Sands of Time Read online

  Sands of

  Time

  by

  Bruce A. Sarte

  Copyright ©2008, 2010 by Bruce A. Sarte

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Bruce A. Sarte

  Editor: Carady Madden

  ISBN: 9780982981634

  Bucks County Publishing

  202 North 7th Street

  Bally, PA 19503

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Erin.

  Without whom I would have never been able to finish the story.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my wife Erin for her encouragement and support while I sat in bed whining that I couldn't concentrate. I would also like to thank two of the most influential literary influences in my life, Jeff Cain and Verne Romefelt. Mr. Cain taught me how to think about what I was writing and Commander Romefelt taught me how to write what I was thinking.

  March 1st

  In the blink of an eye, the sound gripped my heart and tore the soul from my still and helpless body.

  I heard the screech of tires preceding the violent collision of two polar opposite forces, right before the wretched smell of burning rubber reached me, and then there was nothing. Silence.

  It’s always the silence that gets me, every time I hear it… and I hear it all the time… all day… all night.

  The deafening silence that only solitude, loneliness, and guilt can bring.

  As soon as I heard the silence, I knew what it was. The sound of the car going into the water; the sound of my wife trying desperately to get out; the sound of my children screaming for someone… maybe even me. What is the sound of a life ending? What about the sound of my life ending? It didn’t matter if I ran or walked… but I ran. I didn’t have to see the skid marks to know what happened… but I saw them anyway.

  It happened so fast. I watched in disbelief as my entire world exploded in a ball of fire and pain.

  As I sit and watch the sun set on yet another day of solitude, I realize it is just another ball of fire that burns a hole in my soul every day, a hole that will never heal. And just like a cancer that spreads uncontrollably through the dying body, this pain infects every inch of my being. And I treat it as any good doctor would… when there is no cure, but you can numb the pain and make it bearable, that is what you do. That’s where the drinking comes in.

  Was today any better than yesterday… or the day before… or the day before that? Are things getting better? The holidays came and went, and I barely even noticed. I could say that the holidays were terrible and that I missed

  Sandy and the kids more then I ever thought I could miss anyone or anything.

  Yes, I could say that, because I am sure it would be the truth if I had even the slightest recollection of Christmas or New Year’s. I can only assume that there was a Christmas because it happens every year, with or without me. But the truth is I was so mind-numbingly drunk that I can’t remember a moment of it, and

  I don’t even care.

  I could say that I drown myself in my work. During the off-season, our little pub does a thrifty business selling alcohol and food. I could say that, but it’s not true. I’ve barely paid any attention to the pub or the inn. It has been six months since Sandy and the kids were taken from me, and in that time, I have downed more bottles of Jack than all of my customers combined have bought and consumed in the last two years. So, it stands to reason that the inner numbness afforded to me by the warm, personal relationship with my new best friend, Mr. Daniels, has not allowed me to feel the pain… or should I say, has allowed me to skip the whole hurting part of this process.

  My shrink says that I need to grieve and accept the loss and move on.

  Why? What kind of an evil, sadistic bastard is this doctor? Why would anyone subject himself to the cavernous abyss that is inside of me? Dr. Ashton says that if I look inside myself, I’ll find some sort of inner peace or something stupid like that. Why would I look inside myself when looking inside a bottle allows me to drown myself in the acceptance that only Mr. Daniels can offer?

  Dr. Ashton wants to see me weekly; he says I need help to accept what happened. I say acceptance is for pansies and I’ve already got help, so screw that. Dr. Daniels—hey, Jack would like that; he’s a doctor now—Dr. Daniels is working wonders on my coping skills. Nothing bothers me now. What does that quack Ashton know that Dr. D can’t offer me? I won’t be seeing Ashton anytime soon.

  Healing? Who needs to heal when you can be numb?

  What I do remember from the holidays is mostly sitting in my office with

  Jack. Just sitting there, listening to music and singing along to whatever happened to come on, even if I didn’t know the words. Well, if you could call that delirious drivel that was coming out of my mouth singing—but only Jack was judging me, and he tends to be very kind. Especially after a few glasses from his glimmering walls of acceptance.

  I did have the inn to run, but in the winter, we are rarely busy. Not too many people vacationing at the Jersey Shore over the holidays and cold weekends. They tend to make their way to the warmer climates or the ski slopes for vacation in the winter months. Oh, we do get a guest here and there, just looking to get away and spend a weekend overlooking the scenic Atlantic, even though it is cold. Some people like that, watching the waves coming in and out even though they know the water is frigid—they tell me they find it comforting. It just makes me want to walk into the cool, flowing waves of the ocean. Step by step, I can feel the water on my feet, grabbing at my ankles, pulling me in. Step by step, my knees are wet in the clutches of the dark and dreary ocean. It pulls me… beckons me further into its cold and welcoming arms. There is no instinct to retreat, no need to turn around, just the welcoming cold of the icy grip of the ocean on my waist beckoning me to continue… step by step… and I just keep going until the undertow grabs me and pulls me under.

