Waking Dreams

By R.R. Wolfgang

Jenna and Thomas Elliott lead an idyllic life with their young son, Evan. Or so they thought - until Evan’s fifth birthday, when he begins exhibiting signs of a mysterious illness. Blackouts, seizures, and horrible nightmares that blur the lines of reality plague the boy. Doctors race for a diagnosis, hoping to save the boy before his symptoms lead to permanent neurological damage, but each time they come back with more questions than answers. And they, too, begin to question what is actually real.
As their hopes for a medical miracle fade, the Elliotts are forced to watch their picture perfect life unravel around them as their son’s nightmares begin to reveal their true nature – and they realize just how dark the darkest dreams can be.
Something lurks between the veil of the waking world and the world of dreams – and it wants out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.R. Wolfgang
• Release date: Dec 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311734297

R.R. Wolfgang

Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, I've always loved to write. After pursuing other adventures, I decided I can still make time for my passions, even while I do all these other adulty things - you know, like working, parenting, and trying to stay sane.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The morning air was crisp as Dariah Coulton trounced down the steps of her dormitory. Although the sun’s rays shined brightly and the morning breeze smelled sweet, Dariah felt uneasy. There was a hard knot in the pit of her stomach and a sense of foreboding that was difficult to ignore. Sure, her mother was daunting, and Dariah wasn’t looking forward to meeting her for breakfast, but something else felt out of place. She flicked her collar up against the cold and set out for the school’s parking lot. As she approached her car, she resisted the urge to go back into her dorm room and pull the covers over her head until the day was over. It was just breakfast. She could do it. She bit her lip and climbed into her Volvo. The drive was familiar, yet the familiarity did nothing to settle Dariah’s nerves.

A few minutes later, she pulled up to Ziffy’s Diner and after circling the block a few times, she finally found a parking spot. Her mother’s slick Mercedes was conspicuous, parked close to the door of the diner.

Dang. She beat me.

Dariah took a moment and steeled herself for her visit with her mother. With any luck, breakfast would be over quickly. She tried to ignore the wave of trepidation that rolled over her, clenching her stomach in knots.

C’mon, Dariah. Get a grip. It’s just your mother.

Still, her mouth filled with the bitter taste of dread. After a minute, Dariah let out a sigh and climbed out of her car. She stopped briefly to survey her reflection in the side-view mirror. She grimaced at the unkempt reflection staring back at her. Tugging her wavy blonde hair into a pony tail, she headed into the diner. A gentle jingle of bells greeted her, accompanied by the welcoming aroma of melting butter, scrambled eggs and bacon. She spotted her mother quickly. Clad in a two-piece tailored dress suit, a pearl necklace strung perfectly around her slender neck, and her brown hair teased into a careful coif, Janene Coulton stood out amidst her comparatively humble surroundings.

From the wary, skittish glances of the waitstaff, Dariah guessed that her mother must have been waiting for a while. It was how she worked. She always arrived early. Her mother used to recite that trite cliché, The early bird gets the worm, but somehow that never quite fit. It would have suited her mother better if there was a saying more like the first wolf to the farm gets the plumpest sheep.

Dariah slid into the seat across from her mother. The smell of frying butter made her stomach growl, in spite of her nerves. Her mother barely spared her a glance while inspecting the silverware at the table. In that quick glance, however, she could see that her mother had taken in her crumpled jeans, worn-in hiking boots, and lack of makeup.

You look tired, sweetie, Janene said, her voice cordial and syrupy all at once. You should really make sure you get your beauty sleep.

Dear God, I will not strangle this woman, Dariah thought to herself as she plastered a smile on her face.

And how was your fundraiser? Dariah asked, pointedly ignoring Janene’s casual yet barbed observance. What charity event was it again that brought you to my doorstep?

Tsk, tsk, Dariah, watch your manners, her mother corrected her icily. You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to make an appearance in society once in a while.

Thanks, but I was volunteering at the hospital. I told you.

And I have no interest in your idea of society. The words danced across the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them, choosing to pick up her menu instead.

I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered breakfast for you, her mother changed the topic as her daughter settled into her seat. I knew you would probably order something just terribly unhealthy. You know how bad these greasy foods are for your skin.

I do mind, mother, actually, Dariah said, struggling to keep her tone civil. And the power games begin already. This place is famous for their bacon and hash browns.

