All Things Heal

 

           The red, 2001 Honda Civic veered over the double yellow center line. Fortunately for Peter Demming, there was no oncoming traffic at the moment.

           Before the car could swerve entirely into the wrong lane, Peter's eyes opened again.

           Oh shit!

           He wrenched the steering wheel to the right with one hand, and shook his head back and forth quickly to try and clear out the cobwebs.

           It had been like this for miles now. Too many miles. He would stay awake for ten or twenty seconds, and then his eyelids would get impossibly heavy, and over the center line the car would go. Either that or to the shoulder on the right, where the sound of crunching gravel would shock him awake again.

           He knew that he should pull over and rest, but he was so close now. Thirty minutes away at the most. And Tara was waiting up for him. She had planned a late dinner, and was probably sitting at the table in that stunning red dress of hers, looking at her watch. He couldn't show up an hour late because he had to take a snooze on the side of the road, for God's sake. It would be ludicrous.

           Maybe the radio would help. He pushed the power button, and cranked the volume. "Light my Fire." God, those guys had so many great songs and they always had to play "Light my Fire." And they always cut out the keyboard solo, the best part.

           He pressed the "seek" button, and The Doors blinked out. Classical—occasionally a keeper, but not when he was this tired. Mozart could easily put him under again. Seek: "Lose Yourself" by Eminem—rap garbage. Seek: "The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks—true, Garth was good, but as far as Country went, he was it, in Peter's opinion. He listened to one verse, and then hit seek again: "It's a Shame about Ray" by The Lemonheads—now that was one you didn't hear often. He had had the album years ago, and hadn't heard the song in ages. He turned the volume up, happy with his good fortune.

           "Under the dust his name is still engraved..." He sang out loud, trying to emulate the laid back voice of Evan Dando and failing miserably.

           His eyes were still open. That was good, at least. He gripped the wheel at "Ten and Two" and stared out at the empty road ahead of him. The yellow line glowed with its reflective paint, and the dark shadows that were trees rushed past out the corner of his eye.

           The music had done the trick. Hearing the old tune had somehow rejuvenated him, and he bobbed his head to the beat, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

           He couldn't wait to see Tara again. It had been two weeks. Two long weeks. Two weeks of nothing but working at the paper mill and reading old paperbacks in the little free time that he had. Even "It" by Stephen King wasn't getting it. It just didn't cut the mustard compared with the taste of Tara's lips and the feel of her soft skin.

           He would invariably find his mind wandering back to Tara's sweet face, while he read full paragraphs, not comprehending a damn word of it. That was alright. He had read the book before.

           And he knew that Tara would be up for sex. She always was. And with her, it was always great. There was nothing awkward or anxious about it, and sometimes they would giggle the whole way through it. It was like no girl he had ever been with before, and he had had plenty in his high school days. Peter was a helluva handsome kid then—still was—but back then the girls drooled over him.

           The Lemonheads song ended—it was a short one, like all of the songs on that album. A DJ with a sweeter-than-honey baritone voice came on.

           "There's an old one from a group that's been off the radar for awhile. But, hey, if you're a fan, I've got good news. Their new album drops on September 26th. Be sure to check it out. I know I'm looking forward to it. Well, up next, we've got Tom Petty's new one, and an old one from a band that got their name from the lead singer's grandma and her jelly preserves. Can ya guess it? We'll be right back…."

           An annoying ad for McDonald's came on. The woman's voice was high-pitched and irritating. Peter turned the volume down more than halfway.

           Already, his brief "wake up" was wearing off. He could feel his eyes starting to cross again, as the double yellow line blurred into four lines. His grip on the wheel loosened.

           He looked at the digital clock on the radio, which glowed in ethereal green light: 11:45pm. It would only be twenty minutes now. Maybe less if he really stepped on it. He could stay awake for that long. No problem, Senior.

           By 11:47, the Honda was crossing the center line once again, but this time Peter was not so lucky as to veer into an empty lane.

