Miracle - Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Touching Tribute For Beloved Teacher
Patricia Riker Moss has taught music at Dumas High School for the past 50 years. She retired this year in a heartfelt ceremony planned by three generations of students and former students. In a YouTube video that has since gone viral, Moss can be seen surrounded by teary-eyed students and alumni performing "Yellow Rose of Texas," one of Moss' signature pieces. Her classroom was filled with over four thousand roses, symbolizing each of the students whose lives she has touched in her impressive, half-century career.
"Mrs. Moss?" I gasped at the monitor. I knew her. I was one of the kids in that damn video. She'd only been my teacher for a year, but she was one of the few who'd done what she could to protect me from Tyler and all the other bullies. She'd let me hide out in her classroom at lunch when I needed to, and didn't punish Maddy that one time she'd socked Jeff Evans for calling me a fag in band class. In fact, she'd given Jeff detention, much to Maddy's and my satisfaction.
Mrs. Moss was like seventy years old, and the school board basically had to force her to retire. Everyone was devastated. But I'd never known she had a son, let alone one who'd died.
"Mrs. Pemberton? Mrs. Pemberton!" I got up from the computer and ran to the circulation desk, where Ellen gave me a bright smile.
"How'd that microfilm work out for you, Connor? Did you find what you needed?"
And then some. I put a hand over my sore stomach and asked, "Can you help me find a phone number for someone?"
"Who's that?"
"Mrs. Moss, my old music teacher at DHS. Well, I mean, she retired at the end of the school year, but I've got to ask her something and I don't know how to get in touch with her."
"Oh, that sweet lady in the yellow rose video? Of course, let's see what we can find."
Half an hour later, I was standing on the library steps with a three by five notecard in my hand. It contained a phone number that Ellen had found for me in the yellow pages. With a shaking hand, I pulled out my phone and dialed it.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Moss?"
"That's me, dear, who's calling?"
"Mrs. Moss, this is Connor Hayes. I don't know if you remember me, but—"
"Connor, of course! What a treat to hear from you. How are you and your sister enjoying your summer break? I hope you're both still practicing. The band depends greatly on its trumpet players, you know."
"We're doing great, ma'am. But I'm actually calling because I have something to ask you." It occurred to me that this was probably going to be really hard for her to talk about. She might get angry, or cry. Or hang up on me. But I didn't have a choice, because I had to protect my sister. I squeezed my eyes shut. "It's about your son. Timothy?"
I heard her take a breath on the other end of the line. "Oh. Oh, my. Timmy... how do you know about him? He passed away long before you were born."
"Yes, I... I found an old newspaper article. That's why I'm calling. The thing is, that place. Elioud Biogenesis? I think maybe my mom went there. When she was gonna have Maddy and me."
"Oh, dear."
"So I was hoping you could tell me... well, anything. About what happened to Timmy. Who those people are, what they want. Because I think they're coming for my sister, and maybe me too."
"My gracious. Oh, Lord bless you children. Yes, of course, I'll tell you all I can. But it's too sensitive to discuss on the phone. Those people are snakes in the grass, I don't trust them. Can you come see me?"
"When?"
"Tomorrow?"
Dumas was about ten miles from Prickly Pear. The school buses didn't run in the summer, but I could get there on my bike in about an hour. It would be a tough ride in the summer heat, but I had no choice. "Can I have your address?"
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The next morning, I arrived on Mrs. Moss's doorstep red-faced and sweaty. I'd left the house at seven A.M., hoping I could make the trip before the sun got to be too much, but it hadn't helped. My hair was as soaked as if I'd taken a shower, and my t-shirt had big U-shaped wet spots on my chest, under my arms, and probably down my back too. Even the backs of my knees felt slimy.
Mrs. Moss lived in a small house made of flagstone and gray stucco, with a tidy yard that was beginning to brown in the summer heat and a couple small flower pots on either side of the front door filled with purple and pink verbena. I took a moment to tighten up my ponytail and dab my streaming face with the hem of my shirt, then knocked.
The door swung open to reveal my former music teacher, a silver-haired lady about the same height as me. She held her arms out right away. "Connor! Come in, dear, come in. Heavens, you look parched."
I followed her into a small, orange-carpeted living room filled with the sorts of things you'd expect to see in an older person's house: flowered sofa, end tables that were clearly made in the seventies, a good number of doilies and crocheted afghans, an upright piano in the corner topped with family photos. A window air conditioner was sending a noisy, cold breeze into the room, and I paused in front of it in sheer bliss.
"Yes, yes, that's better, isn't it? Have a seat, child, I'll fetch you something to drink."
I felt guilty just standing in her living room as she went off to the kitchen. I was used to being the one who waited on people, not the other way around. When she came back with a pitcher and glasses of ice on a tray, I hurried to take them from her and set them on the coffee table.
"Thanks, Mrs. Moss. I'm sorry to be a bother."
