks, like it always is. That has to be it, right? Still, he can't get away from the creeping sense of dread that's welling up from the recesses of his mind. He tries to convince himself that it, too, is the product of his restless mind. Its right there at the top of the Wikipedia list of symptoms, after all; confusion, paranoia, panic attacks. Hallucinations. Determined not to let the disease win, he steps confidently into the room. It feels like something is staring at him from the darkness in the closet. He shivers as he thinks of the feeling of resistance behind the door, as if something was pushing back. Rather than stand there and let the fear fester, he walks briskly to the closet door and pulls it open forcefully.
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May 24, 2015 11:08
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“Thank you for the information, Toby,” Cynthia says. The fatigue is getting worse, and the pain is beginning to creep in, but she tells herself that it will have to get a lot worse before she starts acting weak in front of people. She does, at least, also remind herself what the group always says about not ignoring symptoms, so she begins steering the conversation toward rest. “I think I'm going to go unpack and unwind a bit. Been a long trip.” Don't wince. “Have a good evening!” With a forced bounce in her step, Cynthia makes her way to one of the bedrooms with all of her bags in tow. It might not be the one designated for her, but surely it's not like they have assigned rooms? It's just the two of them here. She has to lean on the frame for a second as a fresh knife of stomach pain shoots through her, but she grits her teeth and carries her luggage to the bed. She makes sure to kick the door closed to a crack, so no one will see her slump to the bed with a tight, strained groan. Cynthia counts five long, deep breaths as she sits there, which does ease the pain a bit. While her body calms down, she surveys the room she has found herself in. Orbs fucked around with this message at 04:07 on May 25, 2015 |
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May 25, 2015 04:04
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Daniel Daniel shakes off his unsettled state and moves forward decisively, grabbing the closet door and yanking it open. For a second it seems like the shadow is lagging behind the movement of the door, but as it clicks into place the light reveals that nothing is in the closet - it is in fact empty, save for a thin, oversized black t-shirt on a hanger. Bohemian for Bobby but then, Daniel knew that in his youth he was a talented painter - Gordon Isaac only seemed to produce artists in his family. And partially obscured by the gentle swing of the shirt is a framed picture, leaned against the back of the closet and turned away, so that Daniel cannot see it. There's also a small envelope in a cubby hole, and Daniel can see that the flap has been opened, or never sealed. - - - - - Cynthia Toby gives a smirk and a thumbs up. "Sounds good to me, miss Vaughn. Remember you got me on the radio if you need anything at all. I'm gonna take stock of the kitchen and if you want a sandwich or anything, don't hesitate." He nods at Cynthia with a tilt - call if the pain gets too bad. Cynthia powers through the pain to the bedroom, collapses on the bed. The bed is large, quilted and soft, and when she looks around, she's assaulted by brilliant shades of pink - pink blankets, pink pillows, pink flower-printed curtains on the windows, pink wallpaper over the wood. There are pink roses in flowerpots on the dresser, the nightstand. Even the carpet is an off-shade of the color. On the dresser is a small framed photo but Cynthia can't see of who. Cynthia realizes it's quite cold in the room, and when she looks out the window she can see that it's snowing heavily enough for drifts of it to build up against the glass. Suddenly she hears, echoing down the hall through the cracked door, a whistling, which she remembers, oddly, as the tune to her hometown oldies radio DJ's favorite song - "The Most Beautiful Girl" by Charley Rich. The pain in Cynthia's stomach has radiated up into her back. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 09:22 on May 25, 2015 |
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May 25, 2015 09:18
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In a sudden burst, the tension releases. He didn't actually expect anything to happen, of course; or rather, he did, but he knew nothing would. As long as you can remember that, remember that the fear is irrational, you retain some modicum of control. There is something odd in the closet, though. An old photo frame and an unsealed letter. Some distant part of Dan's mind knows he shouldn't pry, but that part of him wasn't very loud at the best of times and the best of times have long since passed. That desire for understanding is responsible for both his many small successes and his few catastrophic failures. He picks up the frame and turns it to look at the picture. After getting a good look, he puts it back where and how he found it and takes the letter out of the envelope.