 

           The two boys in the green Dodge, Terry Preston and his younger brother Rory Preston, as coincidence would have it, were listening to the same radio station as Peter.

           Before Terry, who was driving, saw Peter's Honda coming at him, he was arguing with Rory about the group that was named after the lead singer's grandma and her jelly preserves.

           "It's Pink Floyd, Rory. Seriously, I think I heard that once."

           "That doesn't even make any sense!" Rory said, still unaware of the headlights and grill coming at him. "It's Pearl Jam. Eddie Vedder's grandma was named Pearl and she used to can—Terry, watch out!"

           Terry, who was looking intently at Rory, turned his head just in time to see two glaring headlights heading straight for his own. He tried to swerve to the right, but wasn't quick enough on the draw.

           The car, which was red, Terry now saw—in fact, that would be his last coherent thought for awhile—slammed into the Dodge in a deafening screech of metal on metal.

           Terry and Rory were immediately thrown forward with an unimaginable force. Terry, who was wearing his seatbelt (it had been a habit ever since he has seen a particularly graphic video in driver's ed) felt a diagonal stripe of intense pain burn across his chest where the harness dug into him. And then the strap across his waist dug into his stomach at bellybutton height. The DJ with the low voice rambled on, blissfully unaware of the Preston brother's unfortunate luck. It seemed that Rory had been right after all. It was Pearl Jam.

           But Rory would never know that he was correct, because Rory wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He often said that he felt trapped with that damn thing strapping him in. Like he was in the damn space shuttle or something.

           Rory's neck snapped instantly as it crashed into the windshield, and he was dead before his limp body crashed right through it and landed on the pavement with a sickening thud. Terry saw all of this as if it were in slow motion, right before his own head hit the dashboard, leaving a huge gash that cut all the way to the gray matter of his brain and beyond, while the impact pushed fifty pounds of steel and part of the engine into the front seat, crushing both of his legs.

           After the impact, which was grill to grill, Peter's car spun around three times before it finally hit the edge of the median, where it rolled over twice, finally coming to a stop upside down. An unconscious Peter Demming hung from his seatbelt. Blood dripped onto the fabric ceiling in thick maroon strings.

           "And this is the new one from Tom Petty's latest effort, Highway Companion. Check it out," the DJ said. Tom Petty's nasally voice hummed through the speakers.

           Terry Preston brought his hand to his head. God, it hurt. It felt like he had been split open with a well honed hatchet, which wasn't too far from the truth. He patted the injured area lightly, and then looked at his palm. It was covered in what looked like purple jelly. Just like grandma Pearl's jam, he thought sickly. And that was when his eyes happened upon his legs, or what was left of them. What he saw made him pass out.

           Both of them, Peter and Terry, lay like that, unconscious, in their respective vehicles, for about five minutes before a man named Harry Krenshaw came tooling along in his Mustang at about fifty five miles per hour.

           The first thing that Harry saw was Rory Preston's body, lying beaten and twisted on the shoulder of the road, and his heart jumped into his throat. He wasn't good when it came to gore. He couldn't even watch horror movies, or even eat a bloody steak. So when he saw Rory's left arm torn off at the shoulder, he threw up in his lap.

           After cursorily wiping off the vomit with an old fast food bag, he screeched his Mustang to a halt, and poked at the seatbelt button with one shaky finger. After a moment it unlatched, and he ran over to the body.

           It only took him a second to see that the kid was dead. Nothing but hamburger meat. His stomach lurched again, but this time he managed to swallow it back down. The acid burned his throat and he coughed. He looked away. He had to. It was worse than the time that his older brother had made him watch "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" when he was ten years old. That had been bad, but this was far worse.

           He went back to the trunk of his car and got an old blue blanket, with which he covered the body as best he could. And that was when he saw the other kid still behind the wheel of one of the smashed up cars. He looked to the other car in the ditch, but couldn't see if anyone was in that one. It was too dark and too far away.

