Oneiromancer



  Oneiromancer

  Published by Joshua Lee Andrew Jones

  Copyright 2011 Joshua Lee Andrew Jones

  Oneiromancer

  Peter’s eyes, bloodshot and dry, blink to keep focus on his work. The article for the Eastport Observer is due and the facts don’t check themselves. The computer hums and the cursor flashes on screen with a hypnotic rhythm. Entranced, he watches it pulse and begins to nod off. Before he bumps his head on the monitor, he breaks the drowsy spell and pushes back on his chair. The clock on his wall reads 11:30 PM.

  “Damn it,” he says.

  Next to the cup of cold coffee on the desk, his cell phone rings. He picks it up to see his mother calling. Panic shoots down his spine. His mother never calls this late.

  “Hello,” he says.

  “It’s your brother. Come quick. St. Vincent’s. Hurry,” she says and hangs up.

  “What?”

  The highway traffic is thin as Peter dodges and weaves through the lanes. He hopes the reoccurring nightmare about his brother hasn’t come true as he pulls off the exit. After a long light and quick right, he reaches the parking lot of St. Vincent’s hospital just in time to see a Med-Evac helicopter land on the roof. The choppy current from the rotating blades courses down to the parking lot and fans a group of nurses in pink scrubs puffing on narrow cigarettes. The smoke disperses in curls riding the hard flow of air. Peter parks and opens his car door only to be held back by the seatbelt as he tries to get out.

  “Really Peter,” he says to himself and hits the seatbelt release. The belt recoils into the door with a nylon zip and thud.

  Peter jogs up to the automatic doors and bounces on his feet as he waits for the glass to slide back with an electric whoosh. The visitor information desk is barren of all but one receptionist filing her nails with a blue Emory-board.

  “Andy Miller. I’m his brother,” Peter says. She stops filing, looks up and then over to her computer. She taps the screen once.

  “ICU, west wing, third floor, waiting room is to your left from the elevator,” she says and then inspects her fingernails. Peter scans the floor and sees the sign for the elevators. He jogs over and hits the up button. The elevator doesn’t heed his urgent call and by the time the lift arrives Peter is bouncing on the balls of his feet again. Ding!

  “Finally,” he says, steps in, and hits number three. The doors come together and he is alone, alone with the harsh over head light. The elevator jerks as it begins to climb. Floor one. Floor two…

  “If those deviants hurt him, I’ll find them,” Peter says as the doors slide open too slow for his liking. Outside the waiting room, Sybil, his mother’s psychic medium stands holding a Rosary to her heart. Two silk scarves knot her neck and a wool shawl drapes across her shoulders. Peter thinks why is she here?

  A hand grabs hold of the doorframe from inside the ICU and catches Peter’s attention. His mother wearing a black track suit and pearls steps out on shaky feet. He rushes over as she looks to him with wide tear streaked eyes. Clumps of mascara hold to her lower lashes.

  “They say he doesn’t have long. He’s in a coma. He finally did it Peter. He killed himself,” she says and begins to buckle. Peter catches his mother and moves her to the bench stretched along the wall.

  “Don’t say that Mom. He’ll pull through.”

  “No, he won’t. That’s what the doctors said. Said he will go as soon as he’s off life support.”

  “We can’t give up.”

  “He gave up on us. That’s why Sybil is here. She came with me and was able to enter his mind. He wants us to let him go,” she says. Sybil sits on the bench, clasps her hands, and looks to Peter.

  “It’s true. This life has nothing more for him. Let him rest,” Sybil says.

  At that moment, Peter wants scream but he holds back. Things are bad enough.

  “Mom, don’t take him off life support. Let me investigate before you do anything,” he says.

  “Peter, it’s over. He’s going to a place where the drugs can’t hurt him anymore,” his mother says.

  “He could have been murdered, let me find out,” he pleads.

  “No Peter. Andy wasn’t meant for this world. His soul was much more radiant and kind than I’ve encountered in my days and so he left to be with the other beings of light,” Sybil says.

  Peter closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and counts to five.

  “Listen, I’m sure you believe what you’re saying but don’t get into this,” Peter says.

