Blessed Are the Wicked Read online

  “Okay, back in the van. We are going,” I said to Matthew, firmly grabbing his arm to get the motion started to get the hell out of there.

  “What do you mean? This is cool,” he said, still looking at the sky.

  “I said, back into the damn van. This is someone else’s life, not ours. We have just stepped off-track or something here, Matthew. Now back in the damn van, and we are never going to talk about this thing again.” By this point, the spotlight went out on this thing. We were back in the van and I was hurrying down the road—speeding down the road was more like it. I found myself looking into the rear-view mirror making sure we were not being followed, and feeling extremely silly for doing so.

  “What do you think that was, Dad?”

  “That was a helicopter. That was a helicopter and it was searching for something. That is all it was,” I said firmly.

  “When did they start making helicopters triangular?” he asked.

  I turned up the Christmas music, focused on the road in front of me, and avoided the question. As soon as Lydia got into the van, Matthew told her what we had seen and she quickly told him he was crazy, which brought a smile to my face.

  What was it? The truth is I don’t know, but when you are out on a dark country road in the middle of the night, things can look pretty damn mysterious. I would like to think it was a helicopter, and they were looking for something in the field that night. I would like to think that. A few days later, Matthew came home from Grandma’s house with an article from the newspaper. Looks like we were not the only ones who saw strange lights in the sky that night; they had reports from three separate towns reporting the same type of thing. But hey, I am the ghost and demon guy. I am going to leave the lights in the sky to the Travis Walton types. At least for now.

  I think there should be some rule that you can have only one type of paranormal experience. At least, that is the way I viewed the world at that time. The bummer of it was that this was something Michael would have really gotten into and he wasn’t even with us. Michael got into things like that. Then, on second thought, Michael would have been running into the field to get a closer look, and I would end up doing a whole different type of book and show. I guess I could call the book Christmas Lights in the Sky: The True Story of … You can fill in the blank.

  For me, Christmas begins with a tree and it ends with a tree. The one thing I do every year, without fail, is take a small Christmas tree to my sister’s grave. I don’t make a big production out of it. It is done very quietly and there are only a few people who know I do it. I have never missed a Christmas, and as long as I am living, there will always be a tree on her grave for Christmas. This is the only time of the year you will find me visiting her grave. It is very hard on me. Some years are easier than others. Then, for some reason, there are those years that knock me to my knees and I find myself not being able to breathe. I can’t talk to her there. “There” is not for conversation. “There” is a painful place. “There” is a cold and lonely place, and believe me when I tell you, she is long gone from “there.” I think maybe she knows I will be there every year. Maybe she knows it is a place where she can come and get a glimpse of me, if she can’t do it in any other way. But deep in my heart, I know that place is only a memorial. The real conversation happens in my dreams and in my heart. Damn, I miss her and I don’t know why, still to this day, she is gone. I understand the acceptance part of things now, and I am no longer mad or angry at God for taking her. Besides how can I be angry now with God because she had a defective heart? Sometimes our bodies just break down and sometimes our hearts just stop. I understand that. I know there is free will and that things happen for a reason, but I really cannot find a reason for this. I search so hard in my heart for it, but I keep coming up with nothing. When I needed her the most is when she left. I still find myself sometimes forgetting that she is gone, even after all of this time.

  How do you forget something like that? How do you forget, after all of these years, that someone is gone? Then there are times I catch myself sitting here and wondering if I can even remember what she sounds like anymore. You may think you have that sound burned into your memory, but it begins to fade as you age. I want to hold on to it. I am having trouble remembering it now. What did she look like? The vision of her in my mind’s eye is starting to blur. Please don’t let me lose that memory. It is all I have left of her and once it is gone, it’s gone. These feelings come out in a rush, when I least expect them. The anger is gone. Now all I am left with is the loss and the sadness that comes with that loss. I don’t blame you for it anymore, God. I am so sorry that I did. I just couldn’t accept the idea of “it is” back then. Back then, it had to be someone’s fault. Please forgive me.

  Christmas begins with a tree and ends with a tree, and this year was no different.

  That night, I sat with Lydia after the boys went to bed, and we drank hot chocolate from Christmas mugs, and we laughed and talked. We liked to turn off the room lights and turn on the tree lights on Christmas Eve. I would sit on the couch with my quilt, and Lydia would sit in the chair with hers. We would talk for hours about this and that. During a quiet moment, I noticed the shadows from the tree lights on the walls. Then my eyes carefully scanned all of the holes in the walls that surrounded us.

  Why would they put holes in the walls?

  “You know, I still don’t understand why the boys punched all of these holes in the walls the way they did. Were they fighting or were they just goofing around?” I asked Lydia, quietly.

  “They didn’t,” she replied.

  “Then who did?” I asked, hoping she was not going to say it was her.

  “It was you. It was you before you saw the priest.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I had no words because I did not remember doing any of it. All that time, I thought the boys had done it. I couldn’t understand why, and I had been furious with them over it, but it was me? How do I handle that?