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May 25, 2015 09:53
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Cynthia finds it distantly amusing to see so much pink everywhere. It was her favorite color as a child, and even today she keeps a couple pink items in her house. Not many though, because pink is not an “adult” color. She tries her best to relax on the bed, squinting at the photo as she attempts to rest. (Can she make it out at all? Would a roll be necessary?) The whistling is making it harder, though. Maybe it's Dan whistling a song he knows that has the same tune, or he also heard the same song somewhere. She tries to call out to whoever it is, but her throat is dry, her voice too raspy to be heard past the confines of the pink bedroom. Instead she begins trying to pull the blankets over herself. Cynthia makes the excuse that it's only to ward off the cold, but it crosses her mind briefly that it's also a childish reaction to her growing uneasiness. The tune does bring back a lot of memories, particularly the heartache of her first high school breakup. Cynthia manages to chuckle that she still remembers that so clearly from decades ago. She and Clyde had an argument over him flirting with another girl, they broke up (and actually never spoke again), and she went home and listened to all her records, including The Most Beautiful Girl. What a foolish sequence of events. She brings up her walkie-talkie (yet another thing she hasn't seen in a very long time), and starts trying to figure out how to work it. Not to call for help, of course, but just to talk. "Hello? You there Dan?" Hopefully they don't hear how strained and scratchy her voice is. "I'm fine, I'm just trying to see if I remember how to use these things." Should I make a roll, or spend a Willpower point, or something to keep powering through the pain?
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May 26, 2015 19:07
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Cynthia (Looking at the picture and resisting the pain require rolls. Luckily I've got that covered! You made the wits roll handily and your resolve roll just barely) Cynthia squints to look at the picture on the dresser and even though it's right there it feels as though her eyes are struggling to make sense of it. The photo framed is of a girl in her teens, lanky with blond hair and a big smile with braces. Cynthia immediately notices her resemblance to Bobby - A mother? A sister? Bobby had never talked about either. The whistling draws louder, closer down the hall, and Cynthia feels a deep, irrational terror that radiates from the back of her neck, so strong that it anesthetizes her pain and she feels limber and alert in a way she hasn't felt in years. Thoughts flash across her mind, the strongest of which are some variations on NOT AGAIN. Cynthia switches the radio on and talks into it, her voice strained, but what she gets in response is not a voice, but neither is it static. The sound is transfixing. After what feels like a minute, she snaps out of her stupor and realizes that the whistling is right outside... She glances over to the door and sees that it is still open a crack, but a figure looms in the sliver of light, tall and motionless. Cynthia and the figure look at each other for a moment. She can't make out its lips in the backlight but it the whistling blares like a loudspeaker. Her heart races... The door slams violently and Cynthia flinches - and in a moment all the pink of the room has changed completely to a pleasant slate blue. Rays of sunlight beam through windows unobstructed by snow. Wildflowers sit in the pots where the roses once were. The picture of the dresser is of a tulip - looks like a placeholder that came with the frame. "Hello?" a voice crackles from the radio, startling her. Toby. "I was getting a lot of static from your end, everything good up there?" - - - - - - Daniel Daniel gingerly picks up the frame and flips it - it's a picture he almost recognizes. Early in the program, in introductions, Bobby had shown the group a painting he'd made from a photograph of his family from when he was a toddler - 3-year old Bobby, shaggy-haired teen Scott, and their father, Gordon, looking every bit the 80's CEO he was. But this picture is different. First, the painting he'd shown the group had seen them all in good spirits, the kids smiling and the dad looking proud. But in the photograph portrait, Bobby's eyes are rimmed red from crying, while Scott barely conceals livid anger. Gordon's face is haggard, his eyes staring off as though his thoughts are elsewhere. And then there is the second difference, the old man, tall and lanky like Bobby but much older than Gordon, standing behind