           Harry Krenshaw ran to the driver's side window and looked through the open window at Terry. He was still unconscious. Probably dead, too, Harry thought. He sure looked beat to shit, that was for sure. God, the kid's head was split wide open!

           Phone! Why hadn't he thought of it before?! Harry searched the inside pocket of his jacket where he always kept his cell phone, and found it quickly. He pulled it out and dialed 911. His finger was a bit steadier now, but far from still.

           "Hello!? Yes… I need to report an accident. Yes... God, I don't know… Uh, wait, there's a mile marker… 82… Mile marker 82, on I-75 North…" To himself, Harry sounded like a frightened child, and that's exactly how he felt. "Yes… It's pretty bad… One kid's…" He swallowed. "One kid's dead… The other one might be… I don't know… Just hurry! Ok… Ok…" He hung up.

           Harry tucked the cell phone back into his inside pocket, and stood on the pavement, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jeez, he had to do something. He couldn't just stand here while this kid bled to death. And what about the other guy in the ditch? What about him?

           Harry stole a glance at Terry, and then ran over to the red car that was resting topsy turvy in the overgrown grass of the median. As he got closer, he could make out a body in the driver's seat. He looked through the backseat window for anyone else. No one. Unless there was a baby. Oh God, don't let there be a dead baby. He couldn't handle that. But wait. There would be a car seat if there was a baby. That was some kind of law. So it was just the—he looked to see if it was a man or woman—man, yes, it looked like a man, hanging upside-down in the driver's seat.

           Harry pulled on the door handle, not really expecting much. It didn't budge. The top few inches of the door were buried in dirt. There was no opening that sucker.

           He knocked on the window. Jeez, what did he expect? The guy to smile and wave? This was ridiculous. This guy looked like as much of a goner as that other kid. Well, he could always break the window. With what? Harry looked around the tall grass for a large rock. Of course there were none. Those kinds of things were never around when you really needed them.

           Oh, the blood! He couldn't stand the sight of it. It was just like in all those horror movies. There was always so much blood and guts. That was one thing, though. There were no guts with these guys. They were intact, from what he could see. Internally, they were probably blended up like a smoothie, but at least there were no intestines or brains lying around.

           Over there... What was that? Harry ran over to a gray shape near the shoulder of the road. A broken piece of cinder block. That would do.

           He picked it up, marveling at the weight of the thing, and brought it to the window. He swung it backwards and thrust it toward the window with all of his strength. The glass cracked and spider-webbed into a million little rivulets, but didn't break. He swung it and hit the window again. This time it broke and shattered inward, showering the (dead?) guy with hundreds of tiny shards of glass.

           Good. This was good. Harry stared dumbly at the suspended man. Now what? Check his pulse, dummy! You were supposed to use the first two fingers, not the thumb. Or was it the thumb and not the fingers? He pressed his first and second finger to the guy's neck. God, the blood was splattered everywhere! Did he feel something? Yes, he thought he did. It was weak and slow, but he thought it was there.

           As he debated, the distant sound of sirens filled the night air. Oh good. That was good. That was really good. Those guys would know what to do. They had all of their machines and their masks, and their CPR guys. And their "Jaws of Life." Oh man, why had he gone out this late at night to get donuts anyhow? Now he was going to have nightmares for weeks. Just like after "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." He was going to wake up in cold sweats again. All that just because he wanted a Krispy Kreme. He could have had a bowl of cereal, but no.

           Two police cars and an ambulance sped up to the scene and stopped abruptly. Harry could hear more sirens in the distance. Good. The more of them, the better. He just wanted to go home and take a hot shower. No donuts. He had lost his appetite. Just seeing the cherries squirt out of the roll—it would remind him of all of the blood. No, just some scalding hot water. He would stand under it for twenty minutes if he had to. Anything to wash away what he had just seen. Of course, he would have to talk to the police first. Maybe even go down to the station, but probably not. He hadn't actually seen the accident. They would probably just send him home.

           "Sir!?" a cop in a black uniform called.

           Harry gladly removed his fingers from the injured (could be dead—don't forget that, Harry) man's neck.

