Chapter 1
1997
Elvis
When I was twelve, I used to think God spoke to me. I was convinced I had magical powers and that I could speak to the dead. No one believed me. My parents and sisters thought Juliana Erickson, a deceased ten year old girl, was just an imaginary friend. Back then, I had tons of friends. I didn’t need an imaginary friend, so why would I make one up?
I first saw Juliana sitting on an invisible stool in the corner of my room glowing like an angel, her emerald green eyes shining brightly in the dark. She was looking for a big brother, or so she said. Me, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with her. I already had four older sisters and didn’t want anymore. She started wailing like an annoying little girl, squeezing her doll tightly. Because I hated to see girls cry, I gave in and agreed to be her big brother. Finally, she stopped crying, but only after I lied. I really never wanted a little sister.
Day after day, the girl’s thoughts followed me around. She’d sneak inside my brain, telling me all about her life. My room used to be hers, she told me, “many many years ago.” She was only ten when she was viciously and cold-heartedly suffocated by her own mother. Her father stood by, watching his wife in the midst of her insanity hold a pillow over their only daughter’s face. Her mother was only responding to the commands in her head or so that’s what Juliana said. She was obeying “the one” and her husband was powerless to stop her. He feared she would do the same to him.
She’d talk to me in class, distracting me, getting me in all kinds of trouble with the teachers because I wasn’t paying attention. She’d talk and talk and talk until I felt as though I was about to lose my mind. The only way for me to control her was to draw and paint. I must have painted countless portraits of her.
At five years old, my Aunt Jeannie bought me my first acrylic paint set. Two years before that, I put on my first pair of hockey skates. I wasn’t supposed to be an artist; I was supposed to be a big time hockey player for the National Hockey League, preferably for the Boston Bruins. The dream of becoming a hockey star ended after my last concussion, which also cost me my college scholarship. The only thing I had left was art.
Spirits and ghosts invaded my room night after night. Spiderwebs covered my walls, but no one saw them but me. My room would turn so cold I could see my breath. A part of me thought that Juliana looked out for me, but another part of me realized she was evil like all the rest. Evil followed me wherever I went; there was no escaping it.
After losing my scholarship, I moved into the in-law apartment[1] that had been vacant since my Nana passed away a few years earlier. Juliana was still in the house, up in our old bedroom. The new pills I took helped keep her and the evil at bay. While things had quieted down over the past year since my near fatal encounter with a razor, ghosts still lurked within the house. Their shadows sometimes shone on my walls with an eerie chill in the air. My mind would buzz with whispers. Despite the medication, nothing was ever entirely quiet.
For the first nineteen years of my life, I was my dad’s golden boy, the boy who could do no wrong, the son he always wanted and got after four tries. Now, at twenty-two, I couldn’t do anything right. My hair was too long, I was too skinny, I bit my nails, I picked my fingers until they bled, and I talked to myself way too much. To make matters worse, my parents had accumulated a mound of hospital bills from various psychiatric institutions over the years. I should have died. I should have died so many times. The day I could no longer play hockey was the day my golden boy status died.
The pound on my door shook my room, causing me to mess up my most recent painting. Annoyed, I dropped my paintbrush and went to the door to find my monster of a father standing there with the dreaded box of tangled Christmas lights in his arms, that typical snarl of his on his face.
My parents made the most unusual couple. My mother was barely five foot two at around a hundred pounds while my dad was at least six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds. Unfortunately, I took after my mother, more on the petite side. At barely five foot eight, it was no wonder why I was constantly injured throughout my brief hockey career. While I was heavier and bulkier when I played hockey, most guys towered over me. Speed only got me so far in the end.
“Here,” he said, shoving the box into my arms. “Make yourself useful and hang these up. Just don’t fall and break your neck.” I believed my dad secretly hoped I’d fall and break my neck.
For as long as I could remember, my dad was always competitive and had to make sure our Christmas lights were up way before anyone else’s. He was in competition with our neighbor, the Kapinskys who rivaled the Griswolds. Only the day after Thanksgiving, my dad just couldn’t wait to get them up. Since he was afraid of heights and I wasn’t, he gave me the task of putting them up and making sure they looked perfect. Ever since I was twelve years old, I had been shoveling snow off the roof and cleaning the gutters.
In only my flannel pajama bottoms, t-shirt, and my favorite worn out red canvas sneakers, I went to work. On top of my head was a warm wooly hat, one my Nana crocheted for me years ago. I had a drawer full of handmade hats. At only forty degrees out, my arms shook as I attempted to unknot a string of lights, shivering on the front lawn. The wobbly and rusty ten foot ladder was probably as old as my parents. As I stood on the top step of the unsafe ladder, it tilted to the left, lifting off the ground. I breathed a sigh of relief as it plopped back into place. I had been up on this ladder dozens of times and it always did that.