the toddler. He has thick sideburns, a wide-bridged nose and a bald pate. His face is so stony it's unnerving to behold. Daniel gingerly coaxes the letter out of the envelope, but in so doing a card drops out - he picks it up, and it reads "Surviving Isaac Family, 1984. CC from lower left: Robert, Scott, Gordon, Solomon". The letter reads as follows: quote:Scotty, Daniel checks the envelope, but finds that it is blank, the adhesive on its lip never used, though he could've sworn he saw chicken scratch on the front of it. He looks down and notices the card that fell from the envelope now reads "Wakerobin Overlook, 1991". The previous text is nowhere to be found. He glances again at the letter and it too has changed - it is a bill of services from a framing and shipping company for a painting entitled "Wakerobin Overlook, 1991". Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 10:41 on May 28, 2015 |
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May 28, 2015 10:33
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"Surviving." Now there's a joke. Scott has to be the only person in this photo still alive, even if old Solomon certainly looks like he could have stared down the angel of death. Who is he, anyway? A family member, if the card is to be believed. A grandfather, presumably. Bobby's never mentioned him, but between young Bobby's tears and the old man's icy demeanor, it's not hard to see why he would have been left out of Bobby's life story. There's something brutal about the photo, and Dan can't help but see a scene out of a visceral period drama; the old patriarch ruthlessly disciplining a small child, the brother's impotent rage and the father's learned helplessness. It would certainly explain why Bobby took the old man out of his painting. Then again, if these are the members of the Isaac family that survived, that would mean that some didn't. The tears, the far-away stare, the eyes that could shake the devil, even Scott's trembling rage could easily be expressions of grief. But if that was the case, what an odd picture to take. The emotion is unbarred and powerful, the wounds clearly fresh. Who would choose to commemorate that? Who in their right mind would see four people on the worst day of their lives and decide it was time for a family photo? The only thing that's clear is what isn't in the picture: a mother. Already with a pit in his stomach, Daniel turns to the letter. He's missing so much context that the words are almost incomprehensible, but it doesn't paint a pretty picture. Something bad definitely happened, if that wasn't already obvious from the photo. But what kind of bargain are they talking about? If it's connected to the photo, does it have something to do with whatever it was that they survived? Was it perhaps not an accident, but an attack? Did daddy run afoul of the mob, make some kind of deal for his life? Of course, Dan knows what he really thinks. The language is too intentionally arcane, the circumstances too unnerving for an avid reader's mind not to think of a bargain literally faustian in nature. That thought is easy enough to brush aside. Less easy is the wave of nausea that comes over him when he reads the date. April 28th, 2015, the day of Bobby's death. Bobby wrote this on the same day they had their last conversation, probably in the handful of hours between their final goodbyes and the moment he stopped breathing. Dan closes his eyes and breathes deeply in a futile attempt to stabilize himself. It works, but only until he opens his eyes again. When he does, the letter is gone. He's holding a drat receipt and a blank envelope. It's like the bottom of his stomach has fallen out and raw despair is filling him up from the depths. He's finally losing it. He's seeing things, and it's only going to get worse from here. He's losing touch with reality and he's never going to get his grip back. Suddenly and without warning, the despair turns into panic and Daniel scrambles up from the floor, crushing the bill in his hand. It feels like he's drowning, and he needs someone to pull him out of the water. He runs out of the room, practically crashing into the opposite wall. "TOBY!" he shouts. Despite the feeling of drowning, his voice still carries well, but it remains hoarse with terror.
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May 28, 2015 20:37
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Daniel There's an immediate clattering from somewhere on the first floor and a few second later Daniel hears Toby call out. "DAN!" 30 seconds later he appears bounding up the stairs to the second floor, panting lightly. He sees Daniel in the hallway and runs over, checking Dan's vitals. "Jesus, Dan, what happened?"
