Free Between Seasons by Aida Brassington Page A

Patrick had no idea who he was talking to –God, the universe, or something else.
    The longer he thought about it, the more agitated he became. Eventually his eyelids drooped with fatigue, body sliding across the wall until he stretched out along the length of the baseboard. It was times like these he missed the comfort of his pillow and blankets and wished he’d had the forethought to try to hide those in the house before his parents moved. I t would have been nice to be able to punch his pillow into shape and feel the cool fabric against his cheek while breathing in his mother’s fabric softener.
    It was with his mom and dad on his mind that he fell asleep, but his dreams had nothing to do with his parents. He found himself in a park, the green grass vibrant and springy beneath his feet. He didn’t think it was a place he’d ever been to before –the rolling hills and oblong lake didn’t look familiar. What appeared to be a family picnic was in full swing under a wooden pavilion, about twenty people milling around tables.
    “Well now, it’s young Nate!” an old guy in a white shirt with the top button undone called. Patrick was sure the man spoke to him, although he had no idea how he knew.
    “Hey, Grandpa,” Patrick called back before he could stop himself, the smile on his face not feeling quite right. Lips too small for his mouth , and his skin stretched wrong across his cheekbones . The sweat rolling down his back from the humidity of the summer air seem ed foreign, although summer in Philly was always hot and sweaty.
    “What’s been going on with my favorite grandson?” The man’s gnarled fingers patted Patrick’s cheek before they fell into step with each other, walking toward a blue tub full of bottles and cans.
    “I’m good. Work’s been busy, but everything’s good.” Patrick reached into the tub and handed his dream grandfather a can of birch beer. “What about you?”
    “Oh, you know, I can’t complain… mostly because no one would listen.” His grandfather chuckled and sat on a picnic bench.
    “Your hip’s better?”
    “Absolutely, my boy. I’m right as rain. I’m giving Mrs. Carsey a run for her money, that’s for sure.”
    “Who’s Mrs. Carsey – your new girlfriend?”
    Patrick’s grandfather fluted his lips, the delicate skin around them wrinkling, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “You don’t call a woman of eighty-five a girl, now, would you? Although I daresay, that woman’s got a young spirit about her. Good teeth, that one.”
    Patrick laughed and popped the cap off a bottle of beer he’d never heard of before… a brand called Dead Guy Ale, which he found kind of ironic. The beer ran cold and tart on his tongue, frosting his throat as it went down.
    “Should you be drinking?” His grandfather watched him, his eyes resting on the beer bottle in his hand.
    “Relax, Grandpa. It’s all good - my medication is all worked out now. The doc said I could have the occasional beer as long as I don’t get wasted. Moderation is key and all that.”
    His grandfather’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “I’ll take your word for that. I just worry – don’t want to have another episode like the last time.”
    Patrick caught onto a memory, floating around him in a shimmery haze. It was him, but it wasn’t. A man with short, dark curly hair paced frantically around a kitchen, his agitation clear. He shouted and thr ew glasses and plates, cutting his arms with shards of ceramic, while a woman in an apron huddled under the table shouting into a telephone for the police to hurry.
    “Yeah, I don’t want that either. Trust me on that one.”
    “You’re a good boy, Nate.”
    The woman who’d been hiding under the table in his mind approached them and handed a plate piled high with potato salad and a hamburger to his grandfather.
    “Glad you could make it, sweetie. How’s Lori?”
    He didn’t have the heart to tell this woman… she felt like his mother… that he and Lori