Steam rose from his plate. Mark closed his eyes and inhaled. Damn. It smelled great. The carrots and celery added color to the stew. Big pieces of beef swam in thick gravy, bumping up against chunks of potatoes. Two corn muffins perched on the edge of the plate where they dripped melted butter to mix with the gravy.
Mark took a bite and knew he was home. His mother poured him a tall glass of milk and he gulped it. “Ah. This is great, Mom.” He swiped his hand across his mouth and dug into the mound of food on his plate.
His mother beamed and hardly touched her meal. Every time Mark looked up, he found her watching him like he might disappear any second.
“Your son is right. This is a wonderful meal, Norma.” Using his muffin to sop up some gravy, his dad made quick work of eating. “I bet you didn’t get food like this in prison.”
Cornbread lodged in Mark’s throat, and he thought he might gag. Grabbing his milk, he took a swallow. “No, sir. Nothing like this.” He still had a half a plate of food, but his stomach churned and his appetite had deserted him. He poked at the carrots with his fork.
Prison. Did that make him an ex-con? He had never been convicted of anything. Hell, he had never even been charged with anything. He felt his mother looking at him and kept his head down.
“I didn’t think so. You look kind of skinny, but no worries, your ma will put some meat back on your bones.” His dad chuckled and laid his fork and knife across his plate.
“Gene.” She gave him a stern look.
“What? It’s true.” He patted his stomach. “Got any dessert?”
“There’s apple pie.”
Mark bit the end of a piece of carrot, but couldn’t manage any more. He sat back and gave his mom an apologetic smile. “Dinner was delicious, but I guess my eyes are bigger than my stomach.” After the talk of his weight loss, he wanted more than anything to polish off his dinner, but he just couldn’t.
She frowned at his plate and then held his gaze for a long moment. Nodding, she stood and held her hand out for his dish. “I’m sure it’s probably just all the excitement getting to you.”
“It’s okay. I can get it, Mom. You sit and eat.” Mark rose and crossed to the sink. “Apple pie sounds great, but I think I’m going to have to take a rain check.”
“Well, maybe later on tonight you’ll be hungry again.”
“Maybe.” Mark rinsed his dish and stuck it in the dishwasher, then grabbed a cup and poured coffee from the fresh pot. “Anyone want some?”
“You can pour me a cup,” his dad said, then he cleared his throat, and continued, “If you don’t mind watching me eat my pie, I’d like for you to sit and talk with us.”
He’d known the questions would come, but he’d hoped to delay the inevitable as long as possible. “Yeah. Sure.” Grabbing two more cups, he poured coffee for his parents. His hand shook and he spilled a few drops on the counter.
In the window above the sink, he saw the table behind him. His mom shook her head at his dad, but his father only nodded. Mark was surprised at the expression of sadness that stole across his father’s face. His mother sighed and then stood and went to the other counter and began cutting the pie.
After all he had been through in the last year, this should have been easy, but as he carried the cups to the table, his heart thumped so loudly he could hear it inside his ears. He told himself it was just his parents, it wasn’t like he was going to be interrogated.
He blew on his coffee as his father stirred some cream into his own. Done stirring, his father set the spoon on the saucer with a clink. “Tell us what happened. We don’t know much.”
Mark rolled the mug between his palms, watching the coffee swirl inside. “Honestly, I don’t know much either. One minute, I was elated because I helped save a baby, the next, the police were slapping cuffs on me. The FBI showed up, whisked me to their office and asked me about some phone calls I made on September 11th. I had dreamed about the attack, and thought I could stop it.” Mark couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.
His mother shot a confused glance at Mark’s father before turning back to Mark.”A baby? We didn’t hear anything about a baby. And what phone calls?”
Of course the baby part hadn’t made the reports. It might have ruined the image they tried to paint of a heartless terrorist.
His dad pinned Mark with a hard look. “There has to be more to it than that.”
Mark rubbed circles on his temples. “ It’s complicated. You guys remember my trip to Afghanistan about four years ago?”
His dad shrugged and his mother nodded.
