Progression Series 20 Legacy (Final) Page 6

  Blair closed his eyes, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat. Nicholas hadn't deserted Aaron, he'd died before he could help him, before he could teach him, guide him.

  "Sir?"

  Blair opened his eyes. The young female clerk who had been helping him stood before him, her brow furrowed in concern. "Are you all right? You look a bit pale."

  "I'm fine." He offered a weak smile. Then, noticing the file in her hand, he asked, "Is that the other record I wanted?"

  She looked down at the manila folder as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. "Yes, it is." Handing it to him, she added softly, "If you need anything else, you just ask me, okay?"

  "Thanks. I will." Blair flipped open the file he now held, scanning the material inside. It took only moments to locate what he needed-the name of the hospital where Aaron Ellison had died. Jotting down the date of death, he gathered his things and quickly made his way to his car, determined to find someone who had known Aaron Ellison.

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  Blair's grip on the cell phone tightened as the line was picked up again. He'd been on hold for nearly five minutes, convinced he'd been forgotten and would have to place the call again.

  As soon as he'd gotten back the Volvo, he'd called Kettinger Mental Institution, formerly known as the Kettinger Asylum, trying to get information on Jim's grandfather. So far all he'd gotten was a headache from the canned music being piped through the line while he sat slumped behind the wheel of his car, waiting.

  "Is this the gentleman who's asking about Aaron Ellison?"

  "Yes," he blurted out in response to the question, sitting up straight. "I know it's an old case but even if I can just see some of the records-"

  "Those records are privileged information," the female voice on the other line cut in. "I couldn't let you see them."

  Disappointment rippled through Blair. "I see. Well, is there anyone there who would remember the case? Someone who could answer a few questions for me?"

  "Sir, you're talking about something that happened in 1945. No one on our staff worked here back then."

  "Someone who's retired then," Blair pressed, his mind searching for other options.

  There was a long pause, then, "I really shouldn't tell you this..." The voice trailed off without giving up any additional information.

  "Please," Blair pleaded softly with the woman on the other end of the line. "This is very important."

  She sighed, then said, "Mr. Ellison's nurse at the time was a woman named Evelyn Wilson." The woman had lowered her voice to just above a whisper, clearly not wanting to be overheard. "Evy left here just a few years back, moved out to a retirement village in Merrimont."

  Convinced that he was finally getting somewhere, Blair hastily scrawled down directions to Merrimont, then thanked the woman on the phone for her help. An hour later, he was steering the Volvo down the main street of Merrimont, a quaint town with stately old homes surrounded by gently rolling farmland. And at the edge of town sat the retirement home where Evelyn Wilson now resided.

  He parked the Volvo in the designated visitor's section and walked toward the front doors of the Merrimont Retirement Village. Stopping at the front desk, he was directed to the back gardens of the property. "Evy always feeds the ducks around this time of day," the woman at the desk informed him.

  As Blair crossed the grounds of the retirement home, he was impressed by the simple beauty of the gardens. The place was meticulously maintained, the flowerbeds and shrubs neatly groomed. Scattered about were benches where the elderly tenants could sit beneath a shade tree or before the small lake.

  Ahead, he could see a woman sitting alone on a bench, casually tossing breadcrumbs toward the ducks swimming in the shallow water of a small pond.

  "Mrs. Wilson?" he asked, stopping beside the bench.

  Slowly, the old woman turned and looked up at him, her eyes bright and clear. "Well, now, who might you be?" she asked, offering him a wide smile. "Some handsome young nephew I never knew I had?"

  Blair felt himself blushing at her comment. "Um, no, ma'am," he answered with a smile of his own. "Actually, I'm here to talk to you about your work at Kettinger."

  "Ma'am?" Evy commented in surprise. "Why, I didn't realize I was that old!" She laughed heartily. "I'll talk to you but only if you call me Evy. Everyone calls me Evy."

