WritersShowcase

Scott Taylor Passing Through Oblivion Synopsis

Prologue:

You could say I knew John O’Rourke. I still do, truth be told. I see him now and again, coming here or going there, always on the run and trying his best to be helpful. And although we don’t spend as much time together as we used to, I can call him my best friend without a shadow of a doubt in my mind that he feels that way about me too. John was once what some of us here call a troubled soul, and he did little at the time to disprove that notion. That’s about when I came into his life – and he came into mine. This story, however, is not about our friendship, though that’s certainly part of it. No, this story is about love, loss, guilt and redemption. It is a story about life and about death.

I asked John once if I could tell it when the feeling struck or when I thought it might do someone else some good. He thought about it for a while and his eyes drifted off as they do when he’s thinking deeply about something. When they came back and focused on me again, he smiled warmly and told me he’d be honored if I told it. I believe he meant it, too, because he had that way about him. When he really meant something, anyone who knew him could see it. So, my friends, this is his story, at least as much of his story as I know, and I’m pretty sure I know all of it by now. It began on a perfect summer morning. It began with a loss.

John O’Rourke, the surviving member of his immediate family, stood rigidly as the last casket was lowered into the frozen earth. This was the small casket; the one John requested to be lowered last so that its occupant wouldn¹t be alone in the darkness. It was the one that contained his only child, a boy he and his now-deceased wife Wendy had named Henry, after John’s favourite writer, Henry Miller.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."

Four fresh holes in the ground, one beside the other in perfect unison. Four stars falling from the sky in a brilliant ball of fire. As I said, it began with a loss.

*****

"We don’t have any answers yet," the girl stammered, clearly uncomfortable with her job for the day. She shuffled quickly from foot to foot and mindlessly pulled and twisted her hair with her left hand. She might have pulled it out entirely if not for her right hand, which held the red pen she was using to check off the names of the deceased as their surviving relatives appeared before her. One after the other, ashen, uncomprehending faces streaked with new and old tears arrived. She had been on scene that Saturday; a junior public relations representative for Trans-American Airlines, which before that day, had a spotless record. Like they say, there’s a first for everything. The elderly, the young, mothers, fathers, and confused children stumbled to the desk softly bumping into each other to ask if she was sure that their mom or dad or grandpa or niece had been on that plane. Was she absolutely certain? Maybe they missed it or took another one. But every time, the young girl pulling on her hair with her free left hand was certain. When it became John’s turn to talk to her, he noticed the number of names under his own.

Liam O’Rourke

Wendy O’Rourke

Michelle O’Rourke

Henry O’Rourke

Why did the airline choose her to speak to the families? She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and even at that she looked still younger. Must have drawn the short straw, John thought. After all, the PR department existed solely to sell the public on the benefits of flying this airline, not to console widows and orphans. He suspected a senior executive was at that moment speeding to the airport to begin damage control. In PR lingo, they called it "damage control." The accident had happened so unexpectedly – when doesn’t it? – that the only person immediately on the scene to deal with shocked family members was this young woman with increasingly unkempt hair. Dead bodies were littering the earth and John O’Rourke was feeling sympathy for a terrified employee of an airline whose name he would never forget. He most certainly didn’t know how to feel about that. "I’m so very sorry, sir," she mumbled. "I don't know exactly what they want me to tell you, except that I am so sorry for your loss."

*****

He watched the small box slip into its place. It was covered in white linen, as his sister’s coffin had been minutes earlier when it was lowered. Three days later, the airline still hadn’t told him what had happened, but he didn’t really care. The engine blew up, the hydraulics shut down. Would either reason bring his wife, children and father back? Would there be gratification, closure, a sense of unavoidable destiny if he knew why the safest mode of transportation in the world had failed those he loved? How about giving him comfort for why he had rescheduled his own flight so he could finish up a little business, as he had told Wendy, before joining them for their first family vacation since Henry’s birth. He’d finish up that one last column for the paper so they’d have it for the weekend edition. He would only be a day behind them, he promised, when Wendy resisted. What was a single day, he kept asking. What could it hurt? Wendy was in the first trimester of her third pregnancy when it happened. In the paralyzing fear of that endless moment, at least one of them didn’t know to be afraid.