“Well, the guy I went with, Mo-Mohommad Aziz- was also arrested. It seems he had some connections to al-Qaeda. He told officials that I was involved too.” It still hurt to think of his friend’s betrayal and he took a sip of coffee to hide the pain. The only explanation was desperation on Mo’s part. If he received the kind of questioning Mark had, well, he could hardly blame the guy.
“Were you involved?”
The accusatory tone hit Mark physically with a sharp stab to the chest and his cup rattled when he set it down. “What do you think, Dad? Tell me. I want to know.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.
“I don’t know what to think.” His father drummed his fingers on the table, his mouth stiff. He glanced off to the side, as if composing his thoughts. He spit out the words as if he was tasting something nasty. “I’ll tell you what I know instead. I know that my son-my only child-who I raised to respect people and to love this country, was taken away and accused of one of the most horrific crimes imaginable against his own countrymen.”
Mark shook his head, cradling it his hands. “No. I didn’t-”
His dad froze him with a look as he cut him off. “My son is gone with no word, and I have to get my information from the news media-when they call to get interviews with the parents who raised the ‘monster’.”
“Gene, he’s not a monster. He’d never do something like that.”
“I’m just repeating what was written.” He glared at Mark’s mother before pinning it on Mark. “Do you know what this did to your mother? I’ll tell you. She was kicked out of half the clubs she belonged to, and the other half hardly speak to her. Everywhere we go, people whisper and point. We’re pariahs in our own community.”
Mark turned to her but she evaded his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She shrugged, her eyes bright with tears. “It wasn’t a big deal. Not compared to not knowing where you were or how you were doing.”
His dad didn’t let up. “I lost about half of my patients, other doctors shun me, and it’s become so bad, you’re mother and I were thinking of leaving town.” He stabbed a finger in Mark’s direction. “So don’t go thinking this has just affected you.” He circled his finger to encompass the three of them. “It’s affected all of us, and your mother and I deserve to know the truth. We deserve to know why you’ve shamed us.”
“I never meant to shame anyone.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat, taking a moment to gather his composure. “I…I went to Afghanistan, but I only took photos for Mo’s book. I never did the things they said I did. I never went to any training camps. I never said a bad word about the U.S.”
He rubbed his eyes with his first two fingers and thumb. “While I was there, I bought an old camera. An antique.” He cursed that day. “I never told you guys because it sounds crazy, but when I’d use that camera, I’d get photos of things that were going to happen.”
His dad scoffed and crossed his arms. “I thought you could do better than that.”
His mother remained silent, which was almost worse.
“Let me finish, dammit!” Mark glared at his father. “It’s true, and not only that, but after seeing the photographs, I dreamed about them. Dreams like you never imagined, Dad. Three dimensional dreams, movies almost. Only, it’s never good stuff. It’s always someone dying or getting hurt.”
He used to hope for good pictures and dreams. He took plenty of happy photos with the camera, catching images of blissful couples strolling in the park, but the dream pictures never had happy endings. “When I wake up, I know exactly what’s going to happen to the person in the dream. If I’m lucky, I can stop it. I can turn the photo into a good one.”
He could see they weren’t buying it. His father shook his head, and his mother had tears welling in her eyes. They thought he’d lost his mind. “It’s true! I swear it.” He wracked his brain for a way to prove it, but had nothing. “Remember when I was shot?”
“Of course, hon.” She reached across and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “How is your leg now?”
Mark pulled his hand away in frustration. “It’s fine, but I didn’t get shot because I was taking photos in a bad neighborhood. A cop was going to be killed. I had the photos and dream the night before so I took my camera to the neighborhood as a cover. I had to wait until the right moment, then I tackled the officer just as the drive-by shooting began. That’s a fact.” He pointed at his father. “You can check it out. I never told them the cop was going to get killed, but nobody can dispute that I tackled him just as the passing car sprayed the corner with bullets.”