           "Y—Yes?"

           "Did you see the accident, sir?"

           "No, I didn't. No, sir. I just drove up, and here they were. These two in their cars, and that other boy... the other boy on the road. I covered him with a blanket. He's…" Harry fidgeted.

           "Yes, we know," the cop said, adjusting his cap.

           "This man here, I think he has a pulse. I'm no expert... I mean, I don't work in the medical field or anything. I just work at the Cracker Barrel… You know, I wash dishes and that sort of thing, but—"

           "Ok, sir. We can take it from here. Why don't you go see Officer Bryant over there, and file an accident report, and we'll get you on your way, Ok, pal?" The cop pointed to a muscular cop holding a small note pad.

           "Report. Right." Harry, visibly relieved, walked briskly over to the cop, whose biceps looked like they were about to rip through the stretched fabric of his sleeves. Just file the report, and then the shower. And then he would sleep for fourteen or fifteen hours. All of a sudden he was feeling very tired.

* * *

           Tara Brighton, just as Peter had pictured, was sitting at the table, checking her watch. Although she wasn't wearing the red dress. She was wearing a white hippy type blouse with no bra, a pair of bell bottom jeans, faded in all the right places, and a pair of Birkenstock sandals with no socks. Her toenails were painted a bubble-gum pink. Her face was made up not in the classic sense, but more as a work of art. She knew just where to add color to accentuate all of the right shadows, and the finished product was natural and beautiful.

           Where was he anyway? He had said around midnight. And now it was 12:26 am. It just wasn't like Peter to be late like this without calling. And she had called him at around a quarter after, but all she got was his voicemail.

           Well, maybe he had stopped off to get her some flowers at the last minute or something. But why not answer the phone? Maybe his battery was dead. He was always running it until the very last drop of juice before recharging it.

           Tara held her palm over the dish of scalloped potatoes to feel the temperature. Her palm remained lukewarm, as the steam had stopped rising ten minutes ago. She looked at her watch again, although she knew it had only been a few minutes since she had looked last.

           They were too early in their relationship to be at the point where Tara would be upset with him for being late—or upset with him about anything, for that matter. She only felt a sense of urgency. That she needed to see him. She squirmed in her seat as she thought about how Peter looked with his clothes off. He was hairless, tan, and strong. She often thought of him as a work of art when he was naked with her. Like Michaelangelo's David or something. Tara's hand unconsciously went to her breast and hovered there for a brief moment.

           Maybe they would skip dinner if he got there too late, and go straight for the bedroom. The way she was feeling now, that seemed like the most realistic possibility. And then after sex, they would eat dinner cold in front of the TV. She had rented "Titanic" again. It was their favorite movie, and they hadn't seen it in a few months. It would be nice to enter the world of 1912 with Jack and Rose again.

           A little worm of panic snaked through her brain, making itself known: what if he was in trouble, or had gotten into an accident? Stupid. That was paranoia talking. How often had she thought that about someone in the past? And how often had she been right? Never, that's how many. He was fine. He would probably be there any minute now, with a big bouquet of roses. "I just had to stop off and get you these, babe. I love you…"

           She walked over to the dvd player and put in the movie, just to have something to do. The piracy warning came on, and she paused it, setting the remote carefully on the couch.

           Maybe some music would pass the time quicker. She walked over to her extensive collection of cds and pawed through them, walking over them with her fingers. She passed over a few rock cds, feeling that she wanted something a little softer. At last she found what she was craving: The Cranberries. The second album. She had always liked that one best, although she had all of them. She briefly thought of the time she saw them in concert, and how she had taken a few hits from a joint that someone had been passing around. After that, the details had become fuzzy.

           She put the disc in the player, and turned up the volume, but not so high that she couldn't hear the phone, were it to ring. The mellow music and honey-drenched voice permeated her apartment, and the erotic feelings that she was having increased two-fold. She danced—although it was really more of a sway—and sung the words softly.

