Storymania - The Gift by Tom Soukup

The Gift
Tom Soukup

Dear God, not this time!

Peter sat straight up, eyes open wide, expecting the words to echo back to him. But instead the room was nearly silent. Either the sounds of his nocturnal panic were captured by his pillow or, more likely, were shouted only inside the last moments of the dream. His eyes stung from perspiration and his hands trembled terribly. He coiled his fingers into tightened fists and forced them against his eyes as much to halt the tremors as to wipe away the salty moisture.

He hated the tremors.

Peter's father died of Parkinson's disease when the boy was only twelve. It was a long and torturous death and Peter thought at times like this that the trembling must certainly have been the worst part. His father had played piano in better times, back when Peter was younger and he'd sit with his father on the big mahogany piano bench. The mellow tones of Beethoven fell across the parlor and Peter's mother would hum in distant harmonic syncopation, maybe just a little off key. But then his father's hands started to shake, ever so slightly at first. The music came harder, haltingly, and soon wouldn't come at all. Peter saw the pain develop in his father's eyes. The inevitability of the deeply embedded disease was there beneath the surface and he tried to hide it from his son. Peter was really too young to under-stand it completely but he knew that his father was changed by it.

And then Peter saw the marks. He saw the marks and it was too late. His father died within the week.

Peter looked to the far side of the bed and Jennifer was still sleeping, the cover pulled so tight to her chin even though the autumn night still held the last tinges of the passing summer. His heart beat just a little faster for a moment until his eyes could adjust to the scant light that touched her cheek. Her skin was alabaster white, accentuated beyond its natural color by the clarity of the moonbeams. Her nose twitched a bit and she nuzzled deeper into the folds of the pillow. He strained his eyes to the scant light, his heart racing a bit faster. And the marks weren't there. Thank God the marks weren't there.

His hands settled back to calm once again. It had passed.

Jennifer slept through most of Peter's dreams, his nightmares rarely awakening her as he tossed restlessly, and he was glad for that. She knew about his "gift" of course, and she knew also that the "gift" was the source of his nightmares. They used to talk about the dreams a lot more than they did today. But he really didn't have the patience for it. She just doesn't understand, Peter would tell himself. She just doesn't.

Gift?

It was a curse. The first time he'd seen the marks, or at least the first time he could remember seeing the marks, was when he was just six. He was visiting his grandparents on a cold Thanksgiving Day. The entire Adkerson family was gathered together as they always did for the special holidays. Aunts and uncles, too many cousins to even hope to remember all of their names, lined the big dining room table (made even bigger by a variety of extensions assembled from ceremonial plywood and saw horses) while Grandpa rambled on endlessly about the distant past, and Grandma shook her head in disbelief as she served the largest turkey Peter had ever seen. The scene had been repeated a thousand times it seemed, but that night was different.

Peter noticed some dark highlights around Grandpa's chubby cheeks. They looked like smudges of soot, as if Grandpa had finished cleaning the fireplace only moments before. The marks started in the middle of his forehead, criss-crossed at the bridge of his broad nose, and slid across the fleshy fullness of his face until they disappeared around his chin and into the buttoned collar of his shirt. Peter thought it was all a little funny at first but he was afraid that maybe he had missed the joke like he'd done so many times before when he was around adults. No one else was laughing; in fact no one else even seemed to notice or at least they weren't letting on to Peter that they did.

Grandpa died in his sleep that night. It really wasn't much of a joke after all.

Of course Peter was far too young then to make any connection between the appearance of a few dark streaks across his Grandfather's face and their signal as a premonition of death. It was going to take a few more years for such thoughts even to begin to take that kind of coherent form. But as he reflected back over those same years, especially in the middle of nights like this one when he was shaken awake by a dream that was always left unanswered, he remembered how the young boy in him was eventually eroded away by the "gift". There was the old woman in the mall who stumbled at the curb to fall in the path of the oncoming car; the seventh grade playmate who was diagnosed with leukemia and stopped coming to class one day; the faces at the visit to the hospital when his little brother broke his leg; and still more.

Death --- check. Death --- check.

Death --- check again.

"You okay, honey?" Jennifer had finally awaken as she usually did. She had her own sixth sense. Her family's suffering, that of Peter or the children, was hers as well, and there was really no way nor any point to try to hide it from her. "Another bad one?"

She raked her fingernails very softly across his forearm.

"No big deal," Peter lied but he knew she'd see right through that one. "Same old same old." He forced a wan smile.