“Son, I know a doctor, he’s a good guy. You could talk-”
“I don’t need a shrink, Dad. I’m not crazy. I was able to stop it because I knew. It’s not the only time. I stopped dozens of things since I got the camera.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and plowed ahead, “That’s what happened to me on September 10th. I took some photos. Nothing special, just some shots of the Chicago River, only that’s not what developed. What I got were pictures of the planes hitting the Twin Towers.”
His mother wiped her hand across her cheek, leaving a wet smudge. “And?”
“Don’t play along with him, Norma.”
Mark ignored his father and focused on his mom. “As soon as the pictures developed, I started calling around. I didn’t know what to do. It was so much bigger than the other things. I looked up numbers of different agencies, but I didn’t have anything concrete to tell them. The details don’t come until I dream.”
He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. It was the best he’d had in ages, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Not with his dad looking at him with a mixture of revulsion and pity. “I woke up around five o’clock, and began trying to warn somebody. I called the FBI, the U.S. Marshals, the airports, police. Any place I could think of. Hell, I even called the National Guard.”
“Well, you didn’t do any good.”
“No shit, Dad.” He never swore at his father and hated to now. The anger, withheld for so long, burst out despite his attempt to stifle it.
“I know I didn’t do any good. If only people would have listened.” His anger drained out of him along with his energy. There was no point in it. It wouldn’t change anything for the better. He sat back and massaged his brow. “Anyway, I don’t have proof. Not anymore. I did before I was locked up, but I never showed anyone. I don’t blame you for not believing me. Nobody else did either.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that you could get in trouble for making those calls? They’re practically bomb threats.”
Mark nodded. “Yeah. I realized that afterwards, but at the time, I thought I could do something, ya know?” The frustration he had felt that day came back and he shoved a hand through his hair. “What was I supposed to do? Wouldn’t you have tried to do something if you had known?”
His dad’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s this ‘mysterious’ camera? If it’s so special, why didn’t you just show it to them?”
It was difficult to ignore the sarcasm, but he did his best. “I never got a chance. I suppose they took all my equipment, and your guess is as good as mine as to where it is now.”
“You didn’t get anything back?” For the first time, there was a shred of sympathy in his father’s voice.
“No. I went back to the loft and someone else is in my apartment.” Mentioning it to his parents dredged up the pain of his loss again, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and hurried to change the subject. “I told the Feds everything. I told them about the dreams and the camera. I told them about other things I had stopped, but they just thought I was crazy.”
“Oh, Mark.” The sorrow in his mother’s voice tore at his defenses. At least she wasn’t crying any more.
“So, why did they let you go if they didn’t believe you? Couldn’t they make the charges stick?”
“I wasn’t charged with anything.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense. So, it never went to trial?” His dad sounded surprised.
Mark picked at his finger with his thumbnail, worrying a ragged cuticle. “I never had a hearing let alone a trial.”
His father leaned forward. “I don’t understand. What happened? Start at the beginning, without all that camera crap.”
Mark sighed. “First, they locked me in a cell in Chicago for a few weeks, I guess. I spoke to a lawyer once, but then I was moved to another place. A naval brig. I only found out yesterday that it was in Charleston.” He shivered at the memory of the first terrifying transport spent in near total sensory deprivation, when he hadn’t known where he was going.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Surprised at his dad’s perception, Mark shook his head.
“You’re not telling us something.” His mom’s brow furrowed.
He glanced between his parents. They didn’t need to hear anymore; didn’t need to know the ugly details. Especially his mother. “Listen, I’m kind of tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
Mark couldn’t maintain eye contact and pushed the coffee aside, gripping one hand in the other. He raised his head. His mother’s eyes brimmed and as he watched, a tear escaped and slipped down her cheek. His dad sat with his arms crossed, and when he spoke, his voice was low and hard, “And you’ve been there all this time? Couldn’t you even call us?”
Hunching over the table, Mark worked at the cuticle again. “No, sir. I never got to use the phone.” Guilt filled him and he wasn’t even sure why. It wasn’t like he had a chance to call and passed it up. Is that what his dad thought? “I wanted to call. And a couple of times, I was allowed to write letters.” He leaned both elbows on the table and ran his hands through his hair, then rested his head on his palms. The bastards. They had promised that they would mail the letters. “I guess they never sent them.”
