The Phantom of Scranton Hill

12

As the weekend drew nearer, Justine grew increasingly anxious to see her father. Once a week, Justine had gone to the hospital to see how her mother was healing, but not once had she been to the asylum. And when Saturday arrived, she was more than ready.

"It's not lying if you don't tell the entire truth," Justine remembered their lawyer saying. "Don't show them weakness. They feed on fear." Just saying those two sentences scared the bejesus out of her, but she saw how corrupt the Justice System was. She knew what she saw, knew the history and reason behind it, but did as told and refrained from sharing it with the court over fear that it would endanger her, too.

The large wrought iron gates of Scranton Hill Asylum towered over the tallest of trees and shortest of skyscrapers. Slightly intimidated, Justine inhaled deeply and paused before approaching the buff security guards.

"Justine Powers here to see Jonathan Powers. I'm his daughter," Justine said in such a bold, confident voice that they bowed to her. Actually bowed! She stared at them for a few seconds as if waiting for them to attack, but they never did. In fact, they didn't speak a word to her but led her past the entrance and through the corridors toward what she guessed was a visiting room. As she passed inmates locked behind brick walls and metal doors, she received strange looks as if to say, "You're that lunatic's daughter?"

The so-called visiting room's interior was one hundred percent steel. Steel walls, steel floors, steel ceiling. As she stood in the center of the room, the guards quickly shut the steel door, a single sliding opening in the top half with bars behind it.

Once Justine turned around, she was able to digest her surroundings. There were no windows or glass, only a single wooden table and two opposing iron chairs as if someone was being interrogated on some crime television show. Her father sat in the chair farthest from the door, facing her. She took the other, but bottom instantly sore as soon as she sat down.

Neither of them said a word for a while, five straight minutes of complete and utter silence. And she hated this kind of silence. It was neither comfortable nor awkward. It was indifferent, and she didn't know what to say or what to do. Then she remembered her recurrent memories.

"Dad?" Justine began and didn't continue until she gathered his full and undivided attention. "Tell me about grandma. What happened to her?" She cocked her head to the side, ready to listen.

"Sweetheart, you know she lives on the West Coast with your grandpa."

"No, dad. Your mom. What happened to her? Was it her fault?" Her voice became quiet and she refused to make eye contact. "Was it mine?"

Her father sighed and muttered, "I knew this day would come. Sooner or later, I knew it would come." He took a deep breath, but his mouth stayed shut, his lips tightened in a thin line.

She cut him off immediately. "And don't you dare try to tell me it's 'too hard to understand' or it's simply 'not a good time'," Justine commanded, using air quotes around the phrases. Every time it was brought up, Justine was rushed out of the room or the topic was quickly put to rest.

He analyzed her skeptically. "Why do you ask?"

The truth? She was curious as to why she was daydreaming about it and its relevance to herself right now, why it was somehow reappearing. But she couldn't tell that to her father. Not yet. He was already suspicious. He already knew enough. So she did what any teenager did to avoid answering a question. She shrugged and said blankly, "I don't know."

Justine's father merely nodded in understanding. "I will tell you what I know. Is that good enough?" She shook her head vigorously and got ready for story time. "Ever since I married your mother and we had you, your grandmother's mind began to decay, I shall say." He gulped and inhaled, continuing his story shortly after. "Your grandmother had demons that would not go away. She would take medication prescribed by her doctor for her delusions, but it never helped, and she denied needing a psychologist." He shook his head and closed his eyes as if imagining it first hand. " She would pretend that she was okay and sane, but we all knew that she was suffering on the inside. Then, finally, she had enough."