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May 31, 2015 07:06
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Cynthia forces herself to take five deep breaths. She has never had an experience like that before, as part of her disease or otherwise. After her racing heartbeat has slowed somewhat, her shaking hand reaches for the walkie-talkie again. “I'm still trying to figure this thing out, that's all. I—" Before she can finish, she hears Dan scream, then Toby running through the cabin. She instinctively sits up to go help, but the pain is too much at the moment. Cynthia furiously curses the weakness of her body as she is forced to lie back down on the bed. Of course it would fail her when someone else needs her. Did that strange figure attack him...? No, that's ridiculous. Her hand clutches the walkie-talkie tightly. “What was that? Dan, what's wrong?”
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Jun 1, 2015 00:01
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The shouting is like music and Toby's confident hands on his pulse is like the gentlest massage. He's not lost anymore, and the worst of the panic abates, but his heart is still pounding. He remains in the water, but at least his head is above the surface. "I just," he starts before realizing his thoughts are a confused jumble. He swallows and tries again. "I had an episode." Toby knows his progressing symptoms, of course. Dan had to personally go through them with the nurses. He expects Toby is going through the same mental checklist he is. Phobias, paranoia, panic attacks, hallucinations. "I thought I f-found something." Dammit. His voice is shaking. The walkie-talkie is humming, too, but he can't bring himself to pick it up or even really listen to what Cynthia is saying. It's embarassing, but he has to ground himself somehow. He holds up the crumpled piece of paper. "This is just, just a bill, right?"
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Jun 2, 2015 14:12
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Daniel Toby's face is focused as he checks Daniel over but when his attention is drawn to the bill, his face softens a bit. "Yeah, Dan. Yeah." If he's considering Dan's progression through FFI he doesn't show it. He puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "You seem like you've got your bearings now. Why don't we go down to the kitchen? I'll make you something, have a glass if you like. We'll talk about it, yeah?" Toby gives his shoulder a squeeze and lifts up his radio. Cynthia Toby's grainy voice crackles over the receiver. "Cynthia, Dan had a bit of a start but he looks okay. We're gonna go the kitchen and wind down a bit and talk about it, you should come too if you can. You all good in there? Didn't see you come out."
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Jun 4, 2015 06:28
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Dan nods weakly. He doesn't particularly look forward to talking it out, but a drink and, more importantly, some company would mean the world to him right now. "Yeah, let's do that."
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Jun 4, 2015 12:48
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“Okay, Toby, I'll be right down.” Cynthia makes the trip sound easier than it's probably going to be, but the fear and concern for Dan have her blood pumping enough that she should be able to power through it. She takes one more look at the room with a deep frown. Then, Cynthia stands up, with a sharp hiss of breath, and strides for the door as best she can. The pain actually isn't as bad as it was before, though that may be adrenaline talking. Yeah, this is nothing, she tells herself. In the past, she managed to drag herself all the way to group meetings before when things were a lot worse, too. Cynthia still remembers getting to one during the middle of a bad round of chemo. She can make it to the kitchen.