Mark pushed up from the table, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m sorry. I…I thought they told you guys.” He turned and stepped to the sink, bracing himself against it. He had caused his parents so much pain.
A warm, heavy weight settled on Mark’s shoulder and he felt his father behind him. His dad tightened his grip near Mark’s neck, giving him a squeeze. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
Mark clenched his jaw and didn’t dare look at his dad’s reflection, so he just nodded and tried to breathe through the pain twisting inside his chest.
There was a rattle and clink of dishes behind him and a few seconds later, his mom set the stack beside the sink. Mark stole a glance at her. She caught his look and despite the tears still streaming, she smiled. “I prayed every night that you were safe and that you would come home. My prayers came true.”
The wooden stairs creaked, the third one loudest of all, and Mark remembered that particular step giving him away once when he was seventeen and trying to sneak out of the house to go to a party. Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth as he turned to the right, his hand spinning around the wooden knob at top of the banister. The action came naturally, from a childhood spent racing up the steps, and careening down the hall. The knob had been the only thing that had prevented him from catapulting out the window at the top of the steps.
His old room still looked like he had left for college the week before. On the wall was a poster of Walter Payton, and opposite that, one of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. The double-bed looked huge and the blue down comforter puffed when he sank down into its softness. It was all he could do to keep from falling back and sleeping right then, but he wanted to shower first.
He rubbed his eyes and wandered over to the oak dresser. Some of his clothes were still here. He tended to leave his dirty clothes unless he needed them. It had made traveling from Chicago easier if he didn’t need to pack every time.
In the top drawer, he found some boxers and a tee shirt. Perfect. He shut the drawer and the jolt knocked over a couple of photographs on top of the dresser. Mark lifted one. His senior prom. He was decked out in a white tux with a pastel pink cummerbund that matched Becky Harris’s chiffon dress. They both grinned into the camera. His arms circled Becky, resting on top of her hands at her waist. Her blond hair, so curled and sprayed that it looked like it would crack if touched, came to just below his chin. She had been tiny, even in heels, and Mark remembered feeling so big and invincible holding her. He ran a hand through his short hair. In the photo, it had been longer and feathered. Mark chuckled at how much time he had wasted every morning making sure it looked good.
A soft knock sounded and Mark turned to the door. “Come in.”
His mom entered carrying a couple of bath towels and held up a new toothbrush. “I found this in the downstairs medicine cabinet. It was a free sample. There’s toothpaste, shampoo, and some disposable razors in this bathroom. If you need-”
“Thanks, Mom. I got it.” Mark smiled and cut her off. There was an awkwardness between them that had never been there before. He cleared his throat and set the towels on the bed. “I was just looking at my prom picture. What a goof I was.” The comment was meant to be funny, but his voice cracked. Mark averted his eyes from hers.
She crossed to the dresser and held the picture. “I remember taking this picture. You looked so handsome all dressed up.” A smile softened her features as one finger traced Mark’s outline in the photo. “I was a nervous wreck all that night. I was sure you were going to get drunk and crash the car on the way home.”
This was news to him. Vaguely, he recalled that a boy had been killed in a car crash after a prom night party a few years before his own prom, but like most kids, Mark had never considered it happening to him. “Why did you let me go?”
“It was your prom. What else could I do?” She shrugged. “Besides, I worried every time you walked out that door. But, you always came home okay.” Setting the picture down, she faced him. “Until today.”
Mark swallowed down the lump that threatened to choke him and picked at a snag on the towel, working the thread until it stuck out another inch. He tore his gaze from the towel and tried smile. “I’m fine.”
She shook her head and stepped close, wrapping her arms around him. “No, Mark. You’re not.” Her hands ran up and down his back. “But you will be.”
He nodded into her neck, not trusting his voice. After a moment, he stepped back. “Well, I probably should get that shower before I stink up the room.”
She didn’t smile at his attempt at humor, but nodded. “Good night, hon.”