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  “It was Bad Dad,” Lydia said, cutting me off.

  Then the full impact of what she was telling me hit me. It wasn’t me. It was Bad Dad. I wasn’t just fully oppressed. I was borderline possessed. I had been going through phases of blackouts. I had been Bad Dad, and I started to cry.

  • • •

  The lights from the concert illuminated the August night sky with blues, greens, and reds. I knew exactly where I was. This was the yearly ritual that called an end to summer. The yearly summer fair. In a few short weeks, kids would be going back to school, and those old enough would be off to college or out into the real world for the very first time. This was the end of my eighteenth summer, the summer of 1983.

  The crowd around me surged forward. I was standing front row–center. I was standing at the feet of the one and only Charlie Daniels, who was now looking down at me from his hat pulled down way too low, fiddle in his hand, singing a song about a boy who had sold his soul to the devil. The crowd went crazy as the lights changed from blue to red and the band turned into demons that backed up Charlie’s devil fiddle.

  That’s when I saw her. I had not seen her since we had graduated just a few months back, but even within those few short months something seemed to have changed in her. The red light played upon her long flowing red hair as she danced almost in a trance, her own little tribal moves, not seeming to notice or care that there was anyone else around her. Her eyes were closed. She was moving to the music as if possessed, without a care in the world. She was a free spirit. Why had I never noticed that about her before? Why couldn’t I be free like that?

  The crowd went wild as the band came to a screeching halt, bringing me back from my daze. To my surprise, she was staring back at me. For a brief moment, we caught each other’s eyes, and the sound from the world around us seemed to silence, just for a moment. She had caught me looking at her, and she began to laugh. Obviously caught, I b
egan to laugh as well.

  “Good night, Washington, Missouri, and God bless!” Charlie Daniels shouted to the crowd, bringing the magic of the moment and that night to an end.

  I woke up from the dream, stunned. It was more of a memory that had just replayed than anything else. It was something I had forgotten long ago and had not remembered until just now. It was the moment that the woman I would marry had caught my eye. With all of the bad things she had done to us, to me, to the kids, I thought I had buried moments like these so far down they could never come back to haunt me. Sometimes your memories are the worst demons out there. Sometimes your memories can haunt you more than any old house can. The haunting of the mind––now that is the place where the big boys play. Finding reasons for things that have no explanation––that is something that can drive you crazy. Institutions are full of people searching for answers where none exist, at least it would seem to me.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes as I sat on the side of the bed for a moment. With a deep sigh and an “I hate Christmas” grumble, I started this holiday day.

  [contents]

  Chapter 6

  December 26, 2005

  The world went into slow motion. I could feel the cold of the windshield against the side of my face as I looked at the horror in my daughter’s eyes as the glass began to spider out from the impact beneath her head. I was reaching and reaching for her, but I couldn’t grab her in time. And in a whoosh, we were pulled back with a violent jerk, and I could hear Matthew scream from behind me.

  It was the day after Christmas 2005 at 1:36 in the afternoon. We were on our way to my parents’ house for dinner. Michael was thankfully not with us. He had spent the night with my younger brother, and we were to meet him at my parents’ place. Matthew was playing around in the back seat and did not have his seat belt on. I was looking in the rearview mirror, yelling at him to get it on, as I came to a stoplight. In front of me was an older pickup truck that was hauling some junk to the dump. The truck had a cement bumper. The driver had his right turn signal on. He went to make a right turn and immediately slammed on his brakes, changing his mind and deciding to make a left. CRASH!

  Lydia and I both had our seat belts on, but they did not hold. The airbags did not deploy. Matthew was thrown around the back of the van. Both Lydia and I had busted the windshield with our heads. When the movement stopped, all I could hear was a ringing in my ears, but I knew I had to help my children.

  I stumbled out of the van. The driver of the truck came up to me, and I pushed him out of my way. The world around me was spinning. I could hear nothing but ringing and everything seemed so damn bright. I made my way to Lydia’s door. Matthew was already out of the van, and I grabbed him and asked him if he was all right. He nodded his head yes, and I told him to sit on the curb. I got to Lydia and she was crying. I grabbed her, and I could make out she was telling me that her head was hurting. I felt the side of her head and there was a huge lump already forming. I sat her down on the edge of the curb as the police arrived.

  I looked at the front of my van and saw it was completely totaled. I reached for my cell phone and called my parents. My dad answered. I was trying to gather my words; I kept feeling like at any moment I was going to pass out, but I had to keep going for the kids. I had to keep going. I finally got the words out that we had been in an accident, and he told me he was on his way. I was feeling kind of drugged. I was talking to the officer, trying to explain to him what had happened, and I couldn’t believe they were telling me it was my fault. I mean, the guy had slammed on his brakes and changed his freaking mind at the last second. I was in control of my vehicle. No one could have made a stop like that. I looked over at Lydia, and she was doing better. She was playing with Matthew, trying to keep him occupied.

