There were boxes, papers, stuff, piled high everywhere, flies buzzed lazily through the air, and the few areas of wall you could see, looked wet and coated in some kind of oil. Did a person actually live here?
Addy started walking through the small pathway in the middle of the junk. Surely this was dangerous and unhealthy? As if to answer my question, Addy said, her voice low, "The state has ordered him to clean this up, but obviously he's in no condition to do that. They'll come in and remove him if he doesn't . . . well, he can't live here for very much longer. I like to say everyone deserves to die at home, but in this case," she looked around, not turning back to us, "I don't know."
We followed her down a small dingy hallway and through a door. Addy stood back as we entered the room tentatively. I looked at her as I passed and she gave me a small, concerned smile. "I'll be in the front room if you need me," she said, then nodded as if to encourage us. I nodded at her but didn't say a word.
The bedroom we entered was dim and unlike the rest of the house, this room was virtually empty except for a hospital bed all the way on the far wall. I squinted my eyes trying to adjust to the even dimmer lighting back here. I could see a human shape in the bed, but couldn't make out the details of the man. He was utterly still and I assumed he was sleeping.
Calder came up short, holding me back as I moved forward. "This can't be good for you," he whispered out of the side of his mouth. I wasn't sure if he was referring to the smell, the possible stress of the situation, or what, but I merely turned to him and said, "I'm fine."
His eyes looked slightly panicked as they darted around the room. I watched him as they landed on a window that was raised a few inches. His shoulders seemed to relax slightly as he took in that window. Was he considering it some kind of emergency exit? This house was disgusting, there was no getting around that fact, and the man in the bed in front of us may very well be extremely unpleasant. But I didn't imagine we'd have to make a run for it.
"Always wondered if you'd ever find me," came a deep, smooth voice from the bed. Calder and I both startled. We glanced at each other and moved forward.
"Dad?" Calder said haltingly, his voice cracking. "Do you know who I am?" My heart squeezed.
The man in the bed came into view slowly, the small bedside lamp illuminating him just enough to make out his features as we got closer. I sucked in a rancid breath of air, nausea hitting me in the stomach almost immediately. He was bloated, his skin bruised and mottled, peeling in areas, with an underlying yellow tinge. He was clearly extremely ill. In fact, I had a brief flash of the dead bodies I'd seen before escaping the flooded cellar at Acadia. But the part that made me gasp in horror was that underneath the distortion of the sickness, I could see Calder. Underneath the disease and the ugliness, there was beauty. It made my gut churn and I latched onto his arm and forced my gaze away from the man up into Calder's strong, healthy face. I closed my eyes briefly, feeling a measure of calm and looked back at the man. He was dying. He couldn't help the way he looked.
"Well come closer so I can get a look at you, Kieran," the man, Morris, said.
"Kieran?" Calder asked, his head flinching back slightly. We both took another step forward until we were standing near the end of the bed.
"Name I gave you. Kieran Reed."
"Kieran Reed," Calder repeated, a note of wonder in his voice.
Morris suddenly laughed and like his voice, the sound was deep and melodious, in complete and utter contrast to the look of him. I unconsciously took another step closer at the sound of it, but Calder pulled me back. The man's swollen looking lips turned up into what I assumed was supposed to be a smile.
"He wanted to name you something different. Fine by me, I said. He's yours now." He stared at us and a shiver went down my spine as I attempted not to look away in disgust.
"He?" Calder whispered. "Hector?"
Morris looked surprised for a second. "No, Thomas."
"Thomas, yes," Calder said, his voice even, but laced with confusion. "You knew he took me? I don't . . . You let him take me?"
"Take you?" Morris leered, "I sold you to him."
No one said a word for several horror-filled moments as we digested that information. The steady beep of some kind of machine to the right of Morris was the only sound filling the thick, stale air. Morris picked up an oxygen mask next to him and took several long inhales.
"Sold me?" Calder finally breathed out.
Morris leaned back on his pillow, contemplating Calder, his eyes bright with. . . something. "Said he needed you to balance out his whackadoo community." He let out another musical laugh. "Not that I cared . . . much. You were a little thorn in my side anyway—always following me around everywhere, wanting something."