"You need to get some sleep, babe," she whispered as she sat up to slide close to his side. "Tomorrow's going to be a big day, you know." She had to tread lightly here because the last thing Peter needed right now was that kind of pressure. "This could mean a lot to you .... to Jeremy," she said carefully.

Jennifer bit gently on her bottom lip, the words she had just spoken flashing across her mind's eye like a Times Square neon marquee. Don't overstep your bounds on this one, Jenn, she thought.

"Yeah right," Peter said. The sound of the words were almost lost in the exhale of his disgust. He looked into her eyes and saw the compassion there, and his tension softened. "Guess I'll get to see just how much of a 'gift' this curse really is."

The Adkerson family priest was the first one to dub Peter's prophetic visions a "gift".

"God must see some greater purpose for this miracle with which our young Peter was blessed," Pastor Jontich said. Peter's father had not been a devout follower of the church, but his mother's faith was unquestioned and the untimely death of her husband only served to strengthen its powers. "God knows all and his judgment shall go unchallenged."

Peter remembered the sound of those words even today and the heavy hand of the priest clamped on his shoulder. He could still smell the faint aromatic air of the votive candles and a hint of sacramental wine that could only have been on the holy man's breath.

"But it causes the boy such pain," Peter's mother cried, "that sometimes I wonder ...."

"It's a gift, Mrs. Adkerson," the old man said sharply, cutting her off mid-stride. "A gift .... from God."

The words hung in the air and his mother's eyes dropped in recognition of her blasphemy.

A "gift".

Jeremy was Peter's younger brother. They hadn't been close; Jeremy was nine years Peter's junior and was just a child when Peter was thrown headlong into premature "adulthood" at the death of their father. It was difficult for Peter to cope with the responsibilities that were a part of being the elder son in a one parent home while the changes of puberty were wrestling inside his body and mind. The troubles of the "gift" only added to the load and it all took a heavy toll that made Peter's teen years a drudgery that served only to draw him farther away from his family. Jeremy couldn't quite figure it all out. All he knew for years was that his big brother was a little weird.

Jennifer drew herself to her knees and nestled her head against her husband's shoulder.

"It'll be good," she said and she could feel by the calm in his muscles and the soft voice of her extra sense that she might be able to venture a little further now with her words. "Jeremy needs you. This could be what you've been looking for all these years ... maybe just what you've needed. It will ...." No, maybe that's a bit too far. Keep it cool, baby. "It'll be good," she said instead.

"It scares me."

Peter's words were very "matter of fact". Jennifer didn't expect such an admission so easily. She knew that the fear was there but to hear him say it that plainly told her so much more about his inner torment and the hazards of all these years of living with vision that could penetrate one of nature's darkest secrets.

"I think we should go back to sleep now," she said, knowing that to try to carry all this beyond Peter's gut-wrenching admission would gain nothing further. His words said enough for this night.

They lay down together, Jennifer folding neatly against him in that natural way that husband and wife seem best to fit as one. Jennifer closed her eyes and pretended to sleep peacefully. Peter did the same, his breath taken in quiet rhythm. But neither slept.

Jeremy Adkerson lived in Chicago; Peter lived just outside Portland, Maine. Those thousand miles or so might just as well have been a million when the news of Jeremy's illness hit his older brother's home. It had begun with a series of headaches, mild at first but building in intensity until the young man found himself bedridden on the days when the pain decided to have its way. Loss of memory, disorientation, rapid and wild mood swings followed in rapid succession signaling symptoms that bespoke something serious. A dozen doctors later, the diagnosis was verified and re-verified. Jeremy had a brain tumor, small but in an area where it was very difficult to ensure complete removal without perilous consequences. It did not appear to be malignant, the doctors agreed, but their odds-making of both mortality and morbidity were widely diverse.

It was in that diversity that the hidden magnetism of separated brothers first began to appear.

The "gift".

As Peter lay there against the warmth of his wife, he thought about when the phone call first came. "This is Jeremy," the voice said and Peter caught himself just before he was able to reply "Jeremy who?" Considering the gravity of the call, that would have been a faux pas of unforgivable proportions. Peter's embarrassment at the foolish estrangement between him and his brother grew as the phone conversation continued.

"How've you been, Peter?"

"Fine, Jer," Peter answered haltingly. "And you?"