  “No Peter, she’s right. Sybil is connected to the other-side and Andy did this to himself. I overheard a policeman talk to a doctor and he said it was apparently self-inflicted. I’ve watched enough CSI on TV to know that means suicide,” she says.

  “Can I see him?” Peter asks his mother.

  Alarms sound in the ICU. Peter stands up and goes to the door only to be pulled out of the way by a muscular male nurse rushing inside.

  …

  Eyes blink and tears tumble down the cheeks of mourners huddling around Andy Miller’s hillside grave. The prevailing wind lifts the scent of scrub pine off the nearby park and rolls it over the Serenity View cemetery. Peter holds his mother’s hand as they watch Reverend Gil toss a handful of soil onto his brother’s coffin. At that moment, thick rolling clouds cover the sun and shade the final resting place of Andy Miller: son, brother, and now a scandal. Peter and his mother watch the others, all in black, pass by the casket, say their final farewells, and then continue downhill through a labyrinth of headstones. The scrolled-iron gate that leads to the street creaks in the breeze as the mourners pass through. Peter and his mother watch the casket descend into the earth. Reverend Gil hands Peter a shovel. A clump of soil is spread like a baker casting flour onto a cutting board.

  The clouds begin to break up and columns of light track across the verdant hills of the cemetery. Peter closes his eyes and lifts his chin. The sun warms his face with a soft touch and brushes off the chill of the autumn morning.

  “It’s him, Peter. It’s Andy telling us he’s all right,” his mother says.

  “I’m sure it is,” he says and thinks no, it’s not him.

  The next few days are a blur of handshakes, hugs, and condolences for Peter. People stop by his house in a quiet Eastport suburb with food but he isn’t hungry. People stop by with booze, but he doesn’t feel like drinking. Then, one afternoon around three, Peter opens his front door and his contact at the police department, Officer Curtain, stands there in a soaked t-shirt. His crew-cut is flat with sweat.

  “Hey Pete. Again, sorry about your brother. Would have stopped by earlier but I had paperwork. I have some info for you,” Officer Curtain says. Peter waves him in.

  “Lay it on me. Want some water?” Peter asks.

  “No, I’m good,” Officer Curtain says and Peter closes the door.

  “Here it is. There’s evidence of recent activity at your brother’s apartment during the time of the incident. Lots of fingerprints. Lots of trace. We found drug residue and paraphernalia but no drugs or cash. Are you sure you want to hear this now?” Officer Curtain asks and looks at Peter with a short, forced smile. He wipes his forehead of perspiration.

  “Yes. I need to know if it was a suicide.”

  “That’s the problem. It’s inconclusive to me. He could have done it but then again someone else could have done it too. Thing is, there were no signs of a struggle when he was found barely alive. The belt was still around his neck. The tox report said he had high levels of opiates in his blood so if he was strangled by someone he was in no shape to put up a fight,” he says and Peter looks to the floor. An image of his brother being choked to death by some crack head fills his mind. His hands begin to shake so he balls them up in fists.

>   “You look flushed. You all right Pete?” Officer Curtain asks.

  “Fine. Just a bit taken by this. In your opinion,” Peter says and then looks up to the cop, “do you think my brother could have been murdered?”

  “Honestly, your brother was known to associate with some scary dudes and I think it’s possible. But listen, the case isn’t being pursued because of your mother. She wants it closed. What about your father?” he asks.

  “He’s not around anymore,” Peter says.

  “Oh. Sorry. Listen Pete, I have to get back to my run. If your mother decides to push for an investigation let me know and I’ll help,” Officer Curtain says.

  Peter opens the door and the sound of his neighbor beginning to rake dead leaves on his driveway grates through the bright but chilly day. Officer Curtain checks his pulse as he steps through the door and out into daylight. Peter braces against the door.

  “Hey, you ever hear of a psychic medium named Sybil who has a shop downtown?”

  “Sure. I think she advised on a missing person’s case once. Why?”

  “Just wondering if she had a rap sheet,” Peter says.

  “No. Not from what I know. No complaints,” he says, waves and jogs off down the sidewalk.

  Peter closes the door, flips the tumbler to the deadbolt, and thinks I have to make mom believe that Sybil is a sham. Otherwise, Andy’s case will