“You know, you were a smart kid. I thought you could tell the difference between your mom’s body and a wax figure. Cost a pretty penny.”

“Just … shut up until we get home.”

A gentle ring sounded from his father’s pocket. King shot him a curious glance. “Thought you were hard up for money.”

Peter smiled. “Did I say that?” He answered the phone. “Hey.” He looked at King while he listened. “We’re almost there. No, not yet. He’s okay. Shaken. Yup. Okay. Love you, too, Babushka.”

King’s eyes were wide and his foot had fallen off the gas pedal. Babushka. He hadn’t heard the word in ten years and its use—a pet name for his mother—came slamming back into his mind. He grew serious, with murderous intent in his eyes. “That’s not funny.”

His father held out the phone. “You can ring her back if you want, but I think seeing her in person would—”

King yanked the wheel, turning onto Oak Lane, and hit the gas. Twin streaks of black rubber lanced out from the back tires as the car shot down the street. A second set of streaks squealed onto the pavement as, fifteen seconds later, King hit the brakes. He slammed the car into park in the middle of the street, flung himself from the car, and ran for the front door.

King twisted the doorknob and put his shoulder into the door like he was raiding a terrorist training camp. He scoured the living room and found it empty. Circling through the dining room, he entered the kitchen, where his mother spent most of her time either cooking or sitting in the breakfast nook, looking out at the backyard trees and her bird feeders.

The kitchen was empty. Feeling a growing anger at his father for perpetrating such a sick joke, but clinging to desperate hope, he opened the fridge. A full pitcher of lemonade, swirling with pulp, rested on the top shelf. King stared at the amber liquid and just as he started wondering if his father had come here earlier and made it himself, a gentle feminine voice broke his heart.

“Sorry to cause you so much pain, Jack—”

King turned and faced his mother, his legs weak, his mouth hanging open.

“But it had to be convincing.”

* * *

A TALL GLASS of lemonade sat untouched in front of King. He sat at the small breakfast nook table with his returned father and still living mother, listening to an unbelievable tale. But what struck him more than their story was their affection. It was as though his father had never left. Their hands remained entwined the entire time. Their eyes glowed with love for each other. King had entered the Twilight Zone, and like William Shatner, wanted to throw open a door and shoot something. Instead, he picked up his perspiring glass and took a long swallow of lemonade. He placed the glass on the table and looked at his parents. They weren’t decrepitly old, but their age showed, which made their story so much harder to believe.