Chapter 3

When we headed back to the reception area, Nurse Carol instructed me to take a seat and went to talk to Dr Hart.

When she returned she informed me, “Dr Hart will see you in three hours. Your test results will be ready then.”

I nodded.

She then asked, “do you want something to put you to sleep, or are you comfortable waiting? We could make a bed for you here.”

“It’s okay let me just take a walk. It helps sometimes.” I lied.

I’d never actually tried it. I just thought it might help somehow.

“We will call you when the results are ready. Don’t go far away.”

I headed down to the hospital parking lot and started pacing frantically.

I hope this doesn’t turn into something serious, I thought to myself.

I hadn’t been to school in 3 days now. The principal had reminded me in an email, that whenever I was ready to report back to work, not to forget to present my health note as per district policy. He had then asked about my progress, and how much time he thought I’d need off so he’d know how long to keep the substitute.

I never really got to answering it because I couldn’t even form coherent thoughts, let alone professional responses.

I loved my job. But I knew as of now, I was so unfit to be around little innocent children.

“Lyanna?” Someone interrupted my train of thought.

A tall blond man stood a few feet away. He was dressed in black slacks and a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place it.

"Sorry?" I said.

He smiled. "It's me. Tom."

I frowned. "Tom?"

"Tom Voss."

My mouth fell open. "Oh my God."

His grin widened. “The one and only.”

The last time I'd seen Tom Voss, we'd both been ten years old.

Back then he'd been a skinny kid with messy blond hair, and at least an inch shorter than me. The man standing before me was broad shouldered, clean shaven, and at least six feet tall.

"You grew."

He laughed. "You noticed?"

"I barely recognized you."

"That's fair. I almost walked right past you too.”

For a moment we simply stared at each other. Neither of us seemed quite sure what to say next.

Finally Tom shook his head. "This is insane."

"It really is."

"I haven't seen you in what? Fourteen years?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

He looked me up and down. “You’ve really changed. A lot.”

“I definitely have. Thanks to puberty.” I snorted.

“In a good way.” He added.

“Thank you for adding that. It really means a lot.”

He laughed.

“Same eyes though.” He pointed.

“Puberty didn’t touch those.” I joked.

He laughed again.

His expression softened.

“So, what are you doing here?”

Immediately my stomach tightened.

The last thing I wanted to discuss was why I was spending my afternoon at the hospital. Especially not with someone I hadn't seen since childhood.

I forced a smile.

“Just some routine medical check ups. You?”

“I’m here to pick up someone. Their family hired our funeral home to collect the body. Just waiting for the transfer crew.”

“Oh. You took on the business after your father.” The Voss family owned Voss Funeral Home and Crematory.

“Yep. Been doing it for the last four years.”

“Can’t believe we didn’t bump into each other.”

“We have now.” He smiled.

In our 4th grade, Tom had joined Willowbrooke elementary for approximately two months, before leaving for France. The reason he left was because his mom had gotten full custody over him.

It was one of the most scandalous moments that had ever happened in Willowbrooke.

I remember watching it on national news with my parents. His father, Timothy Voss, holding a crying and scared Tom at gunpoint, while in a standoff with the police.

Prior to taking over Voss Funeral Home and Crematory, Timothy Voss was a successful accountant in California. His wife, a then stay at home mom, had signed for divorce citing irreconcilable differences. Timothy had gotten full custody of little Tom, because—he had claimed, Louise Voss was an unfit mother, due to her abuse of prescription medication.

When the divorce had been finalized, Timothy Voss had moved back to his hometown, Willowbrooke and taken over the family business from his retired father.

One day during the two months Tom was around, his mother paid a visit to say goodbye to him as she was going back to her home country, France, and had checked into the local motel.

On that fateful day, a drunken Timothy Voss had shown up to the motel in one of the funeral home’s hearses and dragged Tom out of the car, before screaming for Louise to get down and come back home, or he was going to kill her son. He had then threatened to kill himself after and all the bloodshed would be her fault.

At first Louise had refused to come out because according to her account, she knew that Timothy could never hurt Tom, but he could hurt her. She claimed he was a violent man when drunk most especially to her for some reason, and had once struggled her, rendering her conscious. But he had never hurt Tom. Not once. Not physically, verbally, emotionally or mentally. He loved his son.

After a while, when the police showed up and it turned into a standoff between Timothy and the Police, she’d come out and begged him to surrender, saying she could do anything he wanted.