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Jun 7, 2015 07:29
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(sorry all, work has been kicking my rear end this week) Toby escorts Daniel to the kitchen and then hurries back up to check on Cynthia, helping her down the stairs and into the room, which is large enough to accomodate prep for a dozen or more at once, this being a lodge. Cynthia thinks it almost garish given how quiet the place seems (had such large groups ever visited?) but the layout is elegant and beautiful - curving islands, like an oval snipped at both ends, run through its length, festooned with gleaming cookingwear, spotless granite countertops, and top-of-the-line ovens. Daniel sits on a high-backed stool, slumped over a counter with his elbows splayed in front of him, and Cynthia takes a seat beside him. Across it, Toby raids freezers and cabinets and emerges with packaged sundries - most of it isn't fresh, but as good as one can get by air in this part of the world. As they talk, he goes to work on grilled tuna sandwiches and salmon with chard and garlic. A quick breakfast and sandwiches during their short layover were as much as the group had eaten so far and Toby, who always liked to cook, wasted no time. As he soaps a pan, Toby speaks to Daniel. Aegl's nurses were old hands in hospice and most of them (those popular with the residents, at least) maintained an unflappable air in the face of all but the most severe episodes, and Toby wasn't much different in that respect.To Daniel he sounds like a parent trying to gently talk his kid through a breakup. "So what happened up there? You sounded pretty peaked." He rinses, oils, turns an eye on. "You want coffee? Should have some back here. What about you, Cynthia?" Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 00:28 on Jun 11, 2015 |
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Jun 11, 2015 00:22
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“Just water, please and thank you, Toby.” Cynthia regards Dan carefully. He was always one of the hardest cases in the group for her to understand. A disease that damages the body is one thing, but the mind? Just the thought that something like that might happen to her sends a chill up her spine. Doubly so when the idea hits her that maybe it just did, in the bedroom. She quickly starts talking again to forget that thought. “You said you found a bill or something? Did you bring it with you?”
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Jun 15, 2015 07:28
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Dan had been imagining something a little stronger, but he's been running on autopilot too long to question his nurses on trivialities. "Coffee would be great." He sits there for a while, trying to figure out what to say next. He's turning something in between his fingers, pulling, crushing, rolling. It isn't until Cynthia asks that he realizes he's still holding the bill. "Oh. Oh, yeah, here," he says, handing her the mangled paper. "It's..." he begins before losing his train of thought. "I went into Bobby's room. Wanted to say- say hi, I guess. Or goodbye. I saw this in the closet and uhm." He pauses again, rolling his thumbs and squeezing his knuckles for want of something to fiddle with. He sighs deeply. "I found a- thought I found a photograph. You remember that painting of Bobby's family he showed us? It was a photo of the same picture, except they were, uhm..." He stops again. There was a time when every conversation he had flowed smoothly, but these days he talks like an aging lawnmower starts. "Except they were unhappy. And there was another man. An old man. And there was a card. It said- it said they were the surviving family members. And the old man was called Solomon." It sounds disjointed, but it's more because of Daniel's stilted speech than his failing memory. He can remember individual sentences from the letter, but communicating the incident coherently is a different beast. "It said so on a card. It was from 19- 1984. And the bill was, uhm, a letter. A letter from Bobby. To Scott. It was... gently caress, it was just really disturbing. Some real creepy poo poo about a 'bargain' their dad struck. How they wanted to change it. It was... poo poo. It was dated april 28th. You know, the day before." Another deep sigh. "Then I looked again and it was just a receipt. I don't know it just. It freaked me out, you know? I'm" going to die "moving into stage 2 I guess. I just, gently caress, I didn't think it was gonna come all at once like that, you know? I didn't even know you could imagine an entire letter like that. I still remember most of it." - - - - - - I just realized I never checked if the picture had changed, too. Did Dan spot anything during his panicked escape? Roll for Remembering or retroactive Perception or something to find out?
