Waiting for Patrick (34 page)

Anyway, I left your laptop where you could reach it. I didn’t want you twisting around trying to get it from the bedside table.

Take it easy,

Cher

Okay, that was sweet of her. Elliot couldn’t continue to be mad about the banged hand. He set the note aside and opened the laptop, fished his cell phone from the covers, turned on the personal hot spot, and made an account at one of the ancestry sites.

He couldn’t stay at it for long; he tired really easily. About half an hour later, it really was dinnertime. Or lunch, but mealtime at least. The lady who delivered the trays brought his in and stopped dead at the side of the bed. Elliot had mentally dubbed her “the lunch lady,” because she looked just like Mrs. Wagner back in elementary school, with her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun—though this lady lacked the hairnet—a sour look on her face that made it seem as if she hadn’t smiled since 1969, and an honest-to-God unibrow, albeit less noticeable since it was gray than it probably had been in her younger years. If she’d ever had younger years, because Elliot had sworn Mrs. Wagner was magically made, fully grown, in some mad scientist’s laboratory for the express purpose of terrorizing children who didn’t eat all their lunch.

“Oh hey.” Elliot chalked up to exhaustion the fact that it took him so long to realize what the problem was. “Here, let me move this.” He shut the laptop, unplugged it from his phone, and looked around for a place to set it. He didn’t want to try to put it on the bedside table for the very reason Sheri had left it on this table to begin with. There was no place to put it beside him without worrying about it sliding off the bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was damage his laptop. It and visitors were the only things keeping him sane. He finally just stuffed it under the table in the small space between its bottom and his lap.

Lunch Lady immediately set the tray down, mumbled her customary, “Have a nice lunch,” and shuffled out of the room, presumably to go brighten up someone else’s day.

Elliot took the plastic cover off the plate and fought the urge to put it right back on and move the whole thing out of the way so he could get back to work. None of the food on it was appetizing. The baked chicken looked like rubber, and the broccoli had been cooked into submission. The Jell-O was blue, and the apple was shriveled and lackluster. He collapsed into his propped-up bed and tapped his head repeatedly against the pillow.

“Hey, it could be worse,” a voice from the doorway said. It was the male nurse who came in to check on him from time to time during the day shift. Eric? Aaron?

“I don’t see how.” Elliot decided the apple was the least offensive thing on the tray, grabbed it, and pushed the table a couple inches toward the right. Twinges of pain emerged through the medication haze that was his general state of being.

Adam? moved the table back that hard-fought-for couple of inches, and Elliot attempted his best death glare. “I really don’t want any of that, Allen.”

The nurse laughed. “Alex. And you really need to eat. I know your appetite will be much lower after surgery, but you need to try to eat at least a little bit.”

“I’m eating a little bit.” Elliot waved the apple around, but Alex nodded his head toward the tray and tried to look stern. It didn’t really work. He just sort of looked adorable, but Elliot would not be swayed. “A starving man, five seconds from death, would not find that appetizing, Alec.”

Alex shook his head and picked up the Jell-O. “At least save this for later?”

“It’s blue.” Elliot crossed his arms. “Food is not supposed to be blue.”

“Blueberries.” Alex tilted his head in a way that Elliot had quickly learned meant challenge accepted.

“Only blue so birds will eat them and scatter the seeds.”

“Still blue.” Alex apparently gave himself a mental point. “Blue cheese.”

“Mold!” Elliot countered and pointed accusingly at Alex. “It’s blue because of mold, Albert.”

Alex shook his head and threw his hands up. “Between the ire over blue food and the ‘let’s see how many male names similar to Alex I can think of’ game, I give up.” But it was said good-naturedly. “You’re incorrigible.”

Elliot smiled and took another bite of apple. “So they tell me.”

“Seriously, though. You should eat.”

“Seriously, though,” Elliot repeated, “I’m not interested.”

“Pick one thing you’ll eat later, in addition to the apple, and I’ll take the rest away so you can disappear back into your computer.” Alex crossed his arms and looked pointedly at the tray.

Elliot dropped his head in an exaggerated you-win gesture. “Fine. Leave the Jell-O.”

