Thunderland (15 page)

“That really did it. Mom snapped, too. She attacked me like a wild animal. I tried to hold her off, but we wound up wrestling. We fell on the floor. I got off her, and she came after me, screaming that she was going to kill me. I’ve never been so scared. I ran out of the house, flew across the backyard, and started climbing the big tree back there. She shouted for me to come back, but I ignored her. I guess I wanted to get away for a while, let things cool down. So I climbed the tree, and ... and ...”

Jason stopped talking.

“And what?” Shorty and Brains said at once.

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t remember this, but Mom says it started raining while I was in the tree, thunder and lightning and all, and when I started to climb down, I slipped. She says I probably fell twenty feet. I blacked out. An ambulance came and took me to the hospital. I was in a coma for three days. But like I said, I don’t remember any of it. All I remember is waking up three days later, after coming out of the coma. My memory of what happened between the time I climbed the tree and woke from the coma is blank. Gone.”

“But isn’t a memory block common for a person who awakes from a coma?” Brains said. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’ve heard that a person will usually have no memory of what happened right before he blacks out.”

“It happens,” Jason said. “My doctor said I shouldn’t worry about it, and that it was probably best that I not remember falling out of the tree. He said the reason I couldn’t remember is because the trauma of the whole thing might be too much for me to handle. I guess it’s a good memory block.”

“Maybe it would be good for the average kid,” Shorty said.

“But it ain’t for you, man. You’ve got this crazy-assed stranger to deal with.”

“I think the Stranger has something to do with my memory block,” Jason said. “He keeps saying that he knows me, and he really does seem to know stuff about me. But I can’t remember him. I bet that when I went into that coma my memory of him got erased, just like my memory of my fall out of the tree. The coma wiped out all of it. It kind of makes sense.”

“Perfect sense,” Brains said, nodding. “All along, the Stranger’s been telling you to remember him, as though, deep in your mind, you know who he really is. Now he’s given you another clue: the word
coma
on that paper. As if the key to remembering him lies in exploring what the coma did to you. That means we have to find a way to go into your mind and dig into that memory block. The answer to the Stranger must be in there.”

“But how can we get in your head, man?” Shorty said. “I ain’t a doctor. Brains is smart as hell, but he ain’t one, either.”

“No, none of us are doctors,” Jason said. “But I know someone who’s smart enough to be one.”

“Who?” Brains said.

Jason told them, unable to hide a smile of pride.

 “My grandfather.”

Although Jason had two living grandfathers, whenever he thought of “Granddad,” he invariably thought of his mother’s father, Samuel Weaver. Samuel was the most remarkable man Jason had ever known, the embodiment of kindness, wisdom, patience, and every other virtue Jason could imagine. On the other hand, his dad’s father, Big George, was the polar opposite, and Jason visited him only when his parents forced him to go. But he never tired of visiting Sam.

Granddad lived in a spacious neo-Victorian house on the west side of town. The house rested on an acre of landscaped grounds, far back from the quiet, elm-shrouded road. A spear-point wrought-iron fence encircled the yard.

He usually met Granddad for breakfast once a week, normally on the weekend. Although Granddad was retired, he maintained a busy schedule on weekdays, performing duties at his church, leading a community service program, and golfing with his retired buddies. Jason was grateful that Granddad was available to meet when he called him that morning.

When Granddad opened the door, he smiled.

“Well, well, I haven’t seen you for a while.” He ushered Jason inside. “You must be a busy man this summer.”

“Yes, sir, I have been.” Granddad was the only man he addressed as “sir.” “I’ll try to visit more often from now on.”

“I wasn’t complaining, son.” Granddad closed the door. “I’m glad you finally have some friends. It’s bad for you to spend too much time by yourself. Or with a feeble old man like me.”

Jason smiled. Feeble old man. Granddad was sixty-eight, but today, in a short-sleeved, striped oxford shirt, olive twill pants, and black Rockports, his solid six-feet-two frame was as impressive as a man’s half his age. True, his short hair had grayed, and his dark-brown skin had a generous web of wrinkles, but his sable eyes shone with vitality as well as with the indomitable spirit that had transformed him from a penniless Southern laborer into a vastly successful—and now, happily retired—entrepreneur.

“You’re right on time. I just finished cooking breakfast,” Granddad said. “Cooked up a storm this morning, too. Lena would be proud.”

“I bet she would.” Jason savored the tantalizing aromas that wafted through the hallway.

Jason noted, as usual, how openly Granddad spoke of his deceased wife. He had been seven years old when his grandmother died—not mature enough to comprehend death, but old enough to understand that his grandparents had been exceedingly close. Far from being reluctant to discuss his beloved Lena, Granddad talked of her, with love, on almost every occasion that he and Jason were together. In a way that was inexplicable to Jason, it was almost as if, in Granddad’s mind, his grandmother had never died.

In the dining room the table was set: a platter of country ham and sausage, a pot of grits, a bowl of scrambled eggs, and a plateful of fluffy buttermilk biscuits, beside which stood a jar of homemade peach preserves.