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Jun 20, 2015 22:04
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Toby nods as he finishes the brew and pours two cups, plus the water for Cynthia. "Don't be hard on yourself, it's been tough. Tougher than usual." He stirs sugar into his cup and grimaces. "It rattles people, y'know? Death. Even people like us." Toby sits down and is still for a moment, looking at Daniel. "You know, when I came back from the service in '91, I visited the home of a CO of mine, bit dirt in Kuwait when we were pinned down together. I met his wife, we talked. But on the way out I..." Toby sighs and shakes his head, "I stopped and the words out of my mouth were "He prayed every night for Janey." Thing was, that meant nothing to me but a lot to the wife - Janey was her sister, my CO had traded words with her at the wedding and they hadn't spoken since. She was on chemo when St. Peter came calling for him. He must've told me at some point and I just... filed it away, I guess." Cynthia gets the strong impression that Toby doesn't really believe what he's saying and is unnerved, either by his memory or Daniel's story. "But being in his home, it was like… the memory came in through a side door in my mind. I didn't even remember that I remembered it. But it came out where it should've." Toby looks distant for a moment, lost in thought. "Did Bobby mention his family to y'all? Maybe it's sort of the same thing. I guess... we can't forget the things that troubled him. Maybe it's not so bad to remember." Daniel recalls that the picture, too, had changed, to a painting of the town of Echo Lake from the view of a balcony facing it. In thinking back on it, he also realizes that the letter's paper had changed, not just its content - from the rigid roughness of expensive stationary to the cheap, crinkly texture of the receipt paper. This at least does not feel like a trick of the mind - the memory is vivid. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 06:15 on Jun 22, 2015 |
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Jun 22, 2015 06:05
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Cynthia shivers again despite herself, then sits for a few moments in silence as she ponders a dilemma. Would it be better or worse for Dan if she confided that she saw something strange too? It might comfort him if something really did happen, but if Dan's episode was a result of his disease instead, it could be dangerous to his health to give him false information. She decides to try to approach the issue delicately and see how things go. “I'm having some trouble remembering how much Bobby told us too,” she says. “So he very well could have mentioned other family members to Dan. What do you know about Bobby's family, Toby? Any uncles, grandparents, siblings besides Scott? He's the main one I recall, and yes, I agree it's good to think about the people Bobby left behind, even if it's difficult.”
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Jun 25, 2015 18:50
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Dan smiles a crooked little smile. "No offense Toby, but this really didn't feel like something that should've come out." Not that he believes in "shoulds" anyway. Probably the third or fourth worst thing about dying was all the friends, relatives and well-meaning strangers crawling out of the woodwork with their "shoulds" and "musts" and "meant to bes." He'd certainly always been an optimist, but to him that never meant you could just lie back and let fate or God take care of it and everything would work out for the best. That was of course the reason he'd bonded with Bobby in the first place; a firm belief in action over acceptance. "And I can't say i remember Bobby talking about family much, but... but I can't say I remember much at all." A forced laugh. "I know he talked about Scott, and I think he must have mentioned his dad, at least when showing us the painting. I got the feeling he didn't want to talk about his family. But then, Bobby didn't want to talk much at all. I don't remember if anyone ever asked about uncles or grandparents, but I do remember Dr. Lakshmi asking about his mom once. He really didn't want to talk about that."
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Jun 26, 2015 18:47
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"Wasn't much to say, really." a voice echoes slightly through the open room as Scott Isaac appears from the hallway leading from his study in the east of the Lodge. As he walks toward the group he smiles a little smile and rubs his hands together at the sight of the coffee. He holds them open at Toby, a silent question, and Toby nods, pouring him a cup. "Sorry to butt in, I was just coming to get some of this. Thanks Toby." He stirs a bit of sugar into the cup from a cylinder on the counter, and speaks. "Mom died not long after Bobby was born. Hit by a drunk driver out near her family's home in Pittsburgh, would've been... 1982? 83? He felt her absence, I know that at least, but the loss of her as a presence... that was mine and Dad's, I think. And Maggie's. I hope it didn't weigh on Bobby. We all did our damnedest to raise him in the family without her." Scott looks melancholic, then he takes a gulp and inhales deeply. "Anyway, did I hear that he showed you his painting? The family portrait, right? He was proud of that one. I thought I could be made to look better, but Bobby called em like he saw em. Such a pain in the rear end." He chuckles, wistful more than bitter, and shakes his head. "So, lodgings to your liking? Anything I can get for you? Heat adjustments? Beauty aids? Minibars?" He smiles. Toby glances at Cynthia and Daniel but says nothing. He knows better than to talk for people.