Dariah gestured to the waiter. Tom—that was his name. He smiled at her, and she felt her heart skip a beat. He nodded and she knew he would bring her the usual: eggs over easy, two bacon strips, buttery hash browns, and a black coffee.

Well, you probably are wondering why I wanted to see you, her mother began, looking at her daughter severely. You finished your first year at Cornell, and I hear you final chose a major: pre-medicine. Your father tells me that you did very well.

Dariah tried not to wince at the guilt-laden intonation of the words your father. Her mother was clearly angry that she kept in better touch with Dad than with her.

So?

Your father and I have decided to throw a party in your honor, celebrating the successful completion of your first year of college.

You’re kidding. Dariah found herself blushing in embarrassment. She eagerly greeted the distraction Tom provided as he set down a glass of water and her coffee at the edge of the table.

Of course not. I don’t joke about these things, her mother corrected.

No, of course not. Your parties are no joking matter. Dariah suppressed the urge to groan.

And who am I allowed to invite, or is this one of your cocktail parties where I will be the only person my age? Dariah asked, still attempting to hide her mounting hostility.

"Seriously, sweetie, you can’t expect me to allow you to bring any of those . . . hooligans . . . into our home."

Mom, those ‘hooligans’ are 4.0 students with scholarships to a prestigious university.

Do you really think a respectable person needs a scholarship, honey? Think of their relations.

And there it was. Dariah rarely needed to be reminded of the reason she didn’t keep in touch with her mother.

God, I don’t know what Dad sees in you. I can’t believe I share genetic material with you.

I honestly don’t know how to respond to that, she said incredulously.

Oh, don’t look at me that way, her mother said. You know as well as I do that even if a poor person rises above their means, their family will always bring them, and everyone who associates with them, back to their level.

Mother, you are a piece of work. The words slipped out before she could self-edit. Seriously, I really don’t need a party. I don’t want a party. It’s only my first year.

Always so modest, Janene said as she took another dainty stab at the uncooperative melon. But really, dear, you mustn’t protest about this party. I simply wouldn’t have it any other way.

Fine. Whatever. Her mother was paying her tuition, and as much as it pained her to say it, she really needed to just get through college and med school, then she would never have to talk to her again. Except when she tried to call Dad.

Without further ado, Janene launched into a description of the upcoming event. Dariah listened with growing numbness. As much as she wanted to tell her mom exactly where to shove it, she already knew she would go to the stupid party. Not so much for her mother’s sake, but for her dad’s. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and waited for her mother to finish.

It really is too bad, the strawberries in this fruit salad are clearly not ripe, her mother said. The melon is almost pungent. And the tea, don’t get me started.

Janene Coulton exhaled deeply, seeming to mourn the sad state of her fruit bowl.

Tragic, Dariah let the word slip with more sarcasm than she intended, and quickly buried her gaze deeply in her own delightfully buttery eggs.

After inhaling her bacon, hash browns, and eggs, she stood up impolitely with a quick stretch, interrupting her mother mid-sentence.

I hate to be rude, Mom, she lied, but I really gotta hit the road if I want to beat the rain.

Well, fine, I only drove all the way from New York City just to meet you, don’t worry about me.

Mom, your driver drove four hours last night for a fundraiser for your favorite art gallery. Not for me.

Believe what you want, dear, she said as she got up stiffly from her seat, trying not to touch the table. Almost as an afterthought, she added, Do try to be safe. You know how much your father and I disapprove of you going on these hikes by yourself.

Trust me, I know, Dariah thought as she kissed the powdered cheek her mother offered her.

I’ll do my best. I trust you can find the highway from here?

I’m not an imbecile.

Right. Well, it’s been fun. She wished her mother was an imbecile. Then her pretentiousness may have been forgivable.

Dariah climbed into her Volvo, sparing time for a little wave to her mother, and set out for Taughannock State Park. A glance in the rearview revealed her mother’s prim, disapproving figure. Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she sped away from the diner.

Why do I always let her get to me? It’s done. Aside from this stupid party, you won’t have to see her for ages. Nature will clear your brain.

A solo hike at Taughannock Falls was just what she needed to get her head straight. Unlike her mother, she loved the outdoors. There was something so clean and pure about nature. And quiet. When she was a kid, she had thought her mother’s distaste was because of the dirt. Now, she knew better. Something about the wilderness terrified her mother. Dariah wasn’t sure if it was the unpredictability or the messiness of it. Or maybe it was the quiet. She didn’t think her mother could stand to be alone with her own thoughts.