ELLIOT WORKED
a little more at his research, and took a nap. Walked up and down the hall with Alex holding a belt he’d put around Elliot’s waist in case he fell. Then Elliot took a nap. Read Patrick’s journal, and took a nap. In general a very full day at the hospital. By the time Sheri visited after lunch the next day, Elliot had searched his family tree back as far as he could. There were no obvious connections to Patrick Chandler.

“So, another theory out the damned window,” Elliot grumbled to Sheri after filling her in on his research.

“What? You’re giving up after one day?”

“One and a half.” Elliot had his right arm, the one without anything attached to it, resting on his pillow, forearm on his head. “And yes, unless you have more information about my family than I do. I can’t go back any farther without it.”

“So there’s still a chance that you’re related.”

“Maybe, distantly. But I doubt it,” Elliot groused and fiddled with the ends of the pillowcase. “Most of my extended family, especially around that time period, were out west. The ones who hadn’t gone to California or settled in Montana still lived in Minnesota. I searched the Chandlers too and couldn’t find anyone outside of Pennsylvania.”

“So what does that mean for all this, Elle?” She was slumped back in the chair, arms crossed.

“I honestly don’t know.” He rubbed the rough fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know how he’s contacting me. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all these memories. Between the journal and the dreams, I feel like I know Patrick as well as I know myself, but I have absolutely no idea what to do with that information.”

“Can’t you just talk to him?” Sheri suggested, picking imaginary lint off her orange slacks. “Like you did with Ben?”

“I tried talking to him while I was awake.” Elliot ran his hand across his hair, then put it back on the bed. “I was hoping he’d contact me at some point in my dreams, like Ben did.” He drummed his hand on the mattress. “Either he doesn’t know how, or he has nothing else to say beside what he’s showing me.”

Sheri uncrossed her arms and sat up. “Or he doesn’t exist.”

Elliot dropped his gaze and watched his fingers continue to tap dance on the sheet. “Yeah, I guess there is always that possibility.”

Elliot knew he wasn’t imagining things. Where else would he get all this information? Reading Patrick’s journal did supply some of the details, and Ben had provided some. And Elliot was pretty imaginative. Okay, he wasn’t exactly
sure
he wasn’t conjuring these images up out of his own mind, either imagination or hallucinations. But he really hoped he wasn’t. He’d be a hell of a lot more concerned by that than by the memories coming from Patrick.

He had one more thing he could try. The next time he dreamed about the boys, he was going to try to take control of the dream, as he did with the dreams where he interacted with Ben, and see if he could force Patrick to talk.

Sheri visited for a little while longer, and then Elliot read some more of the journal. Finally he took his nighttime medication and went to sleep.

I SEE
Ben’s house up the road and I’m walking toward it. I can’t wait to see him. We’re planning to go fishing, but that’s often just an excuse to get out of the house and be together. We usually end up going back to the tree house to kiss. I like kissing Ben.

Here he comes, bounding down the path, as excited to see me as I am to see him. He’s got his fishing pole and lunch pail full of bait, and—

Something changes. Something shifts, and Elliot knows he’s dreaming. It worked. He’s taking control of the dream as he’d wanted to.

“Patrick?” There’s no answer. “Why are you giving me all these memories if you’re not going to talk to me?” Elliot waits. Still nothing. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want me to do. How do I get you and Ben together? It will kill me to give him up, but he was yours first, and I know he still adores you.” Elliot looks around the scene, and it’s disorienting because he can tell he’s still seeing it through Patrick’s eyes, but he no longer thinks he’s Patrick. “I want you to be together because it would make Ben happy and he could cross over. He wouldn’t have to be alone.”

“Who are you talking to, Patrick?”

What the hell?
Young Ben talks to Elliot as if they’re still in the dream. As if Elliot hasn’t taken control of it. As if he hasn’t tried to talk to Patrick.

“I’m not alone. I have you.”

“Ben, all of this is so screwed up. I’m not even sure who I am in the dream anymore.” He holds out his hands on either side, as if for inspection. “Do you see Patrick or Elliot? Are these still Patrick’s memories, or am I just dreaming like normal people dream? Making the script up as I go along?”