* * *

           Elanor Preston woke from a disturbing dream in which she was being sprayed by a high pressure fireman's hose, and squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand. Without her glasses it was hard to focus, but she often found that if she really concentrated, she could clear her vision just long enough to see the numbers. The red numbers were fuzzy, but she could make out that it was 12:36am. Either that or 12:38am. Either way, the boys were late. That was unless she just hadn't heard them come in. But when was the last time that those two were quiet? They were always giggling or stomping through the hallway, stepping on all of the creaky boards, or making a racket in the kitchen.

           But still. Maybe they had gone straight to their bedroom, and had gone to sleep quietly. Maybe they were exhausted. Fat chance. Those two never ran out of energy.

           Elanor got out of bed, careful not to wake Dan, whose lips were vibrating like a darn buzz saw, and that wasn't to mention the choked sounds that came from his throat—wow, that guy needed some kind of sleeping mask.

           When the bed jiggled, he let out a disturbed sigh, and then the panoply of sound effects resumed. He was his own one-man band, her husband.

           Elanor snatched her glasses from beside the clock, and put them on. The hallway swam into view, but it was still dark. She flipped on the hallway light, and squinted as her pupils adjusted. If they were in bed, they were quiet as church mice, because she heard no snoring or hushed chatting.

           "Terry… Rory…?" she hissed in a loud whisper. "You in there?"

           No answer. She turned on the bedroom light. And both beds were made up, just as she had done right after they had left for their tennis tournament. The note that she had left on Rory's pillow was still there, held down by the stapler she had gotten off of his desk. She picked up the note. "Try and be quiet when you get in," it said in black ink. "Your dad's had a rough day and needs his sleep. See you in the morning… Love, Mom." Well, no problem there. She didn't think a jack hammer would wake him tonight. She set the note back on the pillow, careful to replace the stapler on top.

           She probably never should have let them go to the "end of the season" party after the tournament. What if they were drinking? They had promised that they wouldn't. They had even sworn to it, but boys would be boys. She trusted them, but the image of them passed out in somebody's basement took space inside her head and wouldn't leave.

           She supposed that was better than having them drive like that, though. But on that issue, they had her complete trust. Ever since the day that her cousin was killed in a drunk driving accident, and she had made the boys sign that contract and everything. It was the one rule of the house that nobody joked around about and everyone took dead seriously, including her husband. Elanor made it very clear that she was not going to lose anyone else in that way. Even if it meant paying for cab-fare home, or phone calls in the middle of the night. And Elanor agreed that she would not get upset had she received one of these late night calls. In fact, there would be no questions asked. The boys knew that.

           So, why hadn't they called? Well, dummy, they were probably just having a good time and calling their "mommy" wasn't first and foremost on their list of priorities. There really wasn't reason to worry—yet.

           But maybe she should just give them a call anyway. Just to check in.

           Elanor, still in her bare feet, stumbled out into the living room, where she remembered leaving her cell phone on the coffee table, next to the growing pile of "Redbook" magazines. Her elderly neighbor, Myra, insisted on bringing them over on a weekly basis. Most of them were stained and ripped, and nearly all of them were outdated by at least a year. But, as Myra was wont to say, "Doesn't matter what the date says, them recipes don't expire!"

           Elanor grabbed the phone and in her haste knocked a few of the magazines to the floor. She went to the "menu" function and selected "Terry's cell." Within seconds, the line was ringing.

           She waited the six preliminary rings and sighed audibly as the voicemail came on. "Hello, you have reached Terry—the sexy Preston brother—leave your name at the beep, and I'll ring ya when I can." Jeepers, when had he added that "sexy" bit? She made a mental note to talk to him about that. After all, what if Grandma were to call him? She'd have a coronary!

           "Terry… This is Mom. It's a quarter to one and I'm getting a little worried here. Can you give me a call as soon as you get this, sweetie?" She thought of ending it there, but then added, "And if you've been drinking, I can come pick you up. Remember, no questions asked. Alright, honey, goodbye." She pressed "end" and set the phone on top of the stack of "Redbooks." And then her eyes happened upon a stray "Cosmopolitan" magazine on the other corner of the coffee table, and she read the words "What to do when he never calls?" She shuddered and tried to ignore the relevant portentous overtones.