Two hours later, when the alcoholic high had worn off, Timothy had fallen to his knees and surrendered, asking little Tommy to forgive him.

He had been whisked away by the authorities.

In court he had pleaded guilty to attempted murder and in addition, confessed to fabricating the allegations, that his ex wife abused prescription medications, and was therefore unfit to safely care for their child. He had also confessed to domestic violence against Louise Voss and financial abuse for the most part of their marriage.

Tom Voss had been sentenced to seven years in prison but gotten out in three years on good behavior.

“I can tell you’re thinking about the motel incident.” Tom says.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. As long as I am in Willowbrooke, that moment will always be associated with the Voss name forever.”

“How is your mom?” I ask.

“Okay I hope. She died when I was fifteen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I genuinely say.

“What did she die of?”

“Breast cancer. It metastasized and spread to her brain.”

Damn I thought. This must have been really hard for him.

“Apart from your mom, did you have any other family in France?”

“Not really. In fact after she died, I came back to New York and stayed with my auntie Susie. My father’s sister.”

“Is that where you went to college?” I asked.

“I actually didn’t go to college.” He laughed, then continued. “I mean I intended to. But after mom’s death, my mental health wasn’t exactly the best. I was her caretaker, you know . It gets hard on a kid. Then dad died and left this…” he gestured towards the hearse, “…to me. So I was like what the hell, let me go back to Willowbrooke and manage it.”

Timothy Voss had died five years ago. He had been found by one of the members of his transfer crew, dead in his chair, as if he was sleeping. Cardiac arrest, the doctors concluded.

“He was a recluse. Your dad.” I tell Tom.

“After coming back from prison, he kept to himself. Never bothered anybody. Never attended any events, helped out when he could but never asked for help. He had become a whole different person. The town thought he was haunted by that incident.”

“He used to write me letters and send postcards.” Tom says.

“What?”

“When mom and I moved to France, he’d send letters from prison. Mostly apologizing. But we never used to answer them. He never stopped writing even when he left prison.”

“Couldn’t he call?” I wondered, “like after prison.”

“He was old fashioned I guess.” He chuckled. “At first I didn’t want to respond because I was so mad at him for what he did to me and my mom. But then I wrote to him, and told him to use a goddamn phone like a normal person. Then added our my phone number at the bottom of the letter.”

I laughed at this.

“He made sure to call once a week. He continued writing the letters and ended every letter with, ‘I’m sorry and I love you very much.’”

After a bit of silence he added. “He was a monster to my mom. A bad husband. She never really answered any form of communication he tried to initiate. But she encouraged me to if I wanted.”

“She was traumatized.” I added.

“ But he had never hurt me. The first time he ever did was that night when he put a gun to my head. Funny thing, he had taken me to get ice cream first, and told me something was about to happen and he was truly sorry it had to come to that. He looked completely drunk and agitated, but I didn’t mind because I guess I was used to seeing him drunk…”

“Wait. Was he driving you while drunk?”

“Yes. Like a maniac. But I was used to that too. On most days when he was drunk and beat my mom to a pulp, and I so happened to see it, he’d always take me out for ice cream or a greasy burger. So again, I was kind of used to that too.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“But mostly on those drunk nights, when he used my mom as a literal punching bag, he made sure I wasn’t around to see it. Or see my mom hurt. But of course I could. You can’t hide something like that from your child.”

He sighed. “It’s safe to say in his own twisted way, he loved me and loved being a father.”

By this time, we were seated in the trunk of the hearse were the coffin would be placed.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that. Did you ever forgive him.”

“No. Understand his love for me, yes. Forgive him, some things you just can’t forgive. What he did to me and worse, my mom, is one of them.”

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute, both of us lost in thought. Then he sighed.

“Enough about me. What’s going on with you. Any kids yet?” He joked.

“I have around 30.”

He looked alarmed.

I laughed. “I’m a first grade teacher.”

“Whew! You had me worried for a second there.”

At this, two men wheeling a trolley with a coffin, arrived.

“Duty calls.” Tom said standing up.

I stood up as well.

“Can I have your number?” He asked. “That way I can hit you up and take you for dinner or something?”

“Sure.” I smiled.

We exchanged numbers.

“Okay. Stay safe. And whatever is going on,” he gestured to the hospital, “good luck.”

I stood and watched the hearse pull away from the parking lot, and sighed in contentment.

That was nice. I thought.

Tom Voss had managed to distract me from myself.

Then as if on cue, I felt the sensations coming back. A reminder of why I was here in the first place.