Free Beckoning Souls (A Psychological Thriller) by J.R. Tate Page A

answer.
    “Hey Rose.”
    “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”
    I lie back on the bed and somehow I still feel like I could sleep for another day. I don’t have the energy to fight with her. “I’ve been catching up on rest. Is something wrong? I figure I’d be the last person you’d wanna speak to since you kicked me out and all.”
    “Well, you’re still the father of my kid. He’s worried sick about you.”
    “I’m sure you’re not helping with the ideas of putting me in an insane asylum.”
    She’s silent for a second and I can tell the comment got to her. “I never said that, Nathan. I just want you to talk to someone. There’s a difference.”
    She’s sucking what little energy I have away. “Did you call just to tell me my son is worried about me?”
    “You need to call him. See him. I don’t know. He won’t say much to me. He looks at me like I’m the one doing this to you.”
    “I’ll call him. Tell him to keep his phone on.” I hang up, not giving her another chance to say anything. It’s killing me inside that we’ve gotten to this point, but with the way she looks at me and the way she doesn’t support me, I can’t be very talkative with her. It’s painful when you have to do that to the person you love most in this world.
    I dial Rusty’s number and he answers almost immediately, as if he’s waiting by the phone. “Hey Dad.”
    “Hey Rusty, your mom told me you’re pretty worried about me. Wanna talk?” My son is at the stage in his life where he thinks everything about his parent’s is annoying, so him wanting to talk means that Rose’s claims are legitimate.
    “Dad, I don’t know what to think. You get put in the hospital, you leave, and now you’re not staying at the house. Mom is vague about things and I wish someone would just tell me why and how this is happening.”
    I really wish I can tell my son why it was, but I don’t even know. The emotion in his voice is so thick that I feel myself choking up. “It’s a rough patch. I’m gonna get it all fixed.”
    “Get what fixed? Can I see you? Can we do lunch or something?”
    I realize that it is Saturday, and I’d love to have lunch with him, but would my appearance freak him out? Or would declining make him worry even more?
    “Sure, Rusty. Let’s meet for lunch. There’s that Mexican place down the street from the house. Meet you there in like thirty minutes. Will that work?”
    “Yeah, Dad. I’ll see you in a few.”
    I fight my exhaustion and force myself out of the bed. The cuts on my arm sting against the fabric of my shirt. I walk down the stairs and my dad is in the living room watching TV. Pausing at the entryway, I give a slight nod at him, but he acts like I’m not even there. I’d love to make amends with him, but right now, my son is what is on my mind.
    The fresh air feels good. It wakes me up and I actually feel like I’m part of the human race. I’m a little early to the restaurant, mainly because I don’t want to be in the same house with my dad, but also because I’m anxious to see Rusty. I’ve only been kicked out for a day, but not getting to be around my family drives me crazy, especially with my son. I should be his role model, not someone he has to worry about.
    He arrives shortly after and we grab a table out on the patio. Neither of us orders food, but the water feels so good against my parched throat. I can tell he’s observing me and it makes me feel uneasy.
    “So, what are you worried about? What do you wanna talk about?”
    “Mom is saying that you’re mentally ill. Is that true? Do you need help?”
    I’m not sure if I’m mad at her for saying that, or if she cares, but regardless of her intentions, it’s clear that Rusty is very concerned about me, and that doesn’t sit well. “I’m fine, Rusty. I really am.”
    “You don’t look it.”
    “If you’re gonna sit here and lecture me about this like your mother does, I don’t