Jeremy had a decision to make ... a decision of life and death proportions. He explained the complexity of his dilemma, and the indecisiveness of the surgical teams that troubled over his illness. He needed to know what only Peter could help him know ... that to which God Himself chose not to provide another human being access ... something to which even the devil himself was not privy. Jeremy needed to put Peter's God-given "gift" to the test. He needed Peter to look at him, to study his face, to let him know through all the grace that their Maker had bestowed upon him ... he needed Peter to tell him if he was going to die.

* * *

"Time to get up, Peter. They're probably not going to hold that plane just for you," Jennifer shouted up the stairs.

Peter realized that he must have at last fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning. Jennifer had slipped out of bed quietly, ushered the kids off to school even more quietly which was a feat of monumental proportions in itself, then prepared breakfast for her sleeping husband before he had to head out for the airport. Peter rubbed the previous night out of his eyes and sat at the edge of their bed. He saw the rumpled outline in the sheets where Jennifer had curled against him in the night and he felt a little better.

Jennifer avoided the subject of Peter's trip during breakfast, choosing instead to ramble on about Brady trying out for the basketball team and Annie hoping that kindergarten wasn't going to get any harder. Peter participated in the small talk; neither had their hearts in it.

"Great day for flying," Jennifer said warily. The subject had to be broached at some point before he left.

Peter looked at her somberly.

"I hope I can do this," he said at last. "Jeremy is depending on me to make a pretty important decision for him." One could easily have found a hint of suppressed resentment in the statement.

Jeremy wanted his brother to come to his bed at the hospital in Chicago and look, with that mysterious vision, into his face. He needed to know what lay ahead. He'd decided to have the surgery, against the recommendations of three noted surgeons but in agreement with both the hospital's Head of Neurology and a visiting Professor of Neurologic Science from the University of Chicago. If the darkened streaks that only Peter could see were there, he'd change his decision ... he'd accept a destiny of headaches and dizziness before the other. If the marks weren't there --- oh dear God, let the marks not be there --- he'd go ahead with the original plan and have the operation. Whatever Peter saw, Jeremy was depending on his brother to save his life. A heavy load.

The plane was scheduled to leave the Portland Jetport at 9:28 and Peter didn't want to be late. He'd made the difficult decision to do this and there was no way that he was going to let a missed flight stop him now and give him another minute to change his mind. He kissed his wife good-bye, touched the corners of her smiling lips, then drove away toward the turnpike.

* * *

Peter sat in the airport restaurant sipping a cup of coffee until the very last minute. He had a first class seat so there was really no rush in getting to the gate. Sitting there in the confines of the plane would have done his mood no good at all.

In fact, he spent these last few moments before the flight to realize that this adventure might really do him some good. He'd never been able to find anything positive in his ability to actually see death in the face of its victim. It had always seemed only to cause pain for him. He couldn't escape it. Just walking down the street was like strolling the banks of the River Styx, walking into people's souls. The black marks. He wanted to stop those people, let them know that they were going to die, so that maybe ... just maybe ... they could do something to stop it, turn the hand of Fate. But he knew that they'd soon be hauling him away in a padded wagon if he did such a thing. No one would believe him. Certainly not the authorities. And most assuredly not some strapping young man in the outward epitome of health who had no idea that he was about to be run down by a truck at the hand of some drunk.

So maybe this was his opportunity. Maybe this episode would give him the comfort he needed to withstand this God-forsaken torment. And how fitting it will be that this curse would be the tool that would save his brother's life and reunite the separated pair in one simple stroke. A gift.

"All passengers on Flight 472 to Chicago should now be on board for an on-time departure." The public address voice was muffled but it was enough to send Peter running for the gate.

He settled into the bulkhead seat of first class, belted himself in, and gazed through the window at the sunny New England autumn morning beyond. Peter was comfortable in what he was doing. The ravaging nightmares of the previous three weeks were vanishing as he filled with satisfaction that the true "gift" was soon to be realized. He never even looked at the flight attendant as he waved away her offer of coffee. The plane backed away from the jetway and taxied along the runway. Peter closed his eyes and let his weary mind relax in thoughts of what was to be.

It's a big deal to place your life in someone else's hands. It doesn't happen very often, even under less bazaar circumstances. Peter remembered the only other time that he seriously considered using the "gift" in such an outward way. Jennifer was down with the flu and Annie, just a toddler at the time, came down with it two days later. Brady was spared.

But Annie got quite sick and needed to see the pediatrician. There was no way that Jennifer could take her so the task fell to the only other well adult in the house. Peter wrapped Annie in a warm blanket and headed off for the doctor's office.

