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Haunted
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I became a physician’s assistant at age ten. Twice a week my dad would pick me up after school and make home visits. Mother said it was inappropriate. Dad said I could learn a lot. I felt very important carrying his medical case. I knew the name of every instrument.
My dad was much beloved and highly regarded. I was intrigued by a boy two years older than me who was my dad’s patient. His name was Jeremy. He was tall for his age but very thin. His pallor, light skin, strands of white hair gave him an otherworldly aura. I asked him what was wrong with him. He said an immune sickness. Being a physician’s assistant, I nodded knowingly. He had little to say so I regaled him with my love of competitive sports, and what ribbons I got in rugby, cricket, soccer, and track. I was astonished as I noticed his tears. “What’s wrong with you? Did I do something bad?” He shook his head. “I must go inside. I’m very tired.” I was taken aback. I told myself I shouldn’t have shown off. I declined to go with Dad on his next visit. I was awakened late one night by a loud moaning sound. I thought it might be a wounded animal. I opened my door. A light was on in the living room. Heart thumping in my chest, I tiptoed to the entrance and stopped, transfixed. My father in his armchair, tears streaming down his face, hands pushing against his knees, rocking back and forth, wailing “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him! Their only child! I couldn’t save him!” Mother standing next to him, awkwardly touching his shoulder, patting his head. “You did your best. You did all you could. Come to bed. You need to sleep. So do I.” I couldn’t restrain myself. I burst into the room, climbing onto his lap, putting my arms around him. “Daddy, what happened? Who was it? Who couldn’t you save?” Mother got mad. “See what you’ve done. I’m going to bed.” “Is it Jeremy? Tell me Daddy, is it Jeremy?” My father kissed my head and whispered, “Yes son, it is Jeremy. We can talk tomorrow. Come, I’ll tuck you into your bed.” I couldn’t sleep. I was sure his ghost was in the room. I thought I heard him scuffling under my bed. I tried talking to him. No response. Only sheer exhaustion gave me sleep. This went on for several nights. I had to tell my dad about the haunting. He asked me why Jeremy would do this to me. I confessed how I showed off and made him cry. Dad hugged me. “I should have told you what Jeremy said to me. He cried because he so wanted to be like you, and he was scared to tell you this.” That night I got into bed. I switched off the light. Again I heard him under my bed. I told him about my talk with Dad. “I’m not scared anymore. You can stay here whenever you want.” That night was the last visitation. |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rodney J. Shapiro was born and raised in South Africa. He worked as a journalist and published several short stories, poetry, and articles. He taught English Literature as a part-time teacher but decided on psychology as a career. He graduated from the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, with a PhD in 1965. He immigrated to the USA in 1966. His professional career included faculty positions as Associate Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Rochester, NY, and Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco. His interests have included traveling, amateur photography, a Classics book club, telling jokes, jogging with his dog, reliving his 11th (last) marathon. His primary reverence is inspiration for writing poetry and fiction.
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University.
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Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to the Vistas & Byways volunteer staff.
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