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Jun 29, 2015 07:29
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Dan twitches when he hears Scott's voice. Digging around Bobby's room made him feel like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, which would make Scott the disapproving mother. The feeling of guilt eases as it becomes apparent that Scott doesn't know or doesn't care. Unfortunately, it's slowly replaced by the niggling feeling that maybe it's Scott who has something to hide. Daniel tries to brush the childish notion aside, but when Scott wonders aloud, he can't help but think; No, not 82. Not 83. 84. It was 1984. It's stupid, and he knows it. Just his mind playing tricks on him. But, you know, Toby could be right. Maybe he does know these things. Maybe Bobby told him about the old man and the bargain and 1984, and his conscious mind has merely forgotten that he remembers. If so, he really should try to figure this out. Not for the sake of any superstitious lizard brain fear, of course. Just for his own peace of mind. Maybe it will even help with the grieving process. It's as good an excuse as any to satisfy his curiosity. "It's great, but I had- I had a bit of an episode. Thought I saw some things, about Bobby. Kinda hard to figure out what's memory and what's imagination, sometimes. Just trying to- to figure that out, ground myself a little," he says before training his eyes directly on Scott. "Maybe you can help me double-check. Did Bobby know someone named Solomon?" Dan is studying Scott intently, trying to gauge his reaction. He expects Scott to deny knowledge or brush off the question and is mostly looking for signs of distress or deception that would indicate something more is going on. Since he's actively trying to provoke a reaction, I'd argue that it's a Manipulation + Empathy roll (3 + 0 - 1 = 2), but if you feel a more traditional Wits + Empathy is appropriate that's a chance die (1 + 0 - 1) barring any situational modifiers, Either way, you should probably roll it behind the scenes.
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Jul 3, 2015 15:52
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Scott is quiet for a moment as he swallows the last of his coffee. "Yeah, our grandpa. Solomon Isaac made Isaac Pharmaceuticals what it is today, more or less. Built this lodge from what it was before back in 1974. I'm surprised Bobby mentioned him, he died a year or two after mom." "Our family hasn't had a lot of luck."
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Jul 7, 2015 05:27
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“I don't need anything, but thank you,” Cynthia tells Scott. “I'm sorry we're all dredging up your past here. We can leave it be, if you'd prefer.” That's the option she would choose, at least. Talking in the group was hard enough whenever it touched on things not directly related to her disease. It would be even worse in a casual setting like this. Not that she couldn't, of course, she simply didn't see the point. She does want to ask about the blonde teenage girl. Maybe it was Maggie? But her polite instincts have to give him an out first. "By the way, do any of you know Charley Rich? I heard someone whistling an old tune of his in the halls earlier. Really, uh... really brought me back." Orbs fucked around with this message at 05:32 on Jul 11, 2015 |
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Jul 8, 2015 16:35
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If you want to roll you can, just specify the response you're going for.
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Jul 9, 2015 00:27
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Cynthia Scott shakes his head gravely. "Better to talk about it. When you see that much loss... Well, you get tired of leaving things unfinished." Scott looks Cynthia in the eye. "I think we all know how easy it is to waste time." Scott reaches for the coffee pot and when Cynthia asks about the singer he slows for a moment, but just as quickly he continues, filling his cup and blowing on it. He coughs and continues. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. We didn't really have much in the way of entertainment up here, you see. The -" he draws out the word and draws his hand in circles, his brow furrowed "State government, back in '76, started broadcasting TV up here. But since we were so far out it wasn't continuous. So the station got reels that featured all these shows from the big three channels and PBS, and they'd play em on loop, you know? All In the Family, Carson, Sesame Street, old Laugh In segments. Like the TV packages they show on airplanes." "Anyway we'd only get a new reel every year and a half, maybe two, and so we'd just watch the same stuff over and over when it was cold out. And, ah... Must've been '78 or '79, the reel had, um... Austin City Limits, yeah that was it. Charlie Rich was on that, I remember. Yeah, we really liked that episode." He taps the side of his mug for a few moments then breathes in deeply, looking up at Cynthia as though called from deep concentration. "Haven't heard it in years though, that's odd. Must've been the wind." He smiles and then pushes himself off of the counter he'd been leaning on. "You know what? I think this stuff is only going to carry me through my nighttime ritual, I'd better start packing up for bed. But ah... I'm sorry at how stressful it's been. You need anything, don't hesitate to rouse me. Or Toby, obviously. You can crash out in whatever configuration you'd like. So if you'll excuse me." He puts his mug down in a sink and moves toward the living area, flipping switches to dim the lights and drawing long blinds on the tall windows overlooking the lake. Outside, snowflakes gently fall, touching the glass of the window and melting into rivulets that drip down and streak the view.