On a whim, Dariah decided to take the more scenic route to the falls. It doubled her distance, but it was a quieter, more relaxing drive. After breakfast, relaxing sounded pretty nice. By the time she turned onto Route 34, the tension was already melting from her body. On some level, her mom and dad probably had a point. She probably shouldn’t be hiking alone. But right then, she didn’t care. Paranoia would not run her life. Plus, she had her pepper spray and remembered her self-defense classes.

Rule number one: always be aware of your surroundings. Check.

As Dariah drove on Route 89 from Ithaca, her gaze kept drifting to the beautiful scenery. Through the break of trees, she occasionally caught glimpses of Cayuga Lake. The summer sun danced across the lake’s waters, the light shimmering like diamonds.

Suddenly, her head snapped forward as her car hit something. She slammed on the brakes. She didn’t see what she’d hit—just a blur and then it was gone, pulled underneath the car. The wheel jerked violently in her hand as the tires thumped over something large before her car finally screeched to a stop.

What the hell was that? Oh, God, God, God, she thought as she turned key in the ignition, half in a daze, she looked over her shoulder.

I couldn’t have been looking away that long, she tried to assure herself. It was only a second. Wasn’t it? Oh, fuck!

Dariah let a slow breath out and took a second to brace herself. Her thoughts came sluggishly and she barely noticed the dark clouds gathering rapidly across the horizon.

This isn’t real. It can’t be real, she found herself thinking over and over. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

Oh, God, please don’t let me have hurt someone, she prayed silently. I will always keep my eyes on the road, from now on. God, Dariah, move. If that was a person, they could be dying out there. Fuck.

Taking another deep breath, Dariah tried to gather a sense of calm. This was real. She had to deal with it. Gritting her teeth, she opened the door of her beaten up white Volvo and stepped out. As her feet hit the pavement, she marveled at its solidness. Yes. This was real. She had run over something. Probably roadkill. Yeah, just roadkill. Why the fuck was she freaking out so much?

Dariah’s ears buzzed for a moment as she took in the eerily quiet scene. There was no other car in sight. No bird song, no bugs buzzing, not a single sound of wildlife. Not even the distant sound of water lapping at the lake. Even for Route 89, this was quiet. The silence was deafening.

There on the road, unmoving, was the victim of her careless driving. Her stomach clenched. It definitely wasn’t a box or some junk blown off the back of a truck. Ever so slowly her feet moved her forward, taking her toward the lump that lay oh-so-motionless in the middle of the lane. Bile rose in her throat as the shape became increasingly distinct.

Oh God, it’s a person. I hit someone. What appeared to be an arm lay outstretched towards the central yellow divider. Her sluggishness fell away and she broke into a run towards the person, wildly hoping that her CPR and basic first aid training could help them.

That’s when the smell hit her. The stench was almost overpowering. The air was thick with it—a putridly sweet smell, laced with hints of decaying flesh. Somehow, she suppressed the urge to vomit. That smell was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It should have filled her with relief. No recently injured or, hell, dead person could smell that bad. Instead, a sensation of dread crept its way into her consciousness, tickling and grasping at her spine with its cold fingers. She shivered. She was almost ten feet away, and yet the body reeked of rot and decay in a way the cadavers in her human anatomy and physiology courses had never led her to believe was possible. Of course, the cadavers in class had smelled mostly of formaldehyde, but for some reason it had never occurred to her that an untreated corpse could produce such a terrible stench. She stared in incredulity, relief and dread tugging simultaneously at her nerves.

This poor fool had been dead for a while. Still, Dariah wasn’t quite sure what to do. The whole thing just felt wrong. She could have sworn she had seen something when her car hit this person, that whatever she hit had been more upright before it was dragged under her car.

As if it had been standing.

Calming herself, she retraced her steps back to the car and circled the front, inspecting it for the first time. She couldn’t find a trace of damage.

Well, none that wasn’t there before I hit this thing, she mentally corrected herself.

Her bumper was only dinged in the right hand corner where she had hit a pole when her father gave her driving lessons years before. Shaking her head in disbelief, she marveled at the nonsensical nature of what was in front of her. As her gaze drifted back to the body in the road, she hesitated at the thought of going back to it. Something about this just wasn’t sitting right.

Why am I trying to make sense of this? Someone probably had a heart attack hiking and passed away in the road. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. Like always.

