Mezzanine

| 52 |

The four of us exchanged glances as we sat in silence, too stunned to say anything as electricity finally coursed through the room. Static growled across the television screen, like it was picking up exactly where it left off last night when the lights went out.

"I...I guess we should watch that tape now," Carter finally spoke up.

"Right," Damien said. Slowly, he got up and went over to the television, kneeling in front of the VCR.

My skin prickled as my nerves fired with apprehension. I'd been so anxious to see what was on this tape, but now that I was seconds away from watching it, I was...afraid. Damien said our father made it. He made it for us.

He was a figure that was supposed to be so important in my life, and yet I didn't know anything about the man. For some reason, the idea of learning about him now—seeing him in a recording—freaked me out.

"Okay, here we go." Damien's eyes met mine as he pushed play on the VCR, and I got the feeling he understood how nervous this would make me. He scooted back and sat next to me on the floor. Even though he remained silent and I was still angry at him about everything he'd put me and my mom through, for some reason, having him sit with me made me feel better. I wasn't alone.

The roar of static continued for another second before the speakers went silent. A grainy image of a man sitting at a table, shown only from the neck down, replaced the white noise. An analog clock hung from the wall behind him, its hands frozen on eleven thirty. Next to it was a closed door, but other than that, the room was bare. Gray paint peeled and chipped from the wooden walls.

"Is it recording?" the deep, gravely voice of an old man asked.

"Yes," a voice that sounded like it was coming from a younger man—maybe even a teenager—responded. "Sorry, one second."

Rustling filled the speakers, and the camera angle shifted dizzyingly, flashing to the ceiling and then the top of the wooden table before it finally focused on the face of the man. His hair was wispy and gray, and his skin was weathered with wrinkles and stress, like someone who had grown old before they should have. Time hadn't been kind to him.

"Are you ready?" the old man asked.

"Yeah," the younger voice responded from behind the camera. He cleared his throat. "Okay, right. The date is October 22nd, 2001. I'm conducting this interview today at the request of my...of Robert. Robert Renson."

"Continue," the man on the screen said.

"Robert," the man behind the camera began, "is it true you've never spoken on record about your brother, George Renson, or the fire that took place at his factory in 1978?"

The old man, Robert—my grandfather—nodded. "I don't know how much time I have left, and..." He made direct eye contact with the camera, staring through it like he was looking directly at me. Like he was seeing me.

"You understand why I'm doing this, right?" Robert asked.

My heart pounded against my ribs, and I held my breath. I felt like I was falling through a tunnel, everything around me disappearing into darkness except the screen.

The younger man didn't respond, but the camera bobbed like he was holding it and nodding.

"I can't let this information die with me," Robert continued. "I don't know how to explain it other than a feeling in my gut." A pause. "You'll need this someday."

The camera shifted, heavy breathing coming from behind it like the interviewer was nervous. "Robert, what can you tell me about George? What was your relationship with him like?"