Second Chance

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

June 1982

He jumped out of his bed, landing a few feet away. He looked around to see if anyone else was in his room, he was alone. He had an uneasy feeling, felt like someone, or something, was inside his mind or was occupying his soul.

Micah Vaughn was seventeen, an athlete with no delusions. He knew that his career in soccer would not go beyond the next level – community college for the next two years then perhaps onto a four-year school – and was okay with it. He knew his future lay with computers, something his father and those that worked with him at the bank.

“Computers are the future, Micah,” the bank’s Vice President of Information told him two years ago. The teen took it to heart, looked at colleges that offered majors in computers, either Computer Science or Information Technology. He found several in New York and his grades were good enough, but unfortunately, his finances weren’t. He and his parents sat down and decided that he should enter a two-year school, graduate and hope that his soccer play and/or his grades would garner a scholarship.

He knew he heard a voice, clear as day. He knew someone was with him, like another soul. The uneasiness returned, greater than originally. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine. From his early Catholic school Religion classes Micah knew that hearing voices was a sign of possession, or at the least, a demon was attempting to enjoy his soul. He thought of going for his rosary, a gift from his maternal grandfather, but remembered a few other stories the nuns told. He relaxed when he remembered that saints and guardian angels could talk, too, to a person, to guide them.

He returned to his bed and relaxed further. He recalled what his paternal grandmother told him, along with his sisters and several cousins, the tale about a warrior with two spirits. “He did great things,” was the last line of the tale. He smiled and looked up at the ceiling. He contemplated about returning to sleep but thought better of it. He saw the sun was up, though barely, the perfect time for him to get out of the house. He rolled over, grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and walked to his dresser. Pulling out a pair of running shorts and t-shirt, his mind wandered back to the voice.

“Don’t be so sure,” it said. He sat on the edge of the bed and thought.

It was familiar, he thought. He knew the voice, but couldn’t think of where or when he heard it before. He shook his head and tied his sneakers. Micah had a run to do, four miles through the streets of Schenectady and into Central Park. The run would do him some good.

He walked down the stairs from his third floor bedroom and bathroom to the main floor, trying not to wake his sisters and parents. At the foot of the stairs, the family dog Sean, a Labrador retriever/Irish setter mix, met him. Noticing the back door closed, Micah opened it, allowing the large, black-furred dog to run out, the backyard fenced in.

He grabbed a small plastic bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator and downed it quickly. Refreshed and energized, Micah left the house and walked quickly up the street, stretching his back and arms simultaneously. When he reached the top, he stretched his thighs, groin, and calves. He looked up the street, up Bradley Boulevard and began the four-mile trip.

It was not yet 6 AM, the best time for him to run. There was no one else on the sidewalk. He saw no one else running. He saw only a few cars, believing they were bringing people to work at the market or at the bakery one the other side of the park. He reached the top of the hill and smiled.

He saw the sun was climbing in the east, casting its rays across the pine and maple trees. The sparse, low-hanging clouds were a light orange, the color of the jersey he wore in February while playing indoors in St. Petersburg. A soft breeze was coming from his right, from the south. On it, he could smell rain. His smile waned: Antoinette was going to be disappointed.

The voice returned, “No she won’t.”

Micah wanted to stop, wanted to figure out what was going on in his mind, but he sensed he should keep running, that the voice would leave him alone for a while. He crossed the street and headed down into the park.

The city had fixed the sidewalk that led down into the park, a good thing. It allowed Micah’s mind to wander and not have to be alert to holes and loose cement. When he ran distance on the track at Linton High School, he would talk to himself, discuss upcoming events or go over notes for tests he had in his head. When he would do roadwork alone, he would talk to himself, to keep himself from being bored and stop running.

She won’t be disappointed, he said. It was more of a question than a statement. Antoinette wouldn’t mind a little rain on the day of the prom, he wondered, hoping for the voice or whatever it was would answer. When he crossed into the park and onto the old tram road that circled Iroquois Lake he answered himself.

She loves listening to the rain, he reminded himself. The first month of their relationship, before they began their junior years, she confessed to him as they sat in a pizzeria.

“The sound of the summer rain relaxes me,” she told him. “It allows me to forget any troubles I have.”

He smiled as he approached a couple out for a walk, the woman holding a leashed dog. The man nodded at Micah: He returned a nod.

That’s what the voice meant, Micah thought. She’ll be okay if it rains.

He approached the Duck Pond and decided to run the long way, forget the road that intersected the pond and the lake. He would run three loops of the Long Run, instead of six times around just the lake.

