Suspicious Truths

PrologueHe’d said goodbye to her physical self, but couldn’t do the same with her dying words. Those continued to live and breathe deep within him, in his heart, his soul, nearly keeping him from being able to feel anything but loss. But loss of what—his mother, the life he’d always known, or his very identity? A decision loomed. His birthday recently passed, which he spent by himself inside the silent house, had done him no favors. If anything, turning twenty-eight meant he couldn’t get away with his own perception that he still had time to figure out what he wanted to do when he grew up. He was a grown-up, and he had to face that truth alone. No more did his mother have dinner waiting for him when he had a rare night shift off from Shiner’s Diner; she knew the last thing he’d want to do was cook, so she would have prepared a meal. In a way, it kept alive a piece of his childhood when it was just the two of them against the world, mother and son. All of that had been shattered; only shards remained, and they cut deep. He’d yet to make any changes to the small clapboard house. The furniture was the same, framed photographs remained unchanged on the walls, like taunts of happier times; fake times, he now knew. What was different was the closed door to his mother’s bedroom, the bare cupboards and fridge, the former ignored, the latter neglected. It was like he was living inside a vacuum of the past, memories swirling about like clouds of dust. “You are not my son…” A simple collection of words, as powerful as any he could dare to hear. Devastating words which had left him quieter than usual. Even his co-workers had noticed it down at the diner, though he’d spoken to none of them about why. The decision he had to make was his, and his alone. He wouldn’t allow outside interference. It was late February when he awoke with a strange resolve washing over him. Unlike most nights when he answered the call of four o’clock in the morning, his mind too heavy with thought to enjoy sleep, or to need it. This past night had been different, as he’d slept uninterrupted until the clock had struck nine o’clock, his eyes opening almost on the dot, no alarm clock necessary. He’d been wrapped in blankets that protected him from the bitter cold that had settled over the Adirondacks and the tiny village of White Pine. He could see crystalline snowflakes frozen to the window of his bedroom. Winter was brutal in Upstate New York, the snow, cold, and wind lasting well beyond the seasonal turn of the calendar. To expect a thaw now was just unrealistic. But much of his life was unreal, or perhaps surreal was more appropriate. In the month since his mother had passed, he’d done only one thing, sort of on impulse, in terms of the future, and it was that action which came to him again this morning. He tossed back the blankets and placed his bare feet upon the carpet. The house had a chill to it, even though the heat was on. He thought he’d never really shaken the cold that lived within him since that day at the cemetery when he’d laid the gravestone. Padding into the kitchen, he bypassed the coffee machine and made a beeline for the cork bulletin board his mother had put up so many years ago. Reminders of doctor appointments pinned to it, Noah’s work schedule written on a piece of paper, and business cards for plumbers, dentists, home health care agencies. And a recent addition, the one he sought now. Eleanor Reason, Realtor. He’d liked her name. Because what he needed was someone who could be reasonable, understanding. A name like hers would have to infuse such traits within you at an early age. He’d been unsure the day he’d visited her whether selling the house was the right move. This morning he’d awakened with new resolve, wondering if he’d dreamed about it. He’d seen the ocean in his dream, that much he remembered, the sun reflecting off it with picturesque delight. He’d heard the wind, too, a creaking sound hitting his ear. Turning, he’d seen the For Sale sign gently wavering, as though it, too, were uncertain whether it belonged. He picked up the phone before he changed his mind. “Reason Realty,” he heard coming from the other end. “Good morning. I wonder, could I speak with Ms. Reason. This is Noah Sanders.” “Hello, Noah, this is Eleanor. I’m afraid it’s too early for my assistant to arrive—she likes to work ten to six—so I’m here. I’m guessing you’ve made a decision.” “Yes,” he said, taking a deep breath before speaking words which would once again alter the direction of his life. “I, uh, I want to sell the house.” She was quiet for a moment before she said, “I knew your mother, from church. This must be difficult for you, and I assure you I’ll be as sensitive as I can be. This isn’t an easy time for you, Noah. But I think you’re making the right decision. And as I said during your first visit, I can help you find a new place, perhaps an apartment to make your own.” That wasn’t going to be necessary, he thought but didn’t say. “We’ll talk,” was his response. “I’ll get the ball rolling,” she said. “Why not come by the office later today and we’ll sign the necessary paperwork. Do you have a lawyer, too, or shall I recommend one?” He hadn’t even thought about a lawyer. He’d never sold a house before. Maybe he should just keep the place until he knew for sure what he wanted. Except hadn’t he been thinking of selling for the past few weeks? Sometimes you needed to make an executive decision. Doing so would give him the chance to move on. “We’ll talk,” he said again. Feeling dumb using the same words but all others failed him. They agreed upon a time, and Noah set the phone down, his world gone quiet again. Like the house itself—his home—knew of his fresh betrayal. He walked from room to room, felt all the memories of his childhood start to fade. Like they were suddenly hiding in the walls and under the staircase. He wondered if he’d had truly happy times here. Rarely did they have company, just some of his friends, whom his mother