* * *

           Peter Demming and Terry Preston both lay on operating tables in the Emergency Room. They were separated only by a fabric curtain on a metal track.

           Rory Preston was lying on his own table as well. However, his was more of a slab, and it was located in the morgue in the basement of the hospital. His body was starting to stiffen now, and the globs of blood that hung on his clothes and skin had since coagulated. His face had also taken on a decidedly gray cast, and one eye stayed stubbornly open, staring blankly up at the fluorescents above.

           "Poor kid never had a chance," one of the autopsy techs said, touching the swollen, broken neck with one rubber gloved hand.

           "Egads, can't we do something about that eye?" the other said.

           The first tech dug in his pocket and came out with a shiny quarter. "Here, try this." He flipped it expertly with his thumbnail to his co-worker, who caught it easily.

           "Thanks," he said.

           "Hey. What can I say? Tools of the trade."

           Upstairs, the atmosphere was chaos. Surgeons and assistants bustled in and out like carpenter ants, performing the necessary duties with skill and efficiency. To an onlooker, it might look as if they had everything under control, but that was the furthest thing from the truth. The truth was that both of these guys were nearly dead on arrival, and quick, life-saving measures were being taken just to stymie the blood loss and keep their tickers from going ker plunk. Everything else, like preventing brain death, was temporarily put on the back burner.

* * *

           Peter Demming woke up. But it wasn't like waking up to the "waking world." It was like waking up in a dream, where you only think that you woke up. When, in reality, you're sawing logs, or, in Peter's case, lying unconscious on a gurney.

           Peter looked around. He was standing in a vast cornfield, only the stalks of corn were only a few feet high and were colored a deep, almost royal purple. The rows stretched on and on for as far as the eye could see.

           Peter looked at the sky, and it was not its ordinary color, either. Instead, it was like no color that Peter had ever seen. It was more like some strange new mixture of colors, creating a hybrid visual experience. And it was all swirling madly, like there was a huge drain in the sky and the colors were all being sucked up into it. But there was no wind creating the swirling. All was very calm. Almost eerily calm. And Peter then thought he identified the reason. There were no insects buzzing. No birds chirping. No semi-trucks humming in the distance. He seemed to be all alone here. But this realization sparked no fear within him. Instead, he felt an incredible peace. A peace that he had conceived of in some far off way while alive, but had never felt.

           He stretched his arms to the sky, and felt no pain. But there should have been pain. Why was that? He thought back, and his mind felt clear and in perfect working order, like the clutter had been swept away, and discarded. Like he was a child again, unfettered in the most wonderful way.

           The accident! Of course! That's why there should have been pain. He flexed his fingers for no apparent reason—just to feel the tendons. He crouched down, testing his knees. God, he felt like a well oiled machine. Again, like a child.

           So, if he was in the accident, and he wasn't in any pain, and he was in this strange place, then he must be...

           He expected fear at this revelation, but none came. It was like it was funneled out and replaced with only wonder.

           He began to run among the rows of corn, and the crunch beneath his feet sounded crisp and clear. His legs felt well muscled, and altogether tireless. He looked up at the swirling sky and began to laugh aloud.

           And then he lowered his head, and saw a figure standing roughly ten feet in front of him.

           Again, he felt the fear he expected being funneled away. Only curiosity and a few other alien, but amazing, emotions remained.

           The figure before him looked to be a teenager—a boy. And he held a tennis racket in one hand. He spun the handle so that the racket head rotated speedily.

           "You're him," the boy said. He continued to spin the racket.

           "I'm him?" Peter parroted.

           The boy smiled disarmingly. "The one who hit me. Who hit… us. My brother and I. I recognize your face. It's the last thing I saw before I..."

           "I'm so sorry..." Peter said sincerely, but felt no guilt.