*****

At the wake, John scurried from wall to wall across his kitchen floor like a cornered animal. He studied the table and counter, both covered in food, from every angle as if it was a living thing. Why do people bring food to things like this, he wondered, as he again surveyed the mountain of casseroles and cakes and salads piled throughout the room. Why do people bring fucking salad to things like this? Do they think I’m concerned with my fucking cholesterol?

"You? You brought food, too?"

Will swung around from his duty at the table, unsure of what he had done wrong at such a delicate moment. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"What I mean is, who’s fucking hungry right now? Should we have served hot dogs and beer at the funerals? Did I commit a social faux pas by not having munchies at the cemetery? I mean, this is all great, but where’s the pizza? That’s what everyone wants!"

Will stood rigid, trying to control a small anxiety attack. "There are a couple warming in the oven, I think."

John clapped his hands. "Fucking well done! Now everybody will be happy. And why not? Now there¹s more for us to eat!"

"Don’t do this, Johnny. I can’t begin to imagine how you feel, but there are a lot of people who are hurting right now, too, and they’re just trying to do what’s best for you."
John picked up a kaiser roll from Will’s platter, bit into it and threw a perfect strike into the kitchen sink. "I need a drink, Will. You gonna have one with me or am I drinking alone today?"

Will grabbed a couple of plastic cups from the table and hurriedly filled them scotch, as if he’d been salivating to do so already. "To better days," he whispered.

"I don’t think they can get much worse," John snorted. "Finish yours and fill them up again. I've got to dull my senses if I’m ever going to get through this day."

Will filled the cups again. "But only for today, okay?"

"You're the doctor."

*****

The beaming red numbers of the digital clock read 4:15 a.m. As had been the pattern for the previous three nights, John O’Rourke was fighting sleep, drifting off only to be jolted back to reality twenty or thirty minutes later. When he did sleep, there were always the dreams. Some were short, like the coming attractions of a movie he didn’t want to see. Others were the movie itself. Most of the bed sheets were scattered on the floor from his constant tossing. He moaned softly, an unconscious reaction to the familiar, unwelcome movie now playing in his head.

Another Monday morning, another week of work. John sighed deeply and grabbed his notes as he reached for the doorknob. Light headed from lack of sleep, he made a mental note to pick up some sort of sleeping aid on the way home from work. He was still having trouble focusing his eyes as he closed and locked the door behind himself. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, as if he was in an unfamiliar place. Resting his head against the door, he summoned the will to get on with his day, but before he could move the door opened and he nearly fell through onto the foyer floor.

"John? What are you doing?"

He swiveled his head around, at once embarrassed that someone had seen him in such a position and wondering who it may have been. It was a woman, a little younger that he was, with a look of concern spreading across her face. She looked familiar, but John couldn’t place her. He guessed he must have seen her in the building once or twice.

"John," she repeated with a hint of impatience in her voice, "are you all right?"

He looked at the woman, squinting his eyes to see her through the fog of his insomnia, but it was no use. He knew her, but he didn’t know her at the same time. "Um, yeah, I’m fine, thank you," he mumbled with slight embarrassment. "I’m just on my way to work." He was the type who could rarely recall faces or names, and he felt awkward whenever someone he didn’t know spoke to him as if he was more than a passing acquaintance. This was especially troubling now because he had the feeling this woman was more than just a friendly stranger – perhaps much more. They must have bumped into each other one evening as John was coming home from a bar. He never remembered whom he spoke to those nights, which were increasing in number. He rubbed his burning eyes again.

"What do you mean you’re on your way to work? I think you’ve put in a long enough day for anybody. Come on inside, honey. Dinner’s almost ready and the little guy has missed you all day." She went back into the house leaving the door open.

John gave his head a good shake, trying to get his bearings. Now he knew he’d seen that woman before, but the memory of her was murky, like looking at someone through the ocean water. And what did she mean by coming home from work? And who was the little guy. "Of course," he cried, slapping himself on his forehead. It was another one of those dreams, but having deduced what he thought was the obvious, he expected to wake from it like people always do when the conscious overpowers the impossible. He was surprised, though not unhappy to find his scenario continuing. John laughed softly to himself, resigned to his fate. "Okay, Alice, you’ve just passed through the looking glass. Let’s go see tonight’s Mad Hatter."

