Wendy Corsi Staub - Scared to Death

Renny Cavalon certainly was nestled all snug in her bed just a short time ago.

Then she opened her eyes, took one look, and screamed.

No wonder.

That hideous rubber masknow safely tucked into the glove compartmentwould scare anyone to death, looming over them in the dead of night.

Night

Night

Twas the Night Before Christmas

It wasnt a nursery rhyme after all; it was a storybook, one Mother loved to read aloud, years ago, in the soft glow of Christmas tree lights.

Is Elsa Cavalon planning to read it to Renny when the holidays roll around?

Come December, Renny will be long gone

Dallas, Texas
September

M ind if I turn on the TV?

Hell, yes, Jeremy minds.

Minds the disruption of television, and suddenly having a roommate.

Until an hour ago, when an orderly pushed a wheelchair through the doorway, Jeremy had the double hospital room all to himself. He should have known it was too good to be true.

Most good things are.

An image flashes into his head, and he winces.

Funny how even after all these years, that same facea beautiful female facepops in and out of his consciousness. He doesnt know whose face it is, or whether she even exists.

Hey, are you in pain? the stranger in the next bed asks, interrupting Jeremys speculation about the face: Is she a figment of my imaginationor an actual memory?

He almost welcomes the question whose answer is readily at hand.

Am I in pain?

He feels as though every bone in his face has been broken. Thats pretty damned near the truthand not for the first time.

I can ring the nurse for you, the man offers, waving his good hand. The other handlike Jeremys faceis swathed in gauze. Some kind of finger surgery, he mentioned when he first rolled into the room, as if Jeremy might care.

Reaching for the bed rail buzzer, he adds, in his lazy twang, That Demerols good stuff, aint it?

No, thanks. Jeremy starts to shake his head.

Bad idea. The slightest movement above the neck rockets pain through his skull. He fights the instinct to scream; that would be even more torturous.

You sure youre okay, pal? You look like youre hurting.

His jaw tightensmore agony. Dammit. Why wont this guy leave him alone?

Jeremy closes his eyes.

Hes in another hospital, long ago and far away. In pain, terrified, surrounded by strangers

You dont have to be a hero, you know, his roommate rambles on.

But theres another voice, in his head, the one that belongs to a face he still sees in nightmares even after all these years: All you have to do is triple up on his pain meds tonight. Maybe quadruple, just to be sure. Then tuck him into bed

If youre in pain, pal, all you need to do is call a nurse and shell give you something for it.

Jeremys eyes snap open.

Im fine. Really. Justgo ahead, turn on the TV.

You sure? Because if itll bother you I dont want to

Im positive. Watch TV.

Yeah? Thanks. Working the remote with the healthy hand, his roommate begins to channel surf.

Face throbbing, Jeremy gazes absently at the barrage of images on the changing screen, half hearing the snippets of sound from the speaker. Audience applause, country music, stock reports, a sitcom laugh track, meaningless words.

ladies and gentlemen, please welcome

be mostly sunny with a high of

and the Emmy-nominated drama will return on

His roommate pauses to ask, Anything in particular you feel like watching?

Nope.

You a sports fan?

Sometimes.

Rangers?

Sure, Jeremy lies.

News should be on. Lets see if we can get us some scores.

More channel surfing.

More fleeting images.

More meaningless sound, and then

in Manhattan today indicted the congressman for

Heres the news. The clicking stops. Ill leave it. Sports should be coming up soon.

Great. As if Jeremy gives a damn about sports, or the news, orunlike the rest of the world, it seemstelevision in general.

You dont know what youre missing, someone said to him in a bar not long ago, when he professed ignorance about the reality show finale playing on the television overhead.

True. And when you grow up deprived of something, you cant miss it.

Or can you?

kidnapping the seven-year-old son of Elsa and Brett Cavalon. In an incredible twist, the child

A close-up flashes on the screen: a photograph of a striking couple. The woman

Jeremy gasps, his body involuntarily jerking to sit up.

What? Glancing over, his roommate immediately mutes the volume. Whats wrong? Pain, right? I knew it!

Jeremy cant speak, cant move, can only stare at the face on TV. Its as if the pain exploding inside Jeremys head has catapulted a piece of his imagination onto the screen. Of course, thats impossible.

But so is this, unless

As suddenly as she appeared on the screen, shes gone, and the camera shifts back to the anchorman.

Unless

Unless shes real.

She was there. On TV.

She does exist. She has a nameone hes heard before, in another place, another time

Now, the name her nameechoes back at him from the cobweb corners of his mind.

Elsa .

Norwich, Connecticut
June

A nother day, another dollar

Which about sums up my salary , Roxanne Shields thinks as she cuts the incredibly loud engine of her aging car, desperately in need of a new muffleror something.

You need to get that fixed, her boss at the agency told her just yesterday. Its just not appropriate to visit clients in a muscle car.

Muscle car? She snorted. Its a seven-year-old Hyundai.

Well, it sounds like a muscle car. Fix it.

Yeah. Sure. Shell get right on itas soon as shes taken care of two months back rent on this dumpy apartment, her overdue utility bills, and the student loan thats about to default.

How ironic that she was the first in her family to go to college, yet she cant even afford a nice wooden frame to display her bachelors degree in social work from Southern Connecticut State. The BSW is still in its cardboard folder, tucked away in the back of her underwear drawer since graduation last Mayover a year ago already.

When I grow up, I just want to help people. I dont care about money, she always liked to say, mostly because it made her mother beam with pride as Roxannes less-noble siblings rolled their eyes.

These days, her brothera welder in Waterburyis driving a BMW and her sistera cocktail waitress at some fancy Newport restaurantjust bought a water-front condo.

Meanwhile, how is Roxanne supposed to help peoplenamely, kidswhen the agency is so under-funded and understaffed that she cant possibly keep up with a caseload that grows larger by the day?

She gets out of the car, opens the trunk, and picks up a box filled with client files.

Looks like somebodys got a pile of homework to do tonight, a voice calls, and she looks up to see old Mr. LoTempio waving from his aluminum lawn chair under a tree across the street.

Not really, she calls back. I just dont want to leave anything in the car overnight. Its been broken into a few times lately.

Whod want to steal a big box of papers?

You never knownext time, they might want to steal the car itself.

That bomb? Anyway, the whole neighborhood would hear it driving off down the street.

She cant help but grin at that. Mr. LoTempio isnt one to mince words.

You know, he continues, this isnt the kind of weather for you to be wearing all that black.