Into the Darkness (36 page)

He wrote something, nodded, and looked up at me again.

“Did you talk to Mrs. or Mr. Matthews while they were living there?”

“Actually, no. I tried to talk to Mrs. Matthews once, but she . . . she was ill and getting worse. She never came out of the house, as far as I knew, and Mr. Matthews went away on an important meeting almost as soon as they had moved into the house.

“Look, I’m not after them to get money or anything,” I added, thinking that he was suspicious of my intentions. “I knew that Mrs. Matthews was seeing a therapist and was suffering from a serious mental condition. Brayden explained all that to me.” I paused. Maybe I was telling him too much, I thought, but what choice did I have?

“Brayden eventually revealed that she had tried to commit suicide and she was in a clinic somewhere near Portland. That’s why I thought they had to move out, so he and his father would be closer. I guess she has to stay in the clinic for a long time. I would just like to get in touch with him. It’s been hard for him to make friends his age. I don’t know what you know about them, but because of the work his father does, his family has had to travel a lot.”

I paused. I was talking too much, I thought. Mr. Norton was staring at me strangely again.

“Amber Taylor, Taylor Jewelry in Echo Lake?”

“Yes, sir. My parents don’t know that I’ve come here,” I added quickly.

“Is that so?”

“I just had to try to find him, and when Mr. Richards told me who owned the property . . .”

“Von Richards?”

“Yes. When he told me that you owned the property and told me about your company, I called to make this appointment.”

He rose so quickly out of his seat that I actually pulled back in mine.

“Wait here,” he said, and walked out of his office, closing the door behind him.

I imagined that he was going out to ask his secretary where the Matthews family had relocated. But why did he say that he hadn’t rented the house to them? The way he looked at me while I was explaining everything gave me the feeling that I might even be in the wrong office. Maybe Von Richards had it wrong. Maybe Marcus Norton didn’t own the house the Matthewses had been in. Maybe, however, he owned so many properties that he was going out to check with his secretary to see if the house in Echo Lake was one of them. I would certainly feel stupid if I were in the wrong office, and to top it off, I had driven all this way for nothing. The owner of the property might not even be in Portland.

I began to feel very uncomfortable. I glanced at my watch. Mr. Norton was out there talking to his secretary for nearly ten minutes. What was going on? I heard my cell phone go off and dug it out of my purse quickly, hoping and praying that it was Brayden finally calling, but the screen told me that it was my mother. She must have discovered that I wasn’t home and was looking
for me, but I didn’t want to talk to her just yet. I didn’t want her to know where I was until I found out where Brayden was. She might try to talk me into coming home. I let it go to voice mail and flipped it closed when Mr. Norton finally reentered his office.

Without speaking and looking very upset, even a little nervous himself, he went around his desk and sat facing me again. I felt someone else in the room and turned sharply to see Mrs. Douglas standing behind me. She looked absolutely terrified. She wasn’t much taller than I was, and now that she was out from behind her desk, I saw that she couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. She had her thin arms folded across her small bosom, but tightly, like someone who was clinging to herself.

“Let’s get this completely straight,” Mr. Norton began. “You tell me that you’ve come here to find out where the Matthews family now is because you’re concerned about Brayden Matthews, whom you met while the Matthewses were in the house next to yours. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you spoke and spent time with Brayden Matthews in Echo Lake recently?”

“I saw him yesterday, in fact,” I said.

He looked at Mrs. Douglas when she gasped. I turned to look at her, too. She had brought her right hand up to press against her lips.

“Why do you ask me that?”

“Mrs. Matthews is my daughter,” he replied.

“Oh.”

“She is indeed in a clinic, and she is seriously emotionally ill. It’s also true that she has gotten worse. I was hoping that a new location, a new environment, a beautiful small community, would help her, that maybe she would return to her artwork. She and Sanford have a beautiful home here in Portland, but it’s become impossible for her to remain there. I have it up for sale.”

I nodded. All of that made sense, even though I still didn’t know the details.

“Do you know why she’s so sick?” he asked me.

“No. Brayden never told me.”

“Brayden never told you,” he repeated. Then he leaned forward. “I hope you’re a disturbed person, too, and this isn’t some sick joke,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“She’s sick because she was in a terrible automobile accident. She was hit by a lumber truck just north of Portland. It drove her car off the highway and down a steep embankment. She suffered a broken leg and cracked ribs. The window on her door shattered and ripped out some of her face on the left side.”

“Oh!” I said, practically gasping it. So that was why she had kept her face covered the first day I had seen her and why she had been wearing that scarf around her face when I saw her in the doorway receiving her groceries. But why wouldn’t Brayden have told me that?

“Yes. But she wasn’t alone in the car,” he continued. “My grandson Brayden was in the car.”

“Brayden?” I held my breath. Had he suffered some brain damage? Was that why he behaved the way he had in Echo Lake? Was his situation worse now?

“Brayden Matthews died from severe trauma to his right temple occurring during the rollover,” Mr. Norton recited as if he were reading from a news article. “My grandson has been dead a year yesterday, matter of fact, matter of cold fact, so I don’t know what the hell you’re saying or why in hell you came here,” he added in a raised voice. His eyes turned steely cold and he clenched his teeth. “My daughter was driving and blamed herself for the accident and my grandson’s death. That’s why she is suffering so terribly emotionally and psychologically.”

I couldn’t speak, but what he was saying certainly explained the grotesque painting she had done of Brayden in the attic.

“I called your family’s jewelry store and spoke to your mother. Apparently, your parents are very upset with you and have no explanation for your actions and behavior. I hope you know how much you’ve upset them.”