  So, needless to say, running the inn in the winter is nary a concern. Besides, Natalie pretty much runs the place for me. She’s smart, confident, and understands how I like things… which is very important to me. When I first hired her, I wanted someone who would run the inn the way I would. She’s that person. I’d be lost without her; the inn would be lost without her. There was a time when we had a nice relationship… it was fun… we’d crack little jokes, and she would keep me up to date on what was going on when I was busy with other things…

  But since Sandy and the kids were taken from me, I have fallen into this distant, disinterested, hollow numbness that is my current personality, and she began to respond likewise. She acts more concerned and watchful than before… we don’t have that easy conversation anymore… no more jokes, no more laughter. Even with the great responsibility that being my front desk manager carries with it, we never really had an employee–employer relationship.

  We were more like good friends who worked together. And now, it seems like that cold workplace interaction that you see in TV. I would say it’s very sad, but I’m not sure I remember what it is to be sad. How does it feel? How does anything feel? I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten a lot of things.

  How to feel is just one of them…

  Dr. Ashton has convinced me that writing is cathartic… Is it?

  I guess we’ll find out.

  March 4th

  The gu
ests come and go and I hardly notice anymore. I used to love this.

  The hustle and the bustle of the inn… but now the inn runs itself for the most part. I haven’t really been making the day-to-day decisions. I have left much of it to my staff to take care of, and they’ve been very good about it. Thank God for Natalie. She’s been invaluable the past few months. She’s young and sweet, and she works very hard. She treats this inn as if it were her own. Maybe she deserves a raise? I’ll have to remember to see if I can swing that for her… or maybe just a nice big Christmas bonus this year. God knows that didn’t even occur to me this past year. I wonder if everyone hates me for that?

  The rest of the staff doesn’t really speak to me very much anymore.

  Actually, they seem to go out of their way to avoid me, all except Curtis, my head bartender. He listens… offers some advice and a straight-faced joke or two to keep my spirits up. We’ve been friends ever since we met in high school, and our friendship has withstood many of life’s ups and downs.

  After high school, our paths went in very different ways for many years. I went off to college, and he hopped in his Mustang convertible and took a long road trip. He drove around the country, working odd jobs to pay for gas and food. It was quite the experience—he saw the country and learned how to make something out of nothing. I, on the other hand, went to college. I learned how to drink my body weight in beer, pick up girls, sleep with them, leave in the middle of the night, get two hours sleep and still get up in the morning. Add to that the bonus skill of pretending I was interested in what the stuffed shirt at the head of the room was talking about. Who made out better? Hard to say, really, but you could easily argue that his path was the wiser one. Either way, he runs the pub and does a hell of a job—it always makes a profit. Even with my pilfering of the Jack.

  The others… they ask how I’m doing, if they can do anything… it’s all just niceties, really. They don’t really care, so I tell them I’m fine and no, I’m getting through it, thanks… I mean, what would they do if I told them the truth?

  “I’m dying inside! I have nothing left! I would not care either way if a demon from hell grew inside of me and devoured my soul, leaving nothing but the empty shell of a broken and hollow man. That is what I am anyway, so what would it really matter? I am NOT OKAY! Nothing is okay, nobody cares, and no one is even capable of understanding, so stop asking! My heart has been ripped from my chest, has dried up and turned to stone right in front of my eyes—do you have the elixir for the virus that has broken my soul into as many pieces as the sky has stars? Does the sky still have stars? I haven’t noticed…”

  If given the chance, I think most of my employees would run as far away from me as possible.

  Tonight the door to my study slowly opened, and one my bartenders told me we’re out of gin. I picked up the phone and started dialing my alcohol distributor. It rang a few times before I realized how late it was, and that the sales guy wasn’t going to be there. I told the bartender I’d have to call in the morning, and he shuffled out and closed the door.

  I don’t even remember his name. I know he has worked here for four years, but still I cannot remember his name. It seems I’m pretty good at remembering the girls’ names… but not the guys’. How pathetic is that?

  And I’ve only had three glasses of Jack. I’m surprised we’re not out of

  Jack. Surprised, but thankful—hey, at least I have something to be thankful for.

  Everything’s coming up roses… Maybe I’ll throw a party.

  I went there last night; to the one place I haven’t been… to the one place that can make me feel—to the church. After the guests were settled and the lobby area was quiet, I grabbed my coat and my savior. I went out through the lobby and saw Natalie at the front desk. I told her I was going to the church for a while and would be back later. She looked at me like a sad puppy and told me to take as much time as I needed, that she was on until 6 anyway. That’s my Natalie, always dependable and always helpful. I just wish she’d stop treating me like a shell-shocked war veteran. And in some ways, I’d almost prefer to have post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  I could tell that she knew I had been drinking, and I wasn’t doing a really good job of hiding Jack in my coat. She didn’t say a word, but it was that look of genuine concern she gave me as I pushed through the door that stayed with me.

