Possible Flashback for Arrested Souls #1

August 16, 1998

My father turned and looked straight at me, ignoring the road ahead of him. “You don’t want to play football anymore?” He squinted. His hands rested at seven and five o’clock on the steering wheel. He toggled the blinker left. “Why?”

My Dad’s Ford Taurus turned onto DeKalb Avenue. The August air was hot and sticky. Brooklyn’s afternoon sunshine glared off the cars driving ahead of us. Some New Yorkers meandered up and down the sidewalks, while others walked hurriedly.

“Because I’m not going to play, Dad,” I answered, hoping that he would understand.

“But you’re a senior,” he said, looking back at the road. “You have to play. Those are the rules.”

“Not for an entire game,” I said. “Not for most of a game.” Repeating the words of my closest friend Ian, I offered, “I’m not going to bust my ass six days a week just to pick the splinters from it.” I squirmed in my seat.

“What the hell does that mean?” He looked quickly at the road, then back at me.

“I’ll be warming the bench. I’ll get Special Teams, maybe third or second string.”

“But this is the year you’ll get your football scholarship.” And there it was: money. Always about money. He didn’t care if I played, he didn’t care if I succeeded, he only cared that I got a scholarship so he would not have to pay for my college. “You can’t quit.”

I closed my eyes. “The scouts will be watching the first-string players and the touchdown scorers. Not some second or third-string lineman.”

“But Coach Ascolese said you’ve improved. Surely you’ll play first-string a couple of games.”

“Not enough of them, Dad.” He just didn’t get it.

My dad shook his head. “What about your friends? Your teammates? Surely you don’t want to let them down.”

I have no friends on the football team, I thought, wanting to say it aloud. But I didn’t: I didn’t want to talk about the abuse or the hazing or about what my fellow players did to me. That was a conversation I just didn’t want to have with my father. My closest friend Ian Marks finally convinced me. He noticed how miserable I was, how I dreaded going to practice, how I avoided the football players in the hallway in between classes. He said it to me one afternoon a week before. “Dude, do you really want this? Do you really want to keep playing a sport you obviously hate? Don’t you want to enjoy your senior year?”

“I have better friends who are not on the team,” I finally said.

“So you’re a quitter then? Is that it?” He glanced at me, annoyed.

A quitter, Dad? Really? How many jobs have you quit or failed at?

I closed my eyes again, shifting in my seat. Please understand. “Football’s not for me.”

“Because you’re a quitter.” Good gods, Dad… He exhaled and focused on the road; his eyes glared. Mid-afternoon traffic was heavy on Dekalb Avenue. “My son’s a quitter.”

“It’s not like that, Dad,” I began. “You don’t understand.” I sighed and switched the subject. “Besides, I can apply for Aware scholarships now.”

Earlier that summer, I suffered nightmares. Nightmares of souls haunting me, nightmares of hungry ghosts chasing me, nightmares of the ectoverse, where billions of long-dead souls flew around in the sky, lost and needing to possess humans. I gained the ability to see these souls and the ectoverse itself. I became what was called an Aware.

After meeting with Father McCleod and my high school guidance counselor a few times, I was informed of my new status and abilities, and that opportunities would open for me, for college and careers. I figured referring to the conversation we had just minutes before with the principal of Bishop Loughlin High School would settle things once and for all.

“An Aware? Are you kidding me?” Dad stepped on the brakes to stop at the traffic light. “You don’t want to do that, son.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s scary, that’s why!”

“I can see the ectoverse all the time now, Dad. I think the scary part is over.”

“But people will look at you strangely, Duncan,” he continued. “And be afraid of you. And not trust you. Do you want that for the rest of your life?”

“But I can help people,” I answered. “Just like Father McCleod said…”

“Father McCleod just wants to recruit you to the Catholic Church.” He was focusing only on the road as he talked to me. Traffic wasn’t letting up. We’d be home in a few minutes, anyway. “Besides, will helping these same people who fear and distrust you be worth the effort? That’s a lot of pressure, Duncan. Are you sure you want that?”