There was nothing she could do for the person lying on the eerily desolate highway road. She might as well call the authorities. The police would be able to take care of all of this. Dariah fumbled in her jeans for her cell phone and immediately realized it wasn’t there. It was exactly where she left it, on the passenger seat, sitting next to her purse. With a sigh, she rounded the front of her car before something stopped her dead in her tracks. The body began to twitch and spasm in the road. After a moment, it pushed itself onto its hands and knees and slowly rose from the sticky black pavement. When it reached its full height, she was struck dumb. How had she ever thought that was a human being? There was nothing even vaguely human about it.

It had two arms, and two legs, but everything else was wrong. Shades of grayish, viscous skin shifted across its flesh, revealing brief but brilliant flashes of nightmarish shadows crawling underneath. As it straightened itself, its unnaturally long arms dripped a dark, tar-like substance onto the pavement.

It took a moment, but it dawned on Dariah that the dripping was an illusion. The constant movement across the creature’s skin only made it seem like some dark liquid dripped from its limbs, but that wasn’t actually right at all. In reality, the creature was sucking light from the road. She watched numbly as it gathered an eerie halo around itself, until it seemed to cast the whole world into shadow.

Then it lifted its head and looked at her—through her—its mouth gaping and slack. It wasn’t really a mouth at all, she knew. She didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t particularly want to find out.

It took a halting step towards her, a step that oozed across the pavement. Suddenly, the lack of damage to her sturdy Volvo was explained. It had stood in the road, waiting for a lonely passerby. It had let her believe she had hit it, because it had wanted to lure her out into the open. But it was malleable.

In spite of its seeming awkwardness, it was fast. In two steps, it covered a quarter of the distance to her. The shock of its speed startled her, and she felt a yelp escape her lips before she could suppress it. The sweet rotting stench filled her nostrils again. She jerked at the handle of her car and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder as she met hard resistance. There, through the car window, she saw the keys dangling from the ignition.

Fuck! FUCK! How could you be so stupid? Why didn’t you let your goddamned mom get you the new car with the keyless locking system? FUCK!

Dariah glanced over her shoulder, and felt divided into two halves – half of her was overwhelmed with curiosity at this creature. She wanted to see how it moved, to see if she could determine what it was. The other half, however, the part of her that operated on a more primal level, the part ruled by instinct, took over. She turned and ran.

Large drops of rain splashed down on her as she darted across the highway, running for the sparse woods and the houses that lay beyond them. As she cleared the edge of grass on the gravel embankment, she glanced frantically over her shoulder. The creature hovered over her car, its arm slithering across the hood before jettisoning back to its side. Its shadow spread around it, engulfing her car and the whole road behind it.

The creature turned its head toward her. The edges of its shapeless face tilted upwards. In horror, she realized that it was smiling.

Dariah turned and ran with renewed urgency. It was pouring now. The rain plastered her ponytail icily to her neck. Rivulets of water streamed into her eyes.

Time became irrelevant. Trees, rocks, mud, and gravel—everything flew by. Her lungs burned and her legs began to feel impossibly heavy, but still she didn’t stop. She was afraid that if she stopped, if she looked, it would be there. Just waiting for her to turn, waiting to pull her in and suck the life and light out of her. There should have been a house after the first copse of trees, but for some reason there was only this endless forest.

Wet gravel crunched beneath her stumbling feet, and she searched frantically ahead for any sign of a path that would lead to a public place. The creature’s odd footsteps were loud behind her, rocks sliding noisily and twigs breaking beneath the creature’s large, jarring frame. The sound was drawing closer. The thought filled her with terror. Any moment there would be a house, or she would be back on the road to Taughannock State Park.

But the trees only got closer and closer together. No house or road emerged from the downpour. Dariah began to suspect she wasn’t going to find refuge.

When the fuck did I fall asleep and drift into the Twilight fucking Zone?

After what seemed like hours, she tried to quicken her faltering pace, trying to push the logs that her legs had become. Each breath burned its way down her aching throat. She tried to ignore the pain welling in her side as she staggered through a small break in the trees ahead of her. She had not given up hope. There had to be someone in this seemingly endless wilderness. There just had to be. Sure, they would probably laugh at her and her unbelievable story, but they would be real.

Dariah’s vision blurred and she knew she didn’t have much left in her. As that reality sank in, a crushing sense of hopelessness overwhelmed her. Her legs weakened as she choked back tears. She clumsily ripped the branches that clawed at her face out of her way. Her fingers ached from the cold and wet. She could barely feel the pain from the dozens of interlaced cuts on her hands.