Stretching my arms as far as I could, I stapled the string of lights to the far right side of the roof. As the ladder lifted off the ground again, this time I accidentally kicked it and it fell over, landing against a tree. So there I was, dangling from the gutter, the ground ten feet below.
I’m going to die, I thought, my fingers gripping the gutters tightly. I’m not in the mood to die today.
“Hang on,” a voice shouted. Looking down, I saw a boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, standing below.
“Put the ladder back up,” I said in a panic, my fingers cold and shaking. “Quick. Hurry! I’m gonna fall! Come on! Hurry!”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay. Hang on.”
My fingers, unable to hold me, finally gave way. Preparing for the worst, I was pleasantly surprised when I landed in the boy’s arms and on his lap. “Holy shit,” I said. “Good catch. That was awesome.”
“Yeah, awesome,” he winced.
Wrecking my brain, I tried to figure out why this boy looked so familiar. His black and white track pants and jacket matched his winter hat and gloves. He was a good-looking boy with sparkling hazel eyes. He had two dimples with a nice but shy smile. After a few seconds, I realized how I knew him. He was one of those annoying runners, the type who’d run through the rain and snow.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, still sitting on his lap.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied. “You?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “I’ve seen you around. What’s your name?”
“Elie,” he said. “Elie Reznik. Not Eli, but Elle-y”
“Elle-y,” I said, mimicking Elle-y. “Like Elie Wiesel. You know, the author who wrote Night.”
“Yes, I know who he is,” he said with a slight annoyance in his voice.
“Is it short for Eliezer?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Eliezer’s a cool name,” I said.
“What’s your name?” Elie asked me.
“Elvis,” I answered. “Elvis Marchand.”
“Your name’s Elvis?” he chuckled.
“Yes. My dad’s this crazy Elvis freak,” I explained. “He always wanted a son and he always wanted to name him Elvis. My middle name is Aaron, too, just like the real Elvis. I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”
Standing up, I extended my hand, helping Elie up to his feet. Dark hair curled around the rim of his hat. I wasn’t the type who typically experienced butterflies in my stomach, but I swore I did at that moment.
“You like the Velvet Underground?” he asked, pointing to my black t-shirt. Confused, I’d forgotten what t-shirt I was wearing.
“Oh yeah,” I said, looking down at my shirt. “You’ve heard of them?”
“Yeah, they’re my favorite band,” he said. “I love Lou Reed.”
This Elie kid didn’t seem like the Velvet Underground type to me. When I thought of the Velvet Underground, I thought of the artsy, bohemian type that smoked pot, contemplating the absurdity of life with Andy Warhol posters plastered all over their walls.
“That’s cool. So, do you live around here? I see you running all the time.”
“I live down the street,” he said. Elie was tall and slender, yet toned. He had a runner’s body.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “Can I buy you a drink or something?”
“I’m seventeen, but thanks.”
“How about something else?”
“No, thanks. I have to go. I have to get home. I’d stay away from ladders if I were you, especially that one. It looks kind of unsafe.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “Thanks for your help. I’ll see you around I guess.”
“Yeah, see you around.”
As he went to leave, I re-focused my attention on these stupid lights, pushing the ladder against the house. Any minute I was about to risk my life again. As if to sense my ineptitude, Elie was back within seconds.
“I can help you with those,” he said. “I’ll hold the ladder for you...maybe catch you again if you fall.” He half-smiled in that shy way of his.
“I thought you had to go home,” I said.
“I do, but it’s okay,” he said. “I can stick around for a little while.”
Elie helped me hang up every single one of the lights my dad handed me earlier that day. By the time we completely finished, it was close to dark.
“I love Christmas,” he said, admiring the multi-colored lights around the front of the house. “I always wanted a Christmas tree, to wake up on Christmas morning with a mound of presents underneath it. Instead, I get eight days of meaningless crap.”
“You can come to my house on Christmas morning if you want,” I said. “Although my dad may have issues with a Jew in our house on Christmas.”
Amused with myself, I chuckled while Elie remained expressionless, almost stoic. I had a habit of running my mouth, often speaking without thinking.
“I gotta go,” he said uneasily, jogging away. “My mom’s going to kill me. I’m late. Bye, Elvis. Nice meeting you.”
In the dark, I watched Elie run down his driveway, eventually disappearing inside his house. I wondered if I’d ever talk to him again.