Ben screws up his face and hands me a fishing pole. “Patrick, you’re talking crazy today. Come on, let’s go fishing.”

“No.” Elliot pushes back the pole and stands his ground. He’s tired of this. He needs to talk to Patrick. “Patrick. Stop with the memories, and just talk to me.” He looks around the air slightly above his head, as he used to when he talked to Ben. “I get it. You and Ben have a history. You don’t have to catch me up anymore.” He looks back at where poor Ben stands with a bewildered expression, seemingly watching his friend and soul mate slowly losing his mind. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, all these little scenes are adorable, and young Ben was as cute as a button, but I want to help older Ben.” Talking to the air again, he gestures behind himself, signaling that he’s left that Ben back in the waking world. “The 172-year-old spirit trapped in a plantation house in South Carolina. To do that I need to
talk
to you. Not continue to see all these memories.” He gestures to take in the scenery that seems to be waiting for him to get back on script. “And not only to read your journal. I don’t know what you expect me to learn from all this.” He looks up higher, as if he expects Patrick to be floating there and he just has to look in the right place. “Just talk to me, Patrick.”

There is still no answer, and teenage Ben again asks Elliot to go fishing with him. Although this time, Elliot’s sure there’s a wary note in his voice.

Elliot throws his hands in the air. “I’m done, Patrick. This isn’t helping anything.” He pauses just long enough to see if that draws Patrick out. “I’m out.”

ELLIOT WOKE
up angrier than he could remember being in a while. He opened his laptop.

“Come on, Patrick.” He patted the keyboard with a satisfying
click
,
click
,
click
. “Ben can press the keys and talk to me. You can do it too.” He looked around, hoping to see something move. “Talk to me. Tell me what you want. Because if you’re just trying to convince me that Ben is yours, I
know
that. I do.”

Elliot knew he was talking out loud, but he didn’t care how it might seem to anyone else. A nurse walking by peeked in the doorway. She was one of the regular night-shift nurses. He barely interacted with her, so didn’t remember her name. Cute little thing, young enough that she made Daniel look ancient. Elliot spared a thought that the girl had to be at least twenty-one or so if she had gone through nursing school.

“Did you need something, Mr. Graham?”

Elliot shook his head.

Nothing you can help with.

“No, just thinking out loud, I guess.”

Elliot wouldn’t try to take control of the dreams again. He’d listen to what Patrick had to tell him and try to figure out what to do. On his own.

BEN AND
I are sixteen and we’re sitting in the tree house. I’m leaned up against the wall and Ben sits between my legs. We’re reading a book our teacher loaned us from her private collection.

“Do you really believe there are spirits of people that walk around?” Ben leans his head back against my shoulder to look me in the eye.

“Ghosts?” I steal a quick kiss, then pull away some too, so we can talk more easily. “I know the book says so, but I kind of hope not. I don’t know. It’s kind of sad. To think that they’re stuck here.”

“But you believe in spirits.” Ben squirms around, like he’s trying to move away even more. It takes us a second to disentangle our legs.

He’s finally sitting beside me, neither of us too bruised from the uncoordinated dance
that
particular move turned out to be. “I think they’re just our souls. Even the pastor teaches about souls.”

“But what about spirits who live other lives?” Looking skeptical, he pulls those beautiful long legs underneath himself and turns to face me head-on. “I know Mrs. Marcus believes it, but Ma says she’s kind of strange even if she is our new teacher and we should respect her.”

I chuckle and turn toward him, reeling in my own legs. “My ma says the same thing. But I like the idea of living other lives. Ma says it’s not Christian, but it makes sense to me. Why would God make all those souls and then only use them once, for such a short time? Wouldn’t it be like making fine china and then breaking it after you eat off it during one meal?”

He gives me a playful shove. “I think God is more powerful than any potter, so it wouldn’t be hard for him to make more souls. But it’s kind of a nice idea, isn’t it? To think that we’ve lived before, perhaps one of those historical figures you like to read about. Maybe one of us was George Washington, or Alexander the Great, or Charlemagne.”