"Oh, shush. You're a blessing, that's what you are. I haven't had a proper visitor all summer." She batted my hands away and insisted on pouring the drinks herself, which turned out to be iced tea. She handed me a glass and waited for me to take a sip, and I knew before tasting it that it was going to be loaded with sugar.
I gave her a smile to let her know I liked it. Satisfied, she picked up her own glass and gestured me into the faded green velveteen armchair next to the piano. I had to answer all the polite warm-up inquiries: what my sister and I were doing with the summer break, whether we were excited to be sophomores next year. I asked the obligatory friendly questions in exchange. Was she still planning to teach music in her retirement? Had she seen the online video of her retirement ceremony?  Was she staying in touch with any of her other students? Small talk was a requisite part of Southern social etiquette, so I did my best to be an attentive listener. But inside, the real purpose for my visit was burning me up even after my body temperature had cooled down.
At last, she set her tea down and pushed a thick blue photo album towards me across the coffee table. "You asked about Timmy when you called," she said. "Would you like to see some pictures of him?"
"Yes, please." I followed her lead, setting my glass on the end table, and she opened the album up. The first page was a black and white photo of an infant dressed in a trailing white christening gown, being held by a much, much younger version of my teacher. She had blond hair that waved smoothly around her face, in a style that actually looked too grown-up for the youthfulness of her features.
"Wow," I said, "that was you?"
"Quite the looker, wasn't I? I got myself into plenty of trouble back then, thinking I was such hot stuff." She turned the page, and the next photo was of her and the baby again. This time he was a little older, sitting in a large metal wash basin with rolls upon rolls of baby fat ringing his belly, arms, and thighs. He was laughing at the camera with one bottom tooth showing, and Mrs. Moss was crouching next to him with a running hose in her hand. She had a dark polka-dotted dress on that was hiked up almost to her hip, exposing a lot of thigh. I tried to keep my face composed, but couldn't help sneaking an amazed look at the demure seventy-year-old sitting across from me. Was this really the same person?
She ran a wrinkled hand over the baby's face in the picture. "Oh, my sweet Timmy. Such a little porker, he was." She met my eyes with a small smile. "I was seventeen when I got pregnant. Maybe not such an unusual thing these days, but back then it just wasn't done unless you married young. I was terrified to tell my parents, especially when the boy who'd put me that way ran off and joined the army the day after I told him. Coward."
I looked back at the photo. "What a jerk."
"Indeed. I was desperate to find a way out."
"Is that how you found the Biogenesis place?"
"There was an advertisement in my daddy's Sunday paper. Asking for pregnant girls, saying they could help. I thought maybe they'd be an adoption service. Maybe they could whisk me away somewhere under a cover story until after the baby was born. I called, and they were so kind. So understanding. Told me to come right on in."
She touched another black and white photo on the facing page, where the baby was in a high chair with his face covered in something messy. Spaghetti sauce, I deduced from the noodles clinging to his chest.
"They did all sorts of tests, seemed quite excited. Said I was a perfect candidate for an experimental trial they were running. If I agreed to be part of the study, they'd pay me a thousand dollars up front, and when the baby was born, another five hundred every month. All I had to do was agree to an injection that day, then bring the child in every year for an exam. And if we continued to qualify, there was a special private high school for the study participants. I had to agree that my child would attend if invited."
That was a lot of information to take in.
"Back then, that was a lot of money. More than my daddy made at his job, in fact. I was seventeen, scared, and stupid. I signed the contract. Got the injection, ran home to tell my parents."
She turned to the next page in the album. There was a photo of an older man and woman each kissing one of the pudgy baby's cheeks.
"Turned out my folks weren't as outraged as I'd expected. They were more angry with my deserter ex-boyfriend than with me. Mama confessed later that she and Daddy'd had a shotgun wedding themselves."
"That must have been a relief," I said, more absently than was polite. I was still mulling over what she'd said about the annual doctor exams. It sounded just like what Mom had been doing with Maddy on our birthday all these years.
"At about six months pregnant, though, I went back to the research institute for an evaluation. They scanned me with some kind of machine I'd never seen before, and said my child wasn't a candidate for their study. That was it. No explanation. But the doctor who came in to talk to me—"
"Doctor Mekas?" I said. "His name was in the news article."
She nodded. "That's him, the varmint. He apologized it wasn't going to work out, then said they were going to give me an abortion."
"Whoa."
"Whoa is right. There was no way I was going to let them touch my baby by then. I already had names picked out, my daddy was building a rocker, Mama had knitted a trunkful of receiving blankets and booties. I didn't even care that I wouldn't be getting the money they'd promised. But the way the doctor said it, like it was the only option, that scared me. I asked him if the injection they'd given me had hurt my baby."
"What did he say?"
"When he realized he couldn't talk me into the abortion, he promised it wasn't because anything was wrong. He said my child would live a perfectly normal life. And for fifteen years that was the God's honest truth."
She turned the album pages faster now, and I followed the chubby infant's growth into a cherubic, bright-eyed toddler... a grinning, blond elementary schooler who seemed especially fond of his pet cat... a cute shaggy-headed teen in bell-bottoms leaning against a bright red Ford Mustang.