The waiting room was crowded. That year, the flu was reaching epidemic proportions and children were always the greatest sufferers due to the closeness of their classrooms and, of course, their adamant refusal to "button up their collars" as their mothers insisted. As Peter sat there with Annie asleep in his lap, a young mother walked into the room clutching an infant of maybe two or three months. The child's brow was wet from the ravages of fever and it rasped in audibly labored breaths.

And the marks were there across its tiny face.

Peter wanted to say something but he couldn't bring himself to it. What could they do anyway, he rationalized to himself. There was no real cure for influenza ... not even if someone could convince the doctor that he was absolutely sure that the child was going to die. So he did nothing. He never found out if the vision had been correct that time. He knew in his heart that it was. There had been enough other times when it was. That was for sure.

"Are you sure I can't get you some coffee, Mr. Adkerson?"

Peter opened his eyes, glad to have been shaken from those thoughts by the voice of the flight attendant. He turned to her, shading his dilated eyes to avoid the sting of the bright sunlight that streamed through the window behind her.

"No thanks," he said and offered her the best smile he could muster under the circumstances.

Peter reclined his seat as she made her way back to the galley to fill other drink orders.

Got to get all this negativity out of my head, he told himself. This is going to be a good thing.

The passenger in the seat across the aisle returned from the restroom, lowered himself into the wide imitation leather chair, and nodded a greeting to Peter as he settled back into his copy of USA Today. Peter nodded back. He stared for a moment, not sure that what he had seen was correct. The gentleman folded his paper back to make it a little more manageable and noticed Peter's gaze. He smiled and nodded again. Peter turned his head in hasty embarrassment and closed his eyes again. The marks were there.

Should I tell him? Peter wondered. Is it my responsibility to tell him especially now that I'm at long last accepting this "gift"?

Peter wondered what the cause of the man's coming death might be. The guy was pretty old, that was certain. A heart attack, maybe. Or he might already have cancer in which case there was really nothing that Peter's telling him would accomplish. There's no need to cause a scene on the airplane anyway. Peter had another one hour and twenty-five minutes before they landed at O'Hare and that would give him at least that much time to decide if it was worth it to cause that kind of scene. He was on a mission that was almost sure to have a favorable result. Jeremy had asked for his help ... desperately needed his help, and he didn't want anything to delay him now.

Peter needed to use the restroom himself, to stretch his legs a little and maybe splash some cool water across his brow. He separated the curtains that divided first class from coach. Nearly every seat was filled, mostly with suited businessmen behind today's newspaper, a few late-season tourists sprinkled among them. As he passed the tenth row, a middle aged woman turned briefly away from her dog-eared novel to glance his way. Peter's legs weakened when he saw the dark lines that painted her face in the same pattern that had so long ago touched his father's. Peter snapped his head away, unable to look at her for a moment longer. It was very rare for him to see the marks in such rapid succession --- the old man in first class, the woman here --- and this only caused doubts about this visit to his brother to resurface. He hurried along the aisle.

An Asian teenager, wearing a brightly colored rugby shirt, looked up at Peter. He was probably a college student heading home to visit his family. He smiled. The marks were on his face too.

How could this be? Peter demanded silently to know. How could there be three?

And then the gentleman in the seat next to the boy looked up and the marks were there too. Fear gripped Peter's spine with icy fingers. His knees buckled weakly but he caught himself. He ran toward the first class cabin, bumping into seats along the way. Turning once more to face the rear of the cabin, Peter saw startled faces look questioningly toward him.

They all had the marks. They all....

He ran halfway back in the cabin as the flight attendant who had offered him a cup of coffee earlier parted the forward curtain.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked calmly.

There were marks on her face.

Peter filled with panic. He looked frantically from side to side. He had to know.

He tore the pocketbook away from a young woman sitting at the aisle next to where he stood. She closed her eyes and screamed, and the marks on her face grew darker. He ripped the clasp open, pushed his hand deep inside, then turned it over to let the contents spray across the floor. Perspiration streamed from his face.

"Mr. Adkerson," the attendant said sternly and the marks on her face twisted into new patterns. "Stop that," she demanded.

Peter backed away from her further down the aisle, mesmerized for a moment by the shifting patterns. Then he snatched another purse, this one from the same middle aged woman he had seen earlier. He opened it a bit more calmly now, keeping a wary eye to the approaching attendant , and found what he was looking for immediately.

"Mr. Adkerson, you'll have to sit down or I'll be forced to notify the Captain."

"I HAVE TO KNOW," he screamed and he opened the compact wide to expose the mirror.

Horror filled his reflected expression.

The seat belt light flashed on.