“Hey, you weren’t lying, Granddad,” Jason said. “You threw down this morning.”

Granddad chuckled. He poured orange juice for himself and Jason. “Man, if my doctor saw me doing this, he’d have a fit. My blood pressure’s already high, and there’s enough fat in this food to choke a horse. But I have to indulge every once in a while. Once a Southern boy, always a Southern boy.”

Jason sat down and fixed his plate. As he ate, he did not talk much. He was trying to determine the best approach to the subject of memory blocks and how they could be overcome. That he could not tell Granddad
why
he needed the information complicated the matter. He could not speak of the Stranger to his grandfather for two reasons. Number one: Granddad, a highly rational man, would never believe his story unless he supplied proof. Number two: he did not feel safe telling Granddad about the Stranger, because he did not want the Stranger to target Granddad. Although the Stranger might limit his attention to Jason, Jason could not be sure. It was safer for Granddad to stay ignorant and uninvolved.

After
breakfast, they went into the library, where they settled into comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace. Thousands of books filled the polished oak shelves. A genuine Charles H. Alston painting hung above the mantel. The plush lavender carpet looked soft enough to sleep on, and the crisp smell of paper scented the air. Even without a flickering fire, a good book, and a mug of hot chocolate, this was easily the coziest room in the house.

“So ...” Granddad stretched out his legs and slipped a toothpick between his lips. “What did you need to ask me?”

“How did you know I needed to ask you something?” Jason said.

“You didn’t eat much this morning, and you didn’t talk much, either. That’s unusual for you. I figured you had something on your mind.”

“I do. But I’m not sure how to bring it up.”

Granddad leaned forward. “This must be serious.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“Lay it on me.”

Jason pulled a brass-plated poker out of the stand of fire irons and turned it in his hands. “Okay, if a person wants to remember something but he can’t, like the name of a song, for example, what should he do?”

Granddad stroked his chin. “Before I answer that, tell me something. Does this have anything to do with your getting that bike yesterday?”

“Sort of.” Jason turned the poker.

“Sort of?”

Jason shrugged and kept turning the poker.

“Because that’s a mighty odd question you shot at me,” Granddad said. “Your finding that bike was bizarre, too. They have to be related, though only the Lord knows how.”

Jason kept turning the poker.

Granddad sighed. “All right, we can drop it. But if you’re in any kind of trouble—
any
kind of trouble—I’m here for you. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Granddad leaned back in his chair. “Now, there’re two ways to get information out of your memory. The first and safest way is to simply let what you’ve forgotten come back to you naturally. That happens to everyone all the time. You try to remember the name of a song, or a movie, and it won’t come to you. Then, a few hours later, when you aren’t consciously thinking about it anymore, it suddenly pops into your mind.”

“Yeah, that’s happened to me before.” Granddad nodded. “There’s a second method, as I said. But I don’t recommend it, for a number of reasons.”

Jason’s heartbeat accelerated. “What is it?”

“Hypnosis. “

“Oh, I’ve heard of that. What’s wrong with it?”

“In your case, a lot. Hypnotic regression, which is usually what’s used to crack a memory block, should only be performed by a qualified hypnotherapist. Regression is tricky, and not any Joe Blow can do it. Your first problem would be finding someone competent to regress you.”

Jason swallowed. “Is there anything else wrong with it?”

“There sure is. Look, there’s a reason why you forget a thing in the first place. Maybe it’s not important. It might be, for instance, the details of what you watched on TV two weeks ago. It’s irrelevant to your well-being, so it’s wiped out of your consciousness.

“But,” Granddad said, “what if you forgot this incident because having it readily available in your memory would be
dangerous
to your mental health? Such as a trauma that you’ve repressed because it’s painful to remember. If I hypnotized you and attempted to draw that through your block, we could have trouble. You could lose the peace of mind that you’ve gained since the event occurred. Certainly, that doesn’t happen often—reliving a trauma is helpful in many circumstances—but like I said, it’s a tricky matter. What you need to understand is this: Sometimes you forget the information to forget the pain. And most times, you’re better off that way. Got it?”

Jason’s fingers were curled tightly around the poker. He relaxed them. “Yeah, I’ve got it. Thanks.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not yet.”

“You’re the boss,” Granddad said. “But if you’re trying to recall something, chew over it for a little while, then stop thinking about it. If it’s something you really need to remember, it’ll come back to you, in its own time. Don’t mess with hypnosis, son. I told you about it only because I think you deserve to know, and because I think you’re smart enough
not
to try it. Besides, the memories released during a trance are sometimes more fiction than fact. If you stay patient, it’s more likely that whatever you recall will be genuine.”

“What if I can’t wait?” Granddad’s brow furrowed. “What are you involved in? You have me worried, and even more confused.”

“It’s complicated, Granddad. Too complicated. I mean, I don’t know everything about it myself. But I promise that once I tie it all together, I’ll tell you about it.”

Granddad sighed, obviously frustrated by Jason’s reluctance to share the entire story.

Desiring to change the subject, Jason said, “Are we still on for breakfast this Saturday?”