Mark grabbed the soap and lathered up the washcloth, scrubbing his skin in an attempt to wash the stench of prison right out of his pores. The mint and vanilla scent of the shampoo filled the shower stall. It smelled so good, he was half-tempted to taste it. The hot water poured over his head and eased the tension from his muscles as the suds swirled down the drain. He watched them disappear and wished his memories from prison could disappear so easily.
Later, he lay in bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He had to figure what to do with his life beginning tomorrow. He couldn’t stay with his parents indefinitely. His thoughts drifted to Jessie. Would she have waited for him? For her, life had marched on, while his life had been captive in a cell. Mark turned and tugged his pillow, pounding a fist into it. Why should she wait?
She had feared and doubted him. Not that he blamed her. His story sounded impossible even to himself. Jessie dealt with cold hard facts, not mystical dreams and magical cameras. He punched the pillow into a ball and pulled it back under his head. As hard as it was, he had to accept that their relationship was over and had been for a year now. Just because his life had been on hold didn’t mean hers had been.
It was just as well. He had nothing to offer. At least before, he’d had a successful career. Now he had nothing. Thanks to the damn camera, he had been too busy to keep in touch with most of his friends, and the few he had were sure to have heard what happened to him. He doubted any would want to associate with him now.
Mark tried to push the negative thoughts aside. It would do no good. Better to think of the positive things. He was free. The bedside clock ticked and the tree outside scratched at the window as the wind blew the branches. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of another positive thing. Hell, he hardly had more than the clothes on his back and less than a thousand dollars in his pocket.
Maybe he could start a little photography business in Madison. He would have to get another job to save some money to get more equipment. His throat clenched at that thought. It was like losing part of himself. Being a photographer wasn’t just what he did, it was who he was.
The FBI had taken some of his equipment he knew, and probably all of his files. They had certainly gone through them all, but where they were now was anyone’s guess. The other equipment though, like his backdrops and lights, probably hadn’t been part of the investigation. Would they give any of it back to him? He hadn’t been guilty of anything. He didn’t have the first clue who to call to find out where his things had gone.
Mark wondered if his parents had any idea where it all might be. He rolled over, closing his eyes as he settled into the lavender scented comforter. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. As a teen, he had hated the smell. It was too girly and even his dad had backed him on that, but his mom always insisted the aroma would help him sleep. As he drifted off, he concluded she was right.
His shoulders ached and Mark gritted his teeth, trying to rise up in his toes enough to ease the pressure. How long would they leave him here this time? Bill circled him, a mocking grin stretched across his face.
“You know what we want. Come on, Mark. Who are you protecting? Is it worth it?”
He tried to gasp out an answer, but it was so hard to talk and concentrate with his shoulders aching so badly. “I’m not protecting anyone. I don’t have anything to tell you. I swear it.”
Bill reached up and yanked on something, tightening the rope. Mark groaned. “Stop!” Head hanging down, he panted. “Please…just…stop!”
“Mark? Are you okay, son?”
A hand shook his shoulder and Mark bolted up. “What?” His heart raced as he took in the golden sunlight that filled the room. He sagged back against the pillow. It had been a dream. It was too real; like he was back in the interrogation room. Mark ran a shaky hand through his hair, then scrubbed his eyes. His shoulder still ached and he rotated it. He must have been lying on it wrong.
His dad stood beside the bed, his eyes lit with worry. “What’s going on? You were yelling.”
Mark shook his head. “Nothing. Just a bad dream.” He didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“It’s nothing, Dad.” He winced at the hard tone in his voice as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Taking a moment, he rested his elbows on his thighs, hands dangling, as he tried to get his body to stop shaking. “What time is it?” He dared to look up, hoping that he didn’t appear as rattled as he felt.
His dad gave him a long look before answering, “About seven-thirty. Your mom is making some breakfast. It should be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Mark wasn’t sure he could eat with his stomach twisted up like a pretzel, but he pasted on a smile. “Sounds good. I’ll be down soon.” Standing, he stretched, wincing as pain lanced through his shoulder.