  "Okay, Evy." Blair sat down beside her. "And you can call me Blair."

  Reaching over, she gripped his hand in hers. "What can I do for you, Blair? You mentioned Kettinger. What could you possibly want to know about my work there?"

  "I know it's been a long time, but back in 1945 you took care of a man who seemed to be having sensory problems. His name was Aaron Ellison."

  She was nodding even before he finished speaking, her expression becoming serious, solemn. "Yes, I remember Aaron. Poor soul."

  "You do?" Blair blinked several times. This was more than he had expected. "Can you tell me a little about him?"

  Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him with keen, discerning eyes. "Why are you asking? You're not writing some horrible tell-all book, are you?"

  Blair laughed. "No, nothing like that. Aaron Ellison was the grandfather of a good friend of mine. I'm trying to help my friend find out more about the man."

  Her gaze shifted away from Blair, deep lines of confusion marring her brow. "He had a family?" she whispered sadly. "I...I never knew that." She looked at him again, her eyes clouded with pain. "He seemed so alone to me."

  "What can you tell me about him?" Blair asked gently.

  "Oh, I was quite fond of Aaron," she began, the tiny smile returning to her lips as she thought about her former patient. "He had a strength about him. He seemed to exude this protective feeling. I remember that vividly. I felt safe just being near him."

  Blair nodded, not trusting his voice. She could be describing Jim. "Go on," he said when the silence went on too long.

  "It became more and more difficult to care for him as time went on. He began to refuse to let us touch him. We couldn't turn the lights on, couldn't speak above a whisper. He would be quiet for days on end, not eating or moving, then he'd become agitated and cry out in horrible pain. During those times we usually found him huddled in a corner, hands across his ears." She closed her eyes at the memory, shaking her head. "It was as if he were being tortured," she whispered out at last.

  Blair's mouth went dry at Evy's words. When Jim was hit hard by a sensory assault he often described it as torture. But when it happened to Jim, Blair was always at his side, always there to help him through it. To end the pain.

  Aaron Ellison had been alone, without a guide...and it had driven him mad.

  In that instant, Blair's mind cycled through a string of recent events-Jim zoning when he thought Blair was dead and no one being able to bring him out of it...only the sound of Blair's voice on the answering machine; Jim's spiraling loss of control when Blair was unable to work with him during Collier's decision to split them up; Blair's need to wake from the Golden-induced coma and his knowledge that only he could talk Jim down from killing Mitchell on that hospital rooftop.

  His thoughts turned back to Aaron Ellison-alone and slowly going insane due to the overwhelming sensory input that assaulted him day after day after day. He hadn't had anyone to guide him, hadn't had anyone to turn to. And then, unbidden, Blair's mind conjured up the image of Alex Barnes. Alex, who had no guide, who had rejected even the little bit of help Blair had been able to offer. Alex...who had ended up insane.

  "Wasn't there anything you could do to help him?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Surely there must have been something..."

  "Believe me, Blair, we tried," Evy told him, frustration clear in her voice. "We called in all the best specialists of the day. We tried different medications, therapies. We even searched for help outside the medical profession, but no matter what we did Aaron just got worse." Her brow furrowed then as if a new thought struck her.
>
  "What is it, Evy? Are you remembering something?"

  "Aaron...he used to ask after someone, a boy or man...."

  "William?" Blair offered, thinking it must have been his son he'd talked of.

  Evy frowned, searching her memory. "No," she said at last, shaking her head. "Not William...."

  "Nicholas?" Blair blurted out before he could stop himself.

  She raised her eyebrows. "Could be. I don't really recall the name. But Aaron kept telling us that this young man could help him, that he was the key to everything. He begged us to find him, but we simply didn't know where to look."

  Blair closed his eyes at the words, shuddering slightly. It all keeps coming back to the guide. "What happened to him?" he asked after a time. "How did Aaron...die?"