He heard the woman’s muffled voice from inside the opened door just as a little boy bolted out towards him. "Daddy! Daddy!" the boy squealed with delight. "Daddy’s home from work!" he hollered, as he wrapped himself around John’s left leg.

John’s first inclination was to shake the boy, who appeared to be about four, loose. He’d never been entirely comfortable around children, a trait he had always disliked, but instead he found himself placing his hand on the boy’s head.

"I missed you today, Daddy. Guess what?"

"What?"

"That’s what," laughed the boy. "Knock-knock!"

"Uh, who’s there?"

"Boo!"

"Boo, who?"

"Why are you crying, Daddy?" asked the boy, laughing harder than before.

"Henry," called the woman. "Bring your father in for dinner."

John went along with Henry. After all, this dream was a hell of a lot better than the other ones had been. He looked into the boy’s (his son’s?) bright, blue eyes. "What do you suppose Mommy made for us tonight?" he asked.

"I hope pasghetti. I love pasghetti."

"I know you do," said John O’Rourke. And, not surprisingly, he did.

They strode through the door holding hands. "Here’s Daddy, Mommy," beamed the boy.

The pretty woman with the long dark hair turned from the stove where she had been busy ladling out the spaghetti sauced onto three plates and walked over to where John was standing. She kissed him warmly and deeply on his mouth, stroking his cheek with her hand. "How was your day, my love?" she asked.

John giggled. "Well, it’s been different, but it seems to be turning out pretty well."

She looked at him with endlessly deep eyes. John noticed she had the same dimples in her smile as Henry did. "Well, you just started your practice a week ago, so I bet everything is going to be different for a while until you get into a routine. We’ll talk about it after dinner, if you like, my brilliant man." She turned her attention to her son. Henry? Do you remember what Daddy does at work?"

Henry looked up from his Spiderman action figure with a beaming smile, obviously proud of himself. "Daddy’s a peety-tision. He makes sick boys and girls all better."

"Right, honey, good for you," she said, kissing him on the top of his head.

I’m a pediatrician, John thought? In real life, I’m a columnist; a burned-out columnist, at that. I like this better, though.

"Would you like some garlic bread tonight, sweetie?"

"Sure," John replied. "That sounds great."

"Good. I’ll toast some and –" The phone rang, stopping the woman short and scaring the hell out of John, who dropped a fork onto the tile floor. "Hello? Oh, hi Tracy. Just a second, okay?" The woman covered the mouthpiece with her hand and turned to John. "Honey," she whispered, "can you make the garlic bread without setting the place on fire? It’s Tracy and I want to see how things are going with her husband. I’ll just be a second."

John nodded and got up from the chair to find a knife. Curiously, he knew which drawer to open. He began to slice the crusty French loaf taking in its warm, fresh aroma. "Henry, want to help Dad with dinner tonight?"

The boy jumped up and scampered to the counter. Okay. Can I cut the bread?"

John smiled and shook his head. Maybe when you’re a little older, pardner. Tonight, I thought we could play a game while I slice the bread. That sound okay with you?"

"Sure, I love playing games with you, Daddy."

"Attaboy. Since you were so smart to remember what I do at work, I thought we could see how smart you really are, okay?" The boy smiled and nodded. "Good, let’s start with an easy one. What’s Mommy’s name?" What is Mommy’s name?

Henry’s eyes twinkled. "I know that one. You call her Angie, or angel," he said, giggling over the "angel" part of his response.

Okay, John thought, her name is Angie. He rolled it around in his head. I think I like Angel better, he decided.

Angie hung up the phone. "Look at you two," she scolded. "One slice of bread so far." She smiled slyly at John. "It’s a good thing for you you’re so talented at some other things otherwise what use would I have for you?"

"Yeah. Daddy knows how to fix my bicycle," added Henry.

"That’s just what I was talking about, sweetie," she said with a wink.