It’d be better than playing football another year. “Why are you so against this? Especially since it can grant me scholarships? Pay for my college?”

He sighed, turning onto Bond. He found a spot before Fulton Street and pulled into it. He put the car in park, not switching off the ignition. “Listen, Duncan,” he began, looking right at me. “I only want what’s best for you. Football can work out for you, even if you’re a mediocre player. There are so many sports scholarships out there that sometimes the money goes to waste. You can get some of it. You can bank on that.”

“But there’s a lot of money for Aware scholarships out there too,” I said, not being sure of that statement. I didn’t fact-check, but I’m sure my father hasn’t found sources to back up his claim about sports as well. “And I can do it. I have natural Aware talents. Sister Martine said so.” She was my guidance counselor. Also at the meeting we just attended.

“Really, Duncan, you don’t want this.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t want to be an Aware. It’s more of a curse than a gift.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, Dad,” I said, irked, shaking off his hand. “Besides, how would you know? You’re just an Unaware.”

“As is 80% of human beings on this planet!” He flinched forward with his last word, seeming to threaten me, but he stopped. He shook his head and put it in his hand. “You don’t, Duncan…” He sighed. “You just don’t.”

I was frustrated too: not at his veiled threat but at his stubbornness. “Again, I ask, how would you know? Did you experience any of what you said? Any of this?”

“I haven’t. No…” He stared at the parked car in front of us.

“Then how do you know…?”

He blinked and turned towards me. “Your mother,” he said. “Your mother is an Aware.”

“What…?” Was he kidding? How did I not know about this?

“It’s true.”

I was still in disbelief. “When did you find out?”

“Well before we got married.” He paused. “She was afraid and told nobody. Her stepfather would have probably beaten her if he found out. Then again, he beat her for just about anything.” His lips began to tremble.

It was old news that my grandfather physically abused my grandmother and my mother. My father pledged that he would not do that to Mom. And he kept to that, although his verbal abuse came to a close second at times.

“That’s why she hasn’t told us?” Meaning me and my three older sisters. “Are any of — ”

“No. Thank gods,” he said, exhaling. “Your sisters are blissfully Unaware.”

“And they don’t know about Mom either?”

“And they don’t know about your mother either.”

I thought for a moment. “Then maybe I can talk to Mom about it? She can give me some advice?”

“No!” He vigorously shook his head. “No way! She’ll get freaked out and I’ll never hear the end of it!”

I thought a moment more. “How has she kept this hidden? All Awares are registered with the state and federal government.”

“She was lucky,” he said. “And the laws didn’t happen until well after she knew. She was able to keep it hidden.”

My Mom. Janice Griffiths. An unregistered Aware. “But she doesn’t react or anything when she goes outside,” I said, recalling the first time I actually saw the ectoverse. It was more than scary, and I just about learned how to deal with it at that time. “And she loves going outside.” She especially loves the beach.

“Do you know those thick glasses she wears?”

I nodded.

“They’re not only for her eyesight,” he continued. “They also block out the ectoverse. They’re designed that way.”

“Huh…” An idea came to mind: “She already knows that I am an Aware. Maybe the more I talk about myself she’ll admit that she’s one too.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Why not?”

“Because she thinks it’s a curse,” he insisted. “Just like you should think. And she’ll tell you the same.”

No. I was convinced that I should tell her that I knew about her gift. I told my father as such.

“No, Duncan, don’t. Just don’t.”

“Why?” Because you said so?

“Because I said so, that’s why!” He began to breathe heavily. “Fuck!” He slammed the steering wheel with his fists.

I shut my mouth. Held back my rage. How I hated being told “Because I said so.”

A long moment just passed.

“Let’s just go home,” I said.

Without a word, he put the car in gear, pulled out of the spot, and drove home.