  Evy turned and stared out over the water, her gaze introspective. "Aaron's body was under a lot of stress, Blair. Finally, one day it just gave up." She looked at him again, offering a sad smile. "The official cause of death was recorded as a heart attack," she told him, her tone indicating that she didn't believe the report. She squeezed at his hand and stared into his eyes. "I don't think this is something you'll want to tell your friend," she said softly, "but Aaron wanted to die, Blair. He never voiced it, but I always knew.... Aaron Ellison died because he no longer wanted to live."

  Part Five

  Jim placed the last of his lunch dishes into the rack to dry, then drained and rinsed the sink. Drying his hands on the towel that hung near the stove, he glanced over at the coffee table, to the journal that rested there.

  Making his way to the couch, he sat down and pulled the journal into his lap. It was open to the place where Sandburg had left off reading the night before. Absently Jim turned the pages, scanning but not really reading any of the entries. His fingers caressed the small volume and he found himself amazed at the difference in his attitude toward the book-he'd dismissed it so easily when Sandburg first brought it to his attention, reacting automatically as he had to all uncomfortable things in his life. Reacting in much the same way his father had reacted yesterday when he'd approached him with Aaron Ellison's sentinel abilities.

  He turned another page or two, looking for nothing in particular. His father's name written in one of the longer passages caught his attention, and he settled deeper into the cushions at his back and began reading....

  July 12, 1945

  My affliction compounds with each passing day. Misery is mounted upon misery, but nothing I have suffered to this point has brought as much pain as the fact I now record: my beloved William is afraid of me. Maureen has told me many times over the past few weeks that she fears the withdrawal she has sensed in the boy. (Unspoken were the words that I deserved to hear-that I am the cause of the boy's uncharacteristic timidity. Kind even after all I have put her through, Maureen did not accuse me. Could it be that after all this misery, she still sees me through eyes of love?)

  Maureen has cause to be concerned at William's withdrawal. But my concern goes even deeper, for I see even more than the timidity. My heart wrenches within me when the boy's eyes flash anger and disdain. No child should have to know such emotions so early in life. Time enough to grow bitter as life progresses, but childhood is a time of innocence. And William is no longer innocent. How I mourn the loss, doubly so because I know that I am the culprit who has crushed my precious son's childish naïveté.

  I know not what road to take. Part of me longs to take my beloved wife and son in my arms and weep out my troubles and beg them to understand. But another, larger part of me warns that the best I can do for them is to shut them out, shield them from the truth, keep them unaware of the madness that rages through my mind and body. And so I find myself becoming more and more withdrawn, more and more rigid. My heart screams, "I love you," while my voice shouts for them to leave me be. It is a bitter incongruity. And every day the rift grows wider, more impossible to mend. What they must think of me!

  I see the fear I am causing my family. Yet there is no relief in sight, no indication of a cessation to this endless torment. Dare I continue to subject them to the person I have become? Dare I?

  Jim closed the cover of the journal, rested his hand against the worn leather cover. His entire life he had wondered why his father had been so cold, so distant. And now, for the first time, he felt as if he finally understood where his father's parenting style had come from. It was borne of the bitter rejection and perceived coldness William had received from his own father. He turned back to the journal and continued reading, devouring page after page of his grandfather's increasing torment....

  August 11, 1945

  I've been reading over some of my earlier notations, and the more I've read the more one thing has become clear-I have truly lost my beloved wife and child. I have known this horrible truth for some time now, but only today have I found the courage to admit it to myself. No longer do I see the hurt and confusion in my beloved Maureen's eyes. No longer are even the briefest glimpses of hope and adoration visible in William's small face. The only evidence that those things ever existed lies before me now, in the pages of this journal. For what was once hurt and confusion has been replaced by disdain. And what were once hope and adoration have become withdrawal and fear. I have driven my family away. They abide with me still, physically, but the essence of what we were-the affection and devotion that defines a family-is gone, destroyed.