  My dad arrived. I walked over to his truck and, about halfway there, I felt my legs give a little. This did not go without my dad noticing; he always seems to be aware of everything dealing with his kids and grandkids.

  “Are you okay? Where are the kids? Are they okay? Tell me, are they okay?” he asked, grabbing my arm with a look of concern and fear on his face.

  “The kids are fine. I’m fine. I just hit my head. Lydia has a pretty good bump that I am going to have to have checked out. Matthew is fine.”

  I turned down an ambulance because I did not want to scare Lydia any further than she already was. I took her to the ER. They ran a CAT scan on her and it turned out to be nothing more than a mild concussion. They told me what signs to watch for, so I kept a watch on her, and secretly I kept a watch on myself as well. After a few days, we both seemed to be doing much better. There was no way I could have known that the deterioration process was already taking place, nor about the amount of damage that had been done to me. I had not been checked when I should have been. There is no way for me to know now if they would have been able to stop what was to come. Sometimes, in an attempt to care for our children, we end up causing greater harm to ourselves. If I could have that day back again, there are so many things I would do differently, but you cannot turn back time. The damage was done. Over time, the damage makes itself evident in the part of the brain that controls speech and motor skill function. It is not reversible and is a degenerative disorder that I live with on a daily basis. Medication helps to control and mask its effects, but it is getting worse as the years pass. There have been some indications lately that it is starting to affect my short-term memory as well.

  Some people in my situation might look at this and say the demon caused it or it was the result of the haunting. I am not going to give any undue power or credit over to it like that. This was my doing. This was what I did to myself. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was keeping it together for my kids, when what I should have done was to step out of that crash and let myself fall to the ground. Sometimes there is more dignity and heroism in letting go, instead of hanging on. Sometimes I have had to learn these lessons the hard way. Now, there are days when I will myself to speak and the words come out wrong, in a stutter, and all I want to do is cry. Or there are times when I have been afraid to hold my grandchild, because on that certain day my arms or hands have been uncontrollable, or I have been falling down a lot because my legs won’t move. I have kept this hidden and I don’t talk about it with anyone except my family. It is my little dark secret that I keep to myself when I am in the public eye. When I go to a convention, I pray they have me speaking later in the day so my medication has taken hold, so I can speak without a stutter. If I am scheduled for the morning, I get up extra early to take my medication, so I can make sure it is working in time. It is unbelievably frustrating when you can think clearly but the words won’t come out when you try to say them. On the one hand, I am whole and on the other hand, I am broken. Sometimes I think I just keep piecing myself back together again, over and over, but in the end I am still here, and I am writing this to you.

  This is not something I should have to hide. It has nothing to do with the person I am or the thinking processes I go through. I have spent years ashamed of it or afraid to share it with someone because I thought they might think less of me. It has become part of who I am, and I am not the kind of person who can hide things just because it might make someone more comfortable with me. I am not looking for pity, either. There are times I wish I could turn back the clock and do things differently than what I did on that day. What would have happened if I had left a few minutes earlier or later? Would I have been able to avoid the outcome? The truth is, you cannot go back and do something over. The truth is, you are given the hand you are dealt and sometimes you just have to play it out. I would rather play my hand and think of my life that way, rather than walking around, thinking of myself as defective. I am who I am, and there is nothing defective about that. We all have our challenges in life. My life is no different than yours in that way. We do the best we can with what we have. My mother always taught me that and still today reminds me
of it, when I am feeling down or a day is particularly bad. I am just simply playing my hand, the same way as you.

  [contents]

  Chapter 7

  New Year’s Eve 2005

  I like the idea of new beginnings. I like the idea of a fresh start. I like the idea of New Year’s Eve. I like the idea that everything left behind is behind and now you can move onward to something better, with new possibilities. It is the wish for something new, the wish for the removal of darkness, to finally let in the light. How could I have been so fucking naive to think that the possibility existed for me? To think that somehow, with the passing of days, the clock, a number, that instantly all would be well, and we could move on, and “happily ever after” would finally become a reality for us. I am a true romantic at heart. Why did the “happily ever after” always seem to pass us by?

  This was the first year we went our separate ways on New Year’s Eve. Lydia and Michael both went to friends’ houses for the night, leaving Matthew and me at home to fend for ourselves, which turned into a night of movies, pizza, soda, and snacks, all of these being Matthew’s favorite things. I can remember feeling a little bit out of place without the other two kids at home with us. We had always been together for every single holiday up to this point. This was the first without them. And I can remember trying, for Matthew’s sake, to keep my spirits high.

  Midnight rolled around as midnights always do, but as usual, this midnight had that extra special, magical touch of an expectation of something new. I held my breath and waited for the phone to ring … nothing. I waited a moment longer … nothing. Then the room burst with its ringing, to my relief. It was Lydia.

  “Happy New Year, Daddy. I love you!” she said, sounding like she was having a very good time.

  This made me happy because she really needed it. “Happy New Year to you, too, princess,” I said, holding back the lump in my throat.