Why am I so anxious? He asked. It’s not the dream that has me nervous. It can’t be the dream, can’t be the voice. It has to be something else. I have too much anxiety about school. Graduation is in a few weeks. I’ll no longer be a big fish in a small pond. It has to be. That will explain the dream.

What if that’s not the reason? The reason could be that I’m afraid of not making her night special. I could ruin it by being nervous, by being an idiot towards her friends. I could make a comment that would upset her. I could go too far with her afterwards.

His heart was pounding, not from the run, but from the self-induced anxiety. She was his first love, he knew, she knew, the families knew it. He didn’t want to screw it up, end their special relationship on her special night. He quickened his pace in an effort to stop over-thinking.

His quick burst had him pass several other runners. He could hear them mumble obscenities as he passed, but paid no attention. Micah had an agenda, and that was to get himself calm. He didn’t need to stop and talk to others, have to explain his increased speed, apologize for making them look slow. No, he had something important to do.

You won’t do screw it up, Micah told himself. You’ll be good, behave, and listen to her. You know better than that. You’ve not pressed against her boundaries yet, and tonight won’t be any different. You two respect and love each other.

He passed an elderly couple sitting on a bench feeding ducks. He smiled and slowed running back at his original speed. He sighed heavily and realized that he was being ridiculous; there was no need to worry. They were going to have a good time and she was going to remember this evening for the rest of her life. He would, too.

Micah dispatched the rest of his run without further thought of the voice or dream. He was relaxed and enjoying the run. He exited after the third lap and headed back up the road. He was grateful again to the city for replacing the sidewalk.

When he reached the top of Monument Hill, he stopped and ran in place. He shook out his arms and hands. He walked to a red maple tree and put his hands against it. He pushed lightly, extended his left leg back. He stretched out his calf and Achilles tendon. After a few moments, he repeated the action for his right leg. He stood straight and took several deep breaths, holding them for a moment before exhaling. He closed his eyes and took one last deep breath.

He cleansed his lungs and mind. He was no longer anxious about his life, about the impending prom. All the causes of nervousness had left him. He opened his eyes and headed home. He was sure his father was up and out of the house by now, off to one of his brothers’ houses to help with fixing a car or off to one of his race buddies’ garage to get a car ready for the evening’s event at Fonda Speedway.

He walked the three blocks home.



“How was the run brother dear?” a voice asked as he stood in front of the open refrigerator, not sure to have another bottle of juice or a can of soda before showering. Micah turned and saw his youngest sister.

Stephanie had their mother to thank for her looks. Pale skin, light brown hair, pale blue eyes like their mother, she was also short, standing barely five feet tall at 14-years-old. Their older sisters, Ewa and Veronica, were not much taller, standing only an inch taller than mother Johanna, who was five feet, three inches tall.

Micah smiled. “It was good.” He had decided against both the juice and soda. He walked to the sink, grabbed a glass, and poured himself cold water.

She did a double take as he walked. She squinted. “Did you do something with your hair?”

“No, why do you ask?”

She shook her head. She was mistaken. She thought there was something different about him. It wasn’t his looks, his hair, though for a moment she thought he looked older. She could have sworn his hair was shorter and had some gray in it. When he turned to look at her, she thought she saw a different person looking at her for a moment. Both things dissipated quickly, but it had unnerved her.

“It’s nothing. I’m not awake.” The latter statement was more for her sake and not his.

Micah finished his drink and placed the glass in the sink. “You okay Steph?”

She nodded, “Yes, just not awake.”

He shook his head and silently left the kitchen, his sister standing in the middle, watching him. He turned and headed up to his room. He needed a shower. He also needed to talk to the voice, the person that was sharing his mind or soul.

Who are you? He asked when he opened the door. I need to know. Are you going to hurt me? Are you here to possess me? What’s your plan for me?

There was no immediate answer, upsetting Micah. He removed his sneakers and tossed them close to his old oak desk. He took off his shirt and tossed it into the bathroom. He followed it. He stood in front of the small mirror and was about to ask the questions again.

“I’m not going to harm you,” it finally answered. “I’m not a demon or a saint. I’m not here to possess your soul.”

Micah took a few steps back. He thought for a moment that he saw another pair of eyes reflected back. They looked like his, but appeared to be older, tired. He looked back and saw only his one face and eyes staring back.

“Sorry about that,” the voice said.

Who are you?

“I can’t tell you, but I can tell you that I’m not here to harm you, hurt you.”

Are you my guardian angel?

“No, I’m not. I can tell you that I’m someone you know.”

Okay, are you someone from my past?

“Enough questions, please. I don’t know how to tell you who I am, or whether I should. I can tell you again, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Easiness came over the teenager. He sensed the presence, though still with him, had gone to sleep, left him alone. He shook his head and ran the shower’s hot water.