  It was almost as if she was reaching out and begging me to let her help. But it was likely my fertile imagination or the seed that Jack planted in my mind. She’s sweet, but why would she want to help me? Probably just worried the inn will run into the ground and she’ll lose her job.

  I saw her smile sweetly as the door closed and heard her gently remind me that she was here if I needed her. For what? To heal my wounds? To soothe my soul? Or for work? What could she do for me? She’s sweet. Did I say that already? I guess Jack is still hanging around in my head. How many glasses have I had? I forget… counting becomes a challenge after a while. Outside it was dark and quiet and cold, but at the time, I didn’t notice. I found Sandy’s grave and sat down, leaning against the tombstone. The cold, hard granite… it’s as comforting and welcoming as my bed has become since she’s been out of my life…

  Sandra Jean Shepard

  Born: May 15th, 1974

  Died: September 1st, 2004

  Beloved Mother and Wife

  Our Lives are Empty Without Her

  Empty. Our lives… her grave. When you think about it, it all makes sense. They never found the bodies from the crash, and I still haven’t found my soul. Everyone assumed they were burned beyond recovery in the fire or thrown from the car into the ocean and that their bodies never washed ashore. None of it made sense to anyone, least of all me. I am so tired trying to make sense of it all... of anything anymore.

  Yes, anything… that’s the right word. I leaned in, took a swig and started to cry. The tears came from me as if my eyes were melting, slow and warm.

  Then they just began to flow more freely. I cried for what seemed like forever.

  Then I got angry… again.

  “WHY? Why did you have to do that? Why did you always run?! It was always about you and your precious comfort. You never stepped out of your little comfort zone, not for me, not for anyone. You didn’t like something, it didn’t happen. We always fought over it, and you always ran away. You’d run… like a child! WHY? You ran from everything! Including me, including our family… And now you’ve run out of my life and taken our children with you. You took the children; YOU TOOK TYLER AND CAITLYN, DAMN YOU! I hope you’re happy because my life is worthless now... without you… without Tyler… without

  Caitlyn...” I was crying openly now. “God damn you… I loved you so much, I still love you; why did you have to leave?”

  Then I heard something… felt something. Like someone was there, or like

  I was being watched. I jumped to my feet and immediately fell down to my knees... I was very dizzy. Quickly, I tried to recover and find out who was there.

  But I couldn’t see anyone. It was just me. I felt it, though. Maybe I should give Jack the rest of the night off.

  I didn’t go to Tyler and Caitlyn’s graves… I couldn’t. They were right there, but I couldn’t look. Five feet away… Not even a glance… But I could feel them; I thought I could sense their presence, and I couldn’t bear it, the weight of the lives not lived, the love never given, the smiles never seen… not even Jack could help me.

  Then I heard the footsteps. Someone was here; someone was following me. I couldn’t move, but I could hear them coming. Then I saw the flashlight. It was moving back and forth over the headstones two aisles away. Stop, start, swing left to right. I tried to get to my feet, tried to balance so I could hide, but I just fell over again. The flashlight came my way. I tried to lie as still as possible.

  I even stopped breathing. Then I felt wetness on my arm. Jack was spilling out onto my coat, dammit. I reacted quickly to keep Jack from completely emptying out all o
ver the ground and me. I needed him. Then the flashlight was on me.

  “Sam? Is that you? Sam Shepard? It’s Pastor Paul.”

  What was Pastor Paul doing out here at this time of night? What was I going to say to him? Was I going to stand here, staggering, and explain why I was here? And then add the gripping story of why I was drunk out of my mind?

  Not likely. And then he was in front of me.

  “Sam, my word! Are you okay? Here, let me help you up.”

  I was laying flat on my back, drunk, with an open, half-spilled bottle of

  Jack Daniels in my hand and reeking of the alcohol. What must have been going through his mind? I could only imagine. But as I took his outstretched hand, all I could feel was concern. I looked into his eyes, and all I could see was empathy and worry. I was finally able to get to my feet and balance myself on some poor soul’s headstone.

  “Sam, are you alright? What is going on? I haven’t seen you since…”

  His voice trailed off, and he looked away. “Since Sandy and the kids.”

  I looked directly into his eyes, and I couldn’t hide the pain.

  “Sam, if you are here searching for something, searching for someone, for an answer… God has those answers.”

  “Pastor, I…” I stammered, but just couldn’t get the words out. “I really don’t think that I am the kind of person God wants around, and I don’t think He has what I am looking for.”

  “God is always with you, always there, whether you can see it or not. The things you have been through are too painful to endure alone, without the comfort of the Lord.”