I shook my head. “This isn’t true,” I said. “It can’t be true. I was with Brayden.”

“Really.” He sat back and gazed at me a long moment, his anger calming. Then he took a deep breath. “Like I said, I don’t know why you’ve come here and why you’re doing this. Your mother claims you have not been mentally ill, but she did admit that neither she nor your father ever set eyes on anyone claiming to be Brayden Matthews, that all they knew about him came from you, so now they are concerned about your mental health.”

I started to cry. “I did know him. I did,” I insisted. “He was there. We spent a lot of time together.”

He looked at Mrs. Douglas.

“My grandson lies next to my wife in the River View Cemetery, section one forty-three. Maybe you should go see for yourself. Mrs. Douglas, provide this young lady with directions, please.”

“This can’t . . .”

“I think I’ve given you enough of my time, Miss Taylor. As I said, I don’t know your purpose or reasons for coming here. If you’re not mentally ill yourself, then whoever put you up to it, some jealous competitor or some displeased customer, whoever he or she might be, they’re a sick son of a bitch. Good day,” he said firmly.

I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Instead, I rose and hurried out of his office. Mrs. Douglas stood at her desk. She looked as if she wanted to scratch my eyes out. Without speaking, she reached into a file and handed me a printout of the directions to the cemetery and the cemetery map.

“Take it. You should go visit the grave and apologize to that poor boy’s soul for what you have just done to his grandfather,” she said.

I looked at the paper. I was afraid to take it, but she thrust it at me again and I took it.

“Now, please leave, or I’ll call the police. And never come back here,” she added.

“I’m not lying,” I said.

She raised her eyes toward the ceiling as to avoid looking at me.

With my legs moving as if they had a mind of their own and wanted me out of there, I left the office. I stood outside on the sidewalk, dazed. The traffic went by;
pedestrians crossed in front of me and behind me. One man knocked into me gently. My cell phone rang again. It was my mother calling once more, and once more I didn’t answer.

I walked quickly to my car and sat behind the wheel, staring out for a while.
This can’t be happening,
I told myself.
How can this be true? There has to be some great mistake, but how could a grandfather and a father make such a mistake about his daughter and grandson?

I looked at the directions to the cemetery. I didn’t want to go there, but now there was no way not to. I could never go home without seeing if what Mr. Norton had told me was indeed the cold truth.

Fifteen minutes later, I drove in and found my way to the section he had described. It wasn’t hard to find the grave sites. The tombstones were larger than any nearby. I walked up to the two, saw the one for Delores Norton and just to the left of hers a tombstone that read: “Brayden Mark Matthews, Beloved Son and Grandson.”

The date of his death matched a year ago yesterday, just as Mr. Norton had said.

But that wasn’t what convinced me that it was my Brayden’s grave.

It was the quote on the monument: “I hear a different drummer.”

It was part of a quote from Thoreau’s
Walden.

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.”

I read the words repeatedly, and then I felt my legs soften and the earth shift beneath my feet as it began to spin.

It was like a curtain coming down.

Darkness washed over me.

Other people visiting grave sites nearby found me sprawled on Brayden’s grave. I was taken to Legacy Good Samaritan Hospital’s emergency room, where the doctor checked my vitals and kept me resting. Hours went by. I fell in and out of sleep, dozing, more like someone still stunned. Finally, when I opened my eyes again one time, my parents were standing there, my mother holding my hand. They looked absolutely terrified. I started to cry.

“We don’t understand what’s happening, Amber,” my mother said softly. She wiped away my tears.

“The boy you claimed you were with has been dead for a year?” my father asked.

“I was with him,” I insisted.

My father shook his head and sat facing the wall. He looked more stunned than I felt.

“We want to take you home now, Amber,” Mom said.

“I feel so strange,” I said.

“The doctor says there’s nothing physically wrong with you. They gave you something to calm you down for now.”

“Nothing
physically
,” my father emphasized.

“When we’re home, we’ll be able to sort this out better,” she continued.

“I don’t see how we’re equipped to do that,” my father followed.

“Gregory.”

“For God’s sake, Noreen, she’s been talking about being with a boy who’s been dead for a year and she’s come all the way to Portland to find out where he is.” He
turned to me. “Your mother doesn’t want to come out and say it, but we talked about it all the way here, Amber. You need professional help. We’ll find someone really good, and you’ll get over this.” He forced a smile. “Your imagination ran away with you. I always told you that you were like your friends, living in your own movie. It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”

I looked away. What was left for me to tell them? I couldn’t be upset with them for what they were saying or thinking. I knew they were concerned and afraid for me.

“Let me get her dressed so we can be on our way home,” my mother said.

Dad nodded and rose. “I’ll finish up whatever paperwork there is and meet you in the lobby,” he said.

The medicine I had been given was kicking in, and I felt as if I could drift away. They took me out in a wheelchair and fixed me up with a small pillow and a blanket in the rear seat. I slept all the way home, and when I got there, Mom helped me upstairs to bed and brought me something to eat.

“I’m sorry,” I told her while she sat watching me eat.

“Just finish. Get something into your stomach and rest, Amber. Tomorrow things will be better.”

When I was finished eating, she took the tray and gave me another one of the pills I had been given in the hospital. I didn’t want to take it.

“It will help you sleep,” she told me.

I took it, and she fixed my blanket and kissed me good night.

I closed my eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. Once, when I awoke, I thought there was someone
standing in my room, but when I turned on the night light, there was no one. Through the window, the house next door was in darkness as usual. Silhouetted against the purplish-black night sky was that familiar crow on the roof. I stared at it for a while and then closed my eyes again and drifted in a sea of clouds into morning.