Henry Franks Read Online Free

that’s something, at least,” Dr. Saville said. “Anything else?”
    â€œShe died this time.”

four

    From where Henry lay on his bed, he watched the sunlight cast shadows on the wall. It was already hot, despite central air and the ceiling fan, and even in boxers and a T-shirt, he’d woken up drenched in sweat. Scars like railroad tracks leading nowhere circled around his legs and itched in the heat.
    Out his window he had a view of a corner of Justine’s front yard where her younger brother was bouncing a ball against their house. Justine was nowhere to be seen. He closed the blinds, dry-swallowed his pills, and walked downstairs in the empty house. A bowl sat on the table next to a box of cereal, waiting for him, but his father had long since left for work. A piece of paper fluttered to the ground when he pulled his chair out.
    Henry , he read as he poured the milk, Sorry about the card .
    From the street, a car blew its horn, and Henry walked to the front door to look outside. A pickup truck, overloaded with cheerleaders, sat in front of Justine’s house. As he watched, she jumped into the back and then they were gone. Her brother continued bouncing his ball as Henry went back to breakfast.

    He pulled the card out of his backpack and leaned it against the base of his monitor. One year. He rested the tip of his finger on one of the pushpins, staring at the patchwork flesh of his hand. The more he stared at it, the stranger it looked. The scar interrupted the lines on his palm, no longer telling any future he could imagine. Only the past interested him anymore. His own past. Even his name seemed to weigh strangely on him and the more he repeated it to himself, the less it seemed like a real word at all.
    The scrapbook lay where he’d left it, open to the picture of his mother, but no matter how long he studied her face, he couldn’t remember her; it was as if a stranger held his hand. Even his own face was alien to him, and he’d spent hours one night looking at his reflection trying to remember himself. He’d cried himself to sleep that night, face buried in the pillow, afraid his father would hear his sobs.
    Beneath the picture, his father had written Mommy, Daddy, Henry with a ballpoint pen. The pages were falling out of the book due to how often he flipped through it; the flimsy photo album was in danger of falling apart completely. Henry ran his finger over the words but couldn’t feel a thing, and suddenly realized he didn’t even know his mother’s name.
    He took the stairs two at a time, jumping down them and calling for his father. “Dad!” echoed through the empty house. Where the hallway to the master bedroom began, Henry stopped. A wooden door stood at the end of the short hallway, a deadbolt lock above the knob. Henry took a deep breath, stepped forward, and knocked.
    The house was silent save for the constant hum of the air-conditioner.
    His hand rested on the doorknob; he closed his eyes as he tried to open it and failed.

    Hours later, when he heard his father return home, Henry started downstairs. The question of his mother’s name was on the tip of his tongue but would remain unasked. When his father’s voice drifted up the stairs, Henry stopped in the shadows halfway down, trying to see the person his father was talking to.
    â€œC6, C7,” his father said while emptying three bags of fast food out on the table. “Carbamazepine and phenobarbitol; maybe divalproex. C6, C7. So close, sweetheart, almost there, I promise.” But as far as Henry could see, there was no one else in the room.
    Dr. Franks piled the hamburgers up on the counter, then filled one bag back up and started walking to the dining room with it, grabbing a handful of ketchup packets on the way.
    Henry watched, barely able to breathe, as his father placed the burgers on the table.
    â€œDinner,” his father said, calling up to him.
    He tiptoed