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Jul 11, 2015 21:14
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The answer is no particularly comforting. Bobby never mentioned the old man. Dan is sure of it. Well, as sure as he can be of anything. Maybe he heard it somewhere, once. A throwaway sentence from Bobby, a brief mention in Scott's author bio, something small like that, lost to time and memory and brought back like a punch to the gut standing in Bobby's room. There's a little demon in the back of his head that can't accept that, though. A noisome little imp saying something more is going on, something is hidden from him. Paranoia is another symptom, after all. "I think I'll stay here with my coffee," he says. "For a while." He does still go to bed, of course. Even a few hours of light, fitful NREM sleep is probably better than none at all. But he doesn't relish it, goes to bed as late and gets out as early as socially acceptable. He'll sit here for a while yet, perhaps unpack and read in his room.
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Jul 12, 2015 15:51
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Cynthia is certain the song wasn't the wind, but she's not about to start any argument with Bobby's brother about it. She nods, smiles, and falls silent, nursing her drink for a little while. She stays with Dan until he's ready to go to bed, not really to talk about anything, but just to be there... and have someone there for her. Then wills herself back up there stairs and into the room she was in before, the one where she saw the visions, or whatever that was. Cynthia has always been an early riser, but she also plans to get up even earlier than usual. She's not afraid of the room, of course. There's simply no reason to expose herself to such oddness any longer than propriety demands. She wasn't about to switch rooms over such a silly thing.
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Jul 16, 2015 07:42
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 10:52 |
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Wakerobin Lodge, Some Other Time and Place Cynthia and Dan are standing before the great window facing out to the lake. They feel that this is the Lodge, but it is not, not exactly - there are no walls, for one. Only the floors and foundations, and the great window, remain of the structure, as though the bulk of it had been cut clean through and removed. They can look up to an unobstructed view of the sky, bright with stars. When they glance around they see a wall-mounted artwork here, a light fixture there, suspended in air, but they blink and it changes to a wall-mounted phone, a flower arrangement. The sky is clear - a dull, muted red, and bright, bright the way it was at night during the snowy months in Philly, the city's ambient light reflected up off of the snow and reflected back down off of the clouds so bright that one could read the newspaper out in the cold at midnight. This is a similar brightness, but the sky is clear, and the stars are strangely dull. Everything must glow here. It's hard to focus - looking around, the thickets of trees opposite the lake on the other side of the lodge are impossibly thick and tall, but turning toward the lake doesn't seem to make any sense - the mountains hugging the lake are taller and more jagged, and they run with color, like gasoline in the sun, in slimy rivulets down into the cold navy blue of the calm water. Impossibly calm water, Cynthia thinks, like a thing playing dead. Cynthia and Dan cannot look at the mountains for more than a moment, they seem so large and yet it is known, somehow, that if a hand were to reach out they would be touched from where the people stand, and who knows what might happen then. Through the great window, however, the world as it was known to them is seen - the clouds gathered a bit, snow is falling, but there is the lake and the mountains Cynthia and Dan recognize. But at the edge of the water, a figure. It stands staring at them, but walks forward and in a few paces it is right there, almost at the glass. It's Bobby.
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Jul 21, 2015 06:56
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