Why did I go on this stupid trip? Why did I take the stupid scenic route? Why the fuck why? The thoughts kept circling unbidden in her head. She bit her lip in frustration, tears leaking from her eyes.

Dariah knew it wouldn’t help to wish the whole thing away, but she kept doing it anyway. If only she could make her past self continue driving until she reached a gas station to report the incident. Or, if only she had decided to listen to her mother just this once.

Abruptly, Dariah emerged from the wooded area out onto a small stream. Slipping down the muddy slope, her foot caught on a half-submerged root. Desperately, she caught a handful of wet ferns in one hand as she tried to break her fall. The ferns snapped in her hands and she felt a flash of pain arc up her leg. The impact left her breathless as she hit the wet, soft moss, her face sliding in the mud. She felt her hands sink into the mossy leaves.

Dariah pushed herself slowly up from the mud, her arms aching from the effort. A moment’s survey told her the falls were nearby. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know how it had happened, but she was close. She must have been running for miles.

Still, hope suddenly reared its tenacious head, filling her with its warm touch. Dariah tried to push herself onto her feet only to fall right back down as icy pain shot up her left leg. Looking down, she saw her jeans torn open, her leg twisted and bleeding.

Shit, it’s broken. That’s it. This is how your story ends. The thoughts tumbled at her and she realized they were true. Even without the broken leg, she had spent everything—she would not be able to get up again.

Well, at least you’ll see it coming. A small glimmer of courage filled her as she sat on the wet moss. Tilting her head skyward, she savored the feeling of the rain on her skin. She breathed in the fresh smell of rain and felt oddly at peace.

As the creature noisily broke through the woods, Dariah became aware of a distinct sensation that she wasn’t alone. There, at the very edge of her mind, there was a presence that wasn’t hers. It floated in and out of her awareness. There was a softness to it, an innocence. It was as if there was a part of her consciousness that belonged to someone else. And whoever it was, she could tell they were scared.

Don’t worry, she reassured it. Everyone dies.

If it could have trembled, she knew it would have. Great, now you’re talking to yourself.

Suddenly, she heard the thing crash through the clearing behind her. She reoriented herself so she could face it. Grimacing against the pain, she pushed herself into a straighter position just as some distant memory came to her.

In that moment Dariah knew what it was. Throwing back her head, she laughed. She had always naively believed that if she could identify an object, the mere identification would give her some measure of power over it. If she could recognize a disease and correctly name it, she would have found the key to conquer the disease. Just like Rumpelstiltskin. She knew now this wasn’t the case. The awful creature did not slow in awe of her discernment. Its head rolled on its shoulder-like appendages, and she knew it seemed pleased, but it did not halt.

What had appeared as clumsiness when it had first risen from the road now struck her as an incredible efficiency. Still, satisfaction filled her as death crawled towards her on two horrible mockeries of human legs. The innocent presence inside her quailed as the stench drew near. Reaching inward, she comforted it as best as she could. A part of her thought it ironic that she comforted this other part of herself. The whole thing was mad.

I know what you are, she said, giggling hysterically as it drew close. You shouldn’t exist.

Her giddy laugh filled the air until it was replaced by the piercing sound of her screams.

CHAPTER ONE

On the back porch of her best friends’ house, Jenna Elliott paused to absorb the beautiful day. The children were taking turns chasing the Eversons’ tortured yellow lab, and being chased by it. A happy sigh escaped her lips. Everything was perfect. So why did she feel like something terrible was about to happen? She closed her eyes and breathed in the soft, sweet scent of freshly cut grass wafting easily on the summer breeze. The children shrieked in delight as the Eversons’ dog pranced around them, tugging rambunctiously on the stick that had previously been used to propel a large white and blue beach ball around the lawn. The beach ball had been her idea, and it had entertained the kids for a good five minutes. But clearly the game of tug-of-war was far more entertaining.

I guess I’m from a different era, she thought. An era that still finds beach balls entertaining. Still, she couldn’t suppress her own giddy grin at the carefree, frolicking children and the goofy yellow dog.

Hey, she said, as she pulled a patio chair next to her husband.

Hey you, Thomas replied, as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. I missed you.

I missed you too, she said.

Oh, please, George Everson said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. She was only gone for five minutes.