“You okay?” His dad nodded towards Mark’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I must have slept on it funny, that’s all.” That was true enough even though he didn’t think his shoulders would ever be the same as they had been. The joints just weren’t designed to hold all of a man’s weight, especially when pulled at unnatural angles.
His dad gave him a doubtful look, but finally left.
Mark sighed and gathered his clothes. He didn’t need another shower, but took one anyway just because he could. This time, he shaved afterwards.
For a year, he had avoided looking at his face in the mirror. The blank look in his eyes had scared the hell out of him, and so he had stopped looking. When he shaved in prison, he had focused only on the patch of skin he was shaving. Nothing more.
Seeing his face now was like looking at the face of an acquaintance. His skin was dead white from months without sunlight, the dark bristles of his beard a marked contrast. As he scraped the razor over his jaw, he held his skin taut with his free hand. He noted how sharp his cheekbones appeared. They were more defined with hollows beneath them. The changes in his face shocked him. He scarcely recognized it. Ducking his head, he rinsed the razor.
A plate stacked high with steaming pancakes greeted him when he entered the kitchen. A bowl of sausage sat beside a pitcher of warmed syrup. Mark didn’t know which was watering more, his mouth or his eyes. He was home.
“Wow, Mom. This looks great. After I couldn’t eat for awhile, they tried to tempt me with pancakes, but-” He was going to say that they were tough and dry, but the look of horror on his mother’s face stopped him cold.
“Why couldn’t you eat?”
Mark opened his mouth but then realized that he couldn’t tell her about the things they had done to him. He shrugged and grabbed the syrup, pouring it on the pile. “I…uh…I got a stomach bug. You know how those things are.”
His dad entered the kitchen, the newspaper folded under his arm and interjected, “How what things are?” He pulled his chair out and set the paper beside his plate, giving Mark a questioning look.
“Mark said he was sick and couldn’t eat for awhile when he was…when he was gone.”
“When I was in prison, Mom. You can say it.” He cut into the pancakes and shoved a forkful in his mouth, catching a drop of syrup with his tongue before it dripped onto his shirt. They were cooked just the way he liked them, crispy around the edges and tender in the middle.
“What kind of illness?”
Mark wanted to smack himself for bringing up the subject. Now his dad would grill him about symptoms and try to diagnose him. “Nothing I want to talk about over breakfast.”
Hopefully they would think of the worst symptoms associated with stomach problems and drop the subject.
“Vomiting? Diarrhea?”
Stifling a groan, Mark shook his head. “It was nothing. Forget it.” He should have known his dad wouldn’t care that they were eating. How many times had he discussed some nasty symptom a patient had while they were eating dinner when he was a kid? His mom had become so used to medical talk that she never protested. He stood and poured a glass of milk. He lifted the gallon in invitation. “Anyone want some?”
Neither answered so he took his glass back to his seat. His mom looked at him with concern and his dad with speculation. “You never caught stomach bugs growing up.” There was a note of challenge in his dad’s voice.
Mark set his fork down and watched the syrup drip down the side of his remaining stack. Not only would telling them force him to remember the worst time in his life, but subjecting them to the details would force them to picture him being…questioned. Once that image was out there, it couldn’t be erased. Ever. It was better for them to remain ignorant. “It was a prison, Dad. Weren’t you always telling me that disease and illness run rampant in places where people are crowded together?”
“Son, what are you afraid to tell us? We realize you were in a prison, not on a luxury cruise. You don’t have to spare us the details.” His dad’s eyes locked on his, full of more sorrow and anguish than Mark had ever seen him show. “Our imaginations have probably conjured up the very worst.”
Overwhelmed, Mark broke the visual connection. “They never beat me.” He couldn’t bring himself to lie, but he didn’t want them to imagine things that never happened. “ Most of the time, I was treated okay.” The pancakes were soaking up the syrup. Soon they would be soggy and cold. He took another bite.
“Hon, we won’t think less of you no matter what happened in there, okay?” His mother smiled, her bottom lip trembling.
“I know. But you don’t have to worry. Mostly, I was just bored.” He shoved in the last forkful of pancakes.