preferred they play in the backyard. “It’s time,” he said, “You need a new family. A complete family.” A streak of golden sun blazed through the window, almost like he’d opened the possibility for tomorrow for a house dredged in an uncertain past. He walked to the front door, wondering how many times he’d crossed this threshold in his lifetime without a thought, how many more he had left. Even though it was frigid outside—evidence of the sun and blue skies all the proof he needed—he opened the door and breathed in air as cold as the arctic. He was used to it; you grow up around such weather, your body gets accustomed to it. In his pajama bottoms and T-shirt, his feet bare, cold attacked him, and he readily accepted it. Punishment for what he’d just done. Soon, though, he closed the door and began to get ready for the day. He had the night shift at Shiner’s, so he didn’t have to be in until five. His three o’clock with Eleanor Reason would give him just enough time before he needed to report for work, the pronouncement he’d been forming in his mind soon a reality. This winter had seen a series of impactful days: his birthday, the quiet burial, her death, and of course, the moment that set all of this in motion. Again, the words taunted him. “You are not my son.” Forgoing breakfast, Noah returned to his empty bedroom and sat down at his desk. His laptop awaited him, his constant companion these past few weeks. An outlet for the world beyond White Pine, specifically the small town he’d located along New Jersey’s coast line. Cane’s Inlet, not to mention its featured attraction: Hatcher’s Resort. It was a show palace, wooden and wooded and found on its own island, a place for the wealthy and the powerful to stay, to play, to indulge. It was a place that called to Noah, and not for any of those reasons. It’s because of what his mother had said. Of who he was. A Hatcher. She’d warned him not to find them. He’d known all along he would, despite her dramatic, last proclamation: that the Hatcher’s were evil. Yet photographs of Hatcher’s Island revealed a paradise along the Atlantic Ocean, where the sun danced and the shore called out to beachcombers of all ages, where in the distance on the land that was Cane’s Inlet, a Ferris wheel rode high against a blue sky. Like postcards coming to life, or at least, soon would be. The truth awaited him there, but he would heed his mother—it was still difficult to not think of her that way, still—and remain suspicious, reserved. As he stared at the website for Hatcher’s, an idea hit him. Because a phone number stared back at him, daring him to call. He went and retrieved his phone from the kitchen, and before he could hesitate—a trait he was well accustomed to—he had dialed and the connection rang on the other end. “Good morning, this is Hatcher’s reservations. Hannah speaking. How may I help you?” “Oh, hi. I was inquiring, if perhaps you had a room available.” “For when, sir?” Good question. Did he wait until he sold the house, or did he just hope for the best? He had limited funds in his bank account, as did his mother. “In the next week or so. Perhaps for just a couple of nights.” “We do have availability. We’re not yet at peak season, so rooms are available and at a slightly lesser rate than our summer prices. Are you looking for a deluxe room, a suite? Or maybe one of our bungalows?” “The smaller the better,” Noah said. There was a pause until the woman said, “Depending on whether you’ll be staying with us on a weekday or weekend, the rate for a single, non-ocean view, is two hundred and fifty a night, and that’s before taxes.” Way beyond his budget. He wouldn’t last long enough to find his way around. Forget about learning anything about the reason for his trip. “Okay, thanks. Let me figure out my dates and I can call back.” “You can always book online, too. Thank you for calling Hatcher’s.” He set the phone down and thought about what he was doing. Was he crazy, going off on some fool’s errand? Not for the first time did he call into question his mother’s dramatic confession and question its validity. But he’d heard the conviction in her voice, felt her desperation. She’d been tortured by her lie, clearly. No way would she say something so awful, such a lie, before meeting her maker. She had been a religious woman. She had needed to make peace with her crime. Going to Cane’s Inlet was his only option. And he was going to need money. Yes, he had to sell the house. Because it would help finance his trip. His new life. Even in the off-season, Cane’s Inlet was lush, pricey, and exclusive, but nevertheless it now called to him, like a siren rising from the sea. Perhaps the phone call had helped. Hearing a voice from there had confirmed its existence. How odd to think that his past lived there, on a collision course with his future. His mind was made up. Sell the house, quit the job, make the move. Cane’s Inlet awaited him. It wouldn’t be too difficult to say goodbye to White Pine, even though he’d miss the majesty of the mountains, the beauty of early morning snowfalls and crackling fireplaces. Where he was headed, it seemed to represent the opposite end of nature, ocean rather than mountain, sand instead of snow, their only link the sky that hovered high above. Perhaps what he lacked in White Pine he’d find in Cane’s Inlet. Truth, perhaps love, but if nothing else, the answers to the mystery of his birth. Uncover the truth about the woman he’d called mother his entire life, a woman by the name of Barbara Sanders, because right now she was just one of the puzzles which confounded him. What other mysteries would he find when he got there? What truths awaited him? Would he find interlocking pieces that would complete the puzzle? Noah took a deep breath, then closed the computer. A fresh fear hit him. He was venturing into a new world, and the most uncertain aspect of this entire quest of his was the fact that he didn’t know a single soul in Cane’s Inlet, chief among them himself. Part 1: Coastal Undertow