Jenna laughed. The years had been kind to her husband’s longtime friend. At just under six feet tall and sixty-two years of age, George Everson was still a stunning man. A glint of mischief lurked in the depths of his blue-gray eyes, a mischief that could not be dampened, no matter how hard he tried to pull off his old curmudgeon schtick. His trim, athletic figure hinted at the track athlete he once was. He had been the head of the Classics department at UCLA for almost a decade. His wife, Elaine, also in her sixties now, was also as striking as she had ever been. Her once-blonde hair was now mostly silver, and her face lightly creased, but she still had the poise and contagious energy that lit up any room she entered.

Together, the Eversons were Jenna’s lifeline. They inspired her and loved her. In many ways, they were the parents she’d always wished she’d had.

So, Jenna, did you give any more thought to what we talked about earlier? Elaine asked, as she scooped up a deck of cards from the glass patio table and began to deal a hand for poker.

Oh, yes. Thomas and I talked about it. We’re free Christmas break, she said, as she picked up her hand. Your grandkids can stay with us over the break.

Excellent! Elaine said.

Very good. We’re long overdue for a vacation, George chimed in.

About time, Thomas said.

So, Jenna began, as she surveyed the two children playing happily with her own son, Evan. Richard and Ava are looking really well. Are they already getting geared up for the new school year?

Oh, I doubt they’re thinking about school yet, Elaine laughed. "They have a whole month, after all!"

And what about you two? How are you both holding up?

The words slipped out, oozing with more sympathy than she had intended. The question had been at the back of Jenna’s mind all afternoon, and she posed it with her usual grace for sensitive subjects—none whatsoever. Ignoring her husband’s stare, she laid her hand on Elaine’s shoulder in support. Elaine’s gaze turned towards her husband and they briefly clasped hands. As acerbic and blunt as George could be with his students, co-workers, and friends, there was nothing but love and compassion in the expression he gave his wife.

It’s been hard, Elaine said quietly, her hands tightly gripping George’s in her lap. We’ve had to be strong. For Ava and Richard.

Pausing, Elaine gave her husband’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and smoothing her hands across her lap. Deep in thought, she reorganized her napkin and plastic silverware in front of her.

Tomorrow would be Trevor’s thirtieth, you know.

He and Helen had so much going for them, George said with a sigh. They were so young.

A year ago, Trevor and Helen Everson had left the children with George and Elaine before heading out for a romantic weekend at one of their favorite campsites, just outside the Mojave National Preserve in California. No one knew what caused Trevor to veer suddenly into oncoming traffic on a particularly treacherous section of Route 138, but both he and Helen had been killed instantly in the collision, along with the seventeen-year-old driver of the other car.

Their lives had never been the same.

Looking out at the children playing, Elaine appeared to be at peace with her sorrow.

I feel too old to be going through all this again, she admitted with a small shrug of her shoulders. But what are we to do?

This is all we have left of them, George added. At times I wish Helen’s parents would become more involved. Elaine snorted in derision, as she nudged the nearly empty plate of cucumber sandwiches further away from her. But, well, you know how they are.

Unfortunately, Jenna did remember.

"Elaine had to spend hours on the phone just convincing them to come to the funeral. She was their daughter. George shook his head in disbelief at the memory. It’s probably for the better that they have not been involved in Richard and Ava’s lives."

You’ve been so strong for the children, Jenna reassured them both. Helen wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Thank you, Elaine and George both said simultaneously, their hands entwined tightly.

It’s nice to actually talk about them, Elaine confessed quietly. George nodded slowly in affirmation, his lips tightly pursed together. She could see that he had no voice to give words to his pain, and her heart ached for him.

So many people avoid even mentioning him, Elaine added with bitterness. It sometimes seems as if he never existed to them.

No, Jenna assured her. It’s just hard to find the right words to say, that’s all.

I suppose so, the older woman sighed. Still, thank you. It’s nice to talk about him. We have two reminders we see every day, so it’s not like we don’t know what we’ve lost.

Okay, Thomas, George interjected as he stood abruptly, with an air of finality. He beamed radiantly at Jenna’s startled husband. I think it’s about time I showed you my garden. The tomatoes are simply superb. I have half a mind to enter one of those little farmers’ contests.

Thomas rose, looking slightly confused as George grasped him by the elbow and began to lead him rather forcefully to his project of the year, a rather haphazard looking vegetable garden.

Elaine dabbed gently at her eyes with a napkin, blotting away any sign