They ate dinner, the three of them, discussing the events of each other’s day. John enjoyed listening to Angie’s stories, watching her eyes twinkle as she spoke. She possessed an obvious joie de vivre that was infectious. After the dishes had been placed in the dishwasher, they played a game of Memory, in which the goal was to find pairs of cartoon animals among the cards placed face down at random on the table. To John’s delight, Henry played competitively and well, finding a purple giraffe near the right-hand corner of the cards and its mate near the centre. It took little effort to let him win.

"Way to go, sport," John said as Henry showed each parent his large stack of cards. "I didn’t know you were so good."

"I always win, don’t I, Daddy?"

"Every time," John confirmed.

"Okay, young man, time for bed," Angie said. "Give your dad a goodbye kiss."

Henry jumped into John’s arms, the warmth of his small body a beautiful comfort, and he placed a soft kiss on his dad’s cheek. "Goodbye, Daddy," he whispered.

"You mean goodnight, don’t you, buddy?"

"I love you, Daddy. Goodbye."

John physically felt his son leaving him as a pain in his stomach grew. "I’ll see you tomorrow, right buddy? I love you."

Henry only smiled and waved.

"I’ll be right down, honey," Angie smiled, though John thought he noticed sadness in her eyes. "Maybe you could light a fire?"

John found some old newspapers lying beside the fireplace and carefully stacked the dry kindling on top of the pages he’d torn for the fire’s base. He added a couple of small logs and lit the paper with a pack of matches he took from his shirt pocket. The wood was dry and the fire started quickly, burning brightly within seconds. Looking around the dimly lit living room, he spied a stack of CDs and placed one into the player. He smiled as the room was enveloped with the soft brilliance of Beethoven and sat back on the sofa waiting for his angel to reappear. When she did a few minutes later, she was wearing one of his flannel shirts that fell just above her knees. Her dark hair cascaded below her shoulders and John wondered if she was wearing anything underneath the shirt. He hoped she wasn’t and looked forward to finding out for sure. She sat beside him, melting into his form.

"Nice dream, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

He was quickly afraid that talking about the dream would end it, and he didn’t want that to happen – at least not yet. "I just mean that everything is so good that it feels like a dream. Like nothing this good could ever happen to me in real life."

She craned her neck to softly kiss him. One of her hands made it way slowly up his thigh. "I wonder if we can find a way to make it even better."

John held her and was delighted to find that she was indeed naked beneath his shirt. He slid his hands over her breasts and felt himself grow with excitement.

"Ummm, I love when you do that," she purred.

He unbuttoned the shirt from top to bottom and kissed each breast longingly. "I love you," he growled.

Angie moaned and pulled him on top of her. "Let’s see how much, big fellah."

"What about Henry/" he whispered.

"Who?" she replied.

They made love in front of the glowing fire, softly and teasingly at first, then with a passion and urgency that John had never before experienced. "Not bad for an old married couple," she said breathlessly after they both came in torrents of spasms, moans and tangled limbs. Her face was crimson and her hair exploded in every direction.

"I don’t know what I did to deserve this," John said, his voice shaking partly from the power of his orgasm and partly from raw emotion. "But I’m glad I have it."

"You just had to truly want it," Angel answered. "You had to do no more than look at your life and decide what was most important to you. John, you gave up too easily." She gently pushed herself away from him and began to dress.

John caught his breath. He knew it was coming to an end, as he was certain it would. "I’m sorry," he gasped through the rising lump in his throat. "I never knew how happy I could be like this."

"I know, John. You’ve always been the type to harbor good intentions and poor execution. I believe that you sincerely want what’s best for everyone, but you’ve also lacked the courage to do what’s necessary. Sometimes you have to face down your demons if you ever hope to move past them. Running from them only allows them to grow stronger until they really are too big to overcome."

John could feel tears running down his face. "You left me, you left me here," he sobbed.

Angel smiled sadly. "You’re the one who has gone, John. Before anything happened, you left my world to find one of your own."

Cold, deep guilt crushed him. He cried with more fury, his back hurting with each sob. "It’s too late, isn’t it? What if I went there to join you?"

"You have to stop running, John. You have to stop running to the next big thing."

He closed his eyes to kiss her one last time, but felt nothing. It didn’t surprise him. He awoke hopeless, alone and empty. There was only one thing he could think of doing.

Scott Taylor Passing Through Oblivion Synopsis