           The boy smiled again. "None of that, now. It's OK. It wasn't your fault. We know that." He stopped spinning the racket and took a playful swing at the air. "Where are we?"

           "Peter. Peter Demming."

           "Where are we, Peter Demming?"

           Peter scratched his chin. "I think we must have… passed on."

           "No, I don't think so," the boy said. "It doesn't feel like that."

           "No, you're right." Peter mused. "It doesn't, does it?"

           Just then, as if responding to their question, two spinning vortexes appeared on either side of them. They swirled madly, like the sky, but held no color. Each of them was about seven or eight feet high, and the same wide. Like everything else here, they were silent.

           As they watched, the image of Rory Preston appeared in the vortex next to Terry. He looked different than them—he was glowing a wild green, the color of Kryptonite.

           As they watched, rapt, he spoke. "Terry… Will you come with me? Please come with me," he said, imploringly. But no fear showed on his face, only longing. He rubbed his neck, which was no longer broken and swollen, as if to confirm the fact. "I need my brother with me. I need your… companionship.."

           The glowing Rory held out his hand. Terry looked back at Peter, and a tacit communication passed between them expressing much more than a spoken word could have ever done.

           Instead of sticking out his hand, Terry held out his tennis racket by the head, to which Rory grabbed the handle. Rory smiled gratefully with tears in his eyes, and pulled.

           Peter watched as Terry was pulled into the vortex, and another thought passed between them. This time, it was "We forgive you." Peter swallowed hard. The vortex swirled faster, and decreased in size, until, finally it was no bigger than a nickel. And then it disappeared altogether, and the Preston brothers were gone.

           Peter looked beside himself, and saw that his vortex was still there, just as large as before and still whirling.

           He stared into it, hypnotized, until an image appeared to him. It was that of Tara, his girl. The beautiful Tara Brighton. But she wasn't dead... It made no sense. Until she spoke.

           "Come back to us, Peter," she said, holding out her hand like Rory had done just moments before. "We need you back here. I need you. I love you, Peter Demming."

           Peter understood at once. He wasn't going where Terry and Rory had gone. Tara wasn't dead. She was alive. And so was he… if he chose to be.

           His decision was instantaneous. He reached for her hand, and held on tightly. She pulled with tremendous strength, and he looked back just in time to see the corn field blink out of existence.

* * *

           "I think we've got him!" the surgeon said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of one gloved hand. "By God, I think we do!"

           He looked at the monitor, which was now blinking and beeping with positive life signs.

           Peter's eyes opened then, briefly. He blinked rapidly, staring up into a sea of concerned faces. Just then he heard the flat line beep through the fabric curtain a few feet away. Terry, he thought. That's Terry. And he wondered for a second how he knew the kid's name, but he was sure of it just the same.

* * *

           One year and two months later, Tara Brighton became Tara Demming, and couldn't be happier about it.

           Peter and Tara moved into a large farm house out on a country lane, and although his recovery was slow and tedious, Peter was coming around. He had even gotten to the point where he would take long walks out in the corn field just across the dirt road behind the house. He always took these walks by himself. It was his alone time. His time to think and to heal.

           One day, on a particularly beautiful day—in fact, the sky was the most dazzling mix of colors—Peter was taking one of his walks in the corn field. His right knee was aching, as it often did nowadays—it was proving to be a stubborn healer.

           Peter bent down to rub it, as this sometimes helped to quell the pain for a spell. When he bent down, he saw something yellow, just hidden behind a purplish tassel of corn. He bent down, slowly because of his knee, and pushed the tassel aside.

           It was a tennis ball. Now how on Earth would a thing like that get way out here? he wondered. As he picked it up, he saw two faded initials written across the face of the ball in red ink. The initials were T.P.

           Odd. He twirled the ball in his hand and slowly stood up, his knee cracking painfully. He looked out into the distance, and then he brought his arm back and threw the ball as far as he could. It wasn't as far as he could throw back before the accident, but the arm would heal. Give it time, and it would heal.