"But a few months after Timmy turned fifteen, he changed. Lightning fast, as if something had flipped a switch in him. He used to be the sweetest, most charming boy you could imagine. He was handsome, smart, full of life. He had so many friends, everyone loved him."
Then she paused, looking at me uncertainly. "How much detail are you looking for, dear? You said you believe your mother was treated at the same place. I... I don't want to frighten you."
I swallowed, because she looked so very grave. But I bobbed my head. "It's what I came here for, Mrs. Moss. I have to know what Maddy and I might be up against. Please. I need everything you can tell me."
She nodded, looking reluctant. "Well, one morning my Timmy wouldn't come out of his room. I thought he was sick. I left him alone for a bit, put trays of food outside his door. Finally, after a week, I forced my way in."
She sat back on the sofa, her hands trembling as she pulled them back into her lap. "He'd boarded up the windows. Booby trapped the door. He was huddled on his bed under a mountain of blankets and when he finally let me look at him, it was..." She closed her eyes, as if she was seeing it again. "He'd taken a pair of scissors and slashed his face, all over. My beautiful, perfect boy, he'd completely disfigured himself. All he would tell me was that he had to be ugly. That it was the only way he'd be safe."
My stomach did a sickening lurch. I tried not to let her see, in case she decided I couldn't handle it. I had to hear this. Had to know.
"I was devastated. I couldn't convince him to come with me to see a doctor, so I paid someone to come to the house. He was in there for all of ten minutes before Timmy started screaming, throwing things... he stabbed the doctor with a knife, I don't even know where he'd gotten it. We were lucky the doctor didn't press charges.
"I went to our local priest for help. He said Timmy was possessed by an especially powerful and wicked demon. He performed an exorcism, but it was the same thing. More screaming. Timmy tore the priest's clothes. His own, too. I walked in and Timmy was lying face down on the bed, naked. The priest explained the demon had been trying to entice him to... well, it was simply terrible."
"Shit," I breathed. Then remembered I was in the company of a lady, and flushed. "Sorry, ma'am."
"No need to apologize, dear. It was shit. Absolutely. I had always known, from the time Timmy was a small boy, that he was gay. That wasn't a surprise, though I suppose he might have been afraid to tell me. Things back then weren't nearly so progressive as they are now."
She patted my knee, and I swallowed. Is that why she'd taken such good care of me last year? Because I reminded her of her son?
"But it wasn't as if he had fallen in love and brought his sweetheart home for an introduction. This was pure madness. He wasn't possessed, he was... something else. Terrified, traumatized, but he wouldn't say why. When the exorcism failed, I became the only person Timmy would allow near him. And he just kept getting worse. Woke up screaming in the middle of the night. Couldn't eat. Spend days huddled under a blanket, staring at the wall. Would allow no one to touch him. Refused to leave the house, and went into screaming fits if visitors came over. Stuffed tissues and blankets into all the air vents, and around the gaps in the doors and windows. Spent hours in the shower scrubbing his skin raw.
"One afternoon, I came home from work. Timmy had found my shotgun, the one I kept in the hall closet for home defense. And, well..." Her voice quivered, and I felt a cramping of sympathy in my chest.
"God, I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, and when she blinked a tear slid alongside her nose. She wiped it away with pink-painted fingers and reached out to close the album, gently. "It was a long time ago. I've come to terms with it over the years. But what I will never accept is the way that cockamamie doctor and his underhanded 'research' company blew me off. They wouldn't return my calls, so I marched myself down there in person when Timmy's symptoms first started. They wouldn't tell me anything. Wouldn't give me any of my own medical records. Said I'd have to get a court order. The more squirrelly they got, the more certain I was that they'd done this to us. When I petitioned the court for a subpoena, I was denied because of the contract I'd signed."
"You sued them, though."
"Yes, after Timmy died. But they had a bunch of high-powered lawyers who got my case thrown out by waving that damn contract around. I wasn't even eighteen when I'd signed it. Not a legal adult. That should have made it void, but... I don't know. I was told I could appeal, but after a while I just couldn't do it anymore. Nothing was going to bring Timmy back. Nothing could undo the decision I'd made all those years ago to let those bastards poison him in my womb. I was tired. I had to move on before the guilt and anger ate me up inside and I ended up just like my poor son. I met my husband--" she pointed to a framed wedding photo sitting on top of the piano, and gave a wistful smile, "and he helped me realize there was still time to live my life. I'd lost my child, but there were so many other beautiful children whose lives I got to touch every day. I decided the best way I could honor Timmy was to care for them."
"Mrs. Moss, this is a strange question, but... when Timmy was younger, did you ever see anybody following him around? Did he ever talk about having, like, an imaginary friend? Or..." I swallowed. "A guardian angel?"
"Oh, goodness, dear. I wish the Good Lord had seen fit to send him one. He surely could have used it."