  Do they yet love me? Perhaps, though I wonder if it is the fool in me doing the wishing for that. And who have I to blame? Only myself. My heart is burdened with what I have become, but more so with what I have forced my dear family to become. Cold, bitter, aloof, they seem to be mere shadows of who they once were. And I must admit that I feel I deserve not only their coldness and aloofness, but their hatred and loathing as well. For who would expect them to love a monster?

  I have, therefore, come to a decision. It has not been an easy one, though I have been remiss in recording the progress of the decision in this little book. But over the past several weeks, as I have watched my family retreat from me more and more, I have come to realize that to remain with them will only cause them more pain. Pain they do not deserve.

  There is a place not far from here that may offer me some refuge, even though I doubt it will be the answer to my sorrows. It is a hospital, a place where I can shut myself away and cease from hurting my innocent family. There is nothing left to me but this-no other prospect, no help. I can only hope that my family will understand my decision. Maureen will, no doubt, come to some understanding. But what of William? What of that dear, dear boy? Will he ever understand that what I am about to do is for his good, that it is an action taken out of purest love and fatherly devotion?

  I must not doubt my decision. My heart begs me to doubt it, but my mind and spirit resolve to be strong. Maureen, and especially William, will be better for my leaving. My son, free from what he views as an unfeeling father, will grow to be a man of compassionate and gentle spirit, a man who can pass along to his own sons and daughters what I have not been able to bestow myself.

  Jim looked up and stared vacantly across the expanse of the loft's living area. He wiped at his face as the ramifications of Aaron's decision washed over him. It had been compassion and gentleness Aaron had hoped to pass down to his son through his leaving. But he had been so wrong! Aaron's leaving had not freed William from bitterness and hardness-it had entrenched them, and had assured their passage to Jim and Stephen. Oh, Granddad, Jim thought, his heart heavy, if only you'd known what leaving would really do to your son.

  Steeling himself, Jim took a deep breath, and read on....

  August 29, 1945

  Today is the darkest day of my life. I find myself, as I pen this, at Kettinger Asylum, a dreary and dismal place in which the high and narrow windows let in only the barest amount of late summer sunshine and none of its warmth. I arrived this morning, asking for asylum, for sanctuary. They are happy to give it, especially to a man of means such as myself. (Bitter thought, and I'
ve no time for bitter thoughts.)

  What I write now will be my final entry. I am not allowed to keep personal affects at Kettinger, not even this little volume that has been my one source of solace in the long and dreadful journey that has led me from sanity to this place. The nurse assures me that this journal, along with my other belongings, will be kept safely and returned to me should I leave... or passed along to my dear wife should I not. A gracious woman, she has allowed me to pen this one last entry before this small companion will be taken away for safekeeping.

  And so I find myself wanting nothing more than to express (though I know it will be a feeble and much too ineffective attempt) the love I hold in my broken heart for you, my wife and my son. I know my time in this place will be short. I feel it within my bones, know it within my heart. If you are reading this, then I know you have read as well the entire journey recorded in this little book. I hope it has helped you come to some understanding, hope it has served as a way for you to at least glimpse the horrid manifestations of my condition, the madness that has driven me away from my beloved home to this dismal place.

  I know they will try to help me here, but I know there is no help to be had. My only hope for respite from these cursed senses was given shortly, then cruelly ripped away from me before it could come to full fruition. And so this is all that is left to me. Too much a coward to take my own life, I banish myself to this despairing place, knowing that in my lonely days and nights my one source of comfort will be to know that you, my beloved family, no longer suffer on my account.

  My dear, dear Maureen, should you ever read this (and it is my hope and prayer that you will), know I loved you. Know I loved you more deeply and with greater devotion than any man has ever loved a wife. And William-the pride I feel at the thought of my boy cannot be adequately expressed by the written word. Your smile was my delight, your very being the source of more joy and hope than I deserved.