Museum of Old Beliefs by I. Peter Lavan (classic books for 7th graders .TXT) 📕

nod.

He covered himself with his coat. “Are you the one who’s going to show me around?” Peter uneasily asked, one, to cover his confusion and another, he was desperate to ensure they had only two legs.

“No PP I’m here…”

“The names not PP I’m…”
“I know who and what you are!” It was the stern voice of his mother. It softened, “I will point you in the right direction, it will be Dr Trudeau who will look after you. D
Don’t want you going the wrong way and meeting all the wrong people, do we… PP?”

Peter stopped himself biting, wasn’t sure that whatever was across the desk wouldn’t bite back and the moment was so surreal he couldn’t trust anything. “It’s not the…”

“Drugs no, this is real, this is you living in the present.”

“Do you…”

“Know everything? Yes, it’s all filed away.”

“Do you…”

“Not always. Did your daughter catch all this reiteration off you? Don’t answer that, it’s not needed for your file.”

“I have…”

“A file? Everyone has a file.”

He was getting upset, about what, he didn’t know, he snapped. “Can I…”

“Bloody well finish off what you started? If you want. Don’t see the point though, haven’t all the time in the world. Well you haven’t…”

The sentence stopped him. Stopped him, then ebbed away all the built up negative energy. “What do you…” he could see they were going to say something, then stopped. “…mean?”

“Everything finishes at sometime, needs to end.”

Something stopped Peter pushing this, and that was what the next answer could be. “Not?”

“The drugs, no. This is a unique experience that will never occur in your life again, relax, go with it.”

“Won’t kill me then?” He was sure whoever they were just shook their head at his incredulity, well as much as one can without much of a neck.

“Through that door, across the courtyard to the door in the left-hand corner, Dr Trudeau will be there.”
Peter headed towards the door that had been pointed at, he halted for half-a-second. “Do you know…”

“I’m weird? Not to me I’m not, I’m normal, always been this way. Now you…” For once they didn’t finish the sentence.
“Bast”

“I assure you I’m not,” followed him as he went through the door.


There were a lot of people in the courtyard. Peter was surprised most of them were old; there were very few young people. The area was large and open to the elements. There was a wooden covered walkway that surrounded the courtyard, the centre was grassed with what looked like fruit trees scattered here and there. Some people looked to be moving with purpose, others just milled about, sat under trees, stared into space. he heard a baby cry out from somewhere; where, he couldn’t tell. He set off across the grass towards where he’d been told Sabine would be. As he reached the door, a very emancipated sandy haired boy came out, Peter move to one side out of his way, tension rose. So it was with some trepidation he knocked on the door. The door opened with the force of the knock, he stuck his head into the room, two large inlayed desks were in the centre and very little else, no pictures or paintings, no cabinets or any sign of papers or computers, just two large desks and two large chairs. He was about to leave when he saw a door opening diametrically opposite from where he was standing. At first he thought it was a man who entered, the person had the walk and body of a man, then before Peter could blink, the person changed. They reached up to the back of their head and shook down a mass of long, wavy blond hair. It was Sabine.


8
Book is now snipped to halfway through the Museum, to give a sense of what happens inside. The intent is to flip the reader’s perception to one of more empathy for Peter. (Bob had appeared earlier).

“So there’s always been a Father Christmas?”
Sabine smiled, she was back in the long black dress and white blouse. “How does it feel knowing that he’s in all of us?”
“The girl in the travel agent.”
“Exactly, Father Christmas was always there, you just suppressed him.
“Bugger me.”
“Prefer if I didn’t have to.”

They walked a little way, the thick blue carpet softening footfall.
As they sat down on a big burgundy over filled, buttoned leather Chaise, Peter pondered for a moment. “Just think of all them opportunities missed, all them big grown up girls that could have come and sat on my Santa knee.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I don’t mean it really.”
“I know.” It could have been mother talking.

“Which door…” Sabine didn’t have time to finish, Bob came ricocheting down the corridor, arms and legs flaying. “FIRE FIRE, FIRE,” exploded extremely loudly off the not so pretty pink walls. Doors to rooms opened, saw it was Bob, then closed with a rhythm that would have done many a heavy metal drummer proud.
As Bob headed for Peter and Sabine, they stood in unison. Tripped on his shoelace and with the agility of a Walrus landing with only a half opened parachute, Bob sat Peter down with a head butt to the groin. If he'd dared to breath, Peter would have gasped. He leant forward and put his head into his hands. It was through tear splashed, fingers he watched Sabine pick up Bob and sit him down. Peter pressed the heels of his hands hard into his cheeks, desperately trying to give his brain something else to think about. As Sabine tied Bob’s shoelace, he attempted to push down the two lumps that had appeared in the side of his neck, an action he hoped would relieve some of the sickness.

“I think there’s a fire over by reception.” Sabine turned Bob towards where he’d come from.

With tears ebbing in his eyes, Peter, risked enough breath to say. “Why doesn’t he go to the toilet like everyone else?”

“His belief.”

It felt like an ice age and back before Peter could move again.

“Left I think,” Sabine announced, just that little too brightly for Peter.

“After Bob, why don’t we do it right?”

Sabine gave him a look as if to say, well, as if to say, something he didn’t want to hear.

“Left, you have too many beliefs left, you‘re out of balance.” She linked his arm. “Come on you can’t just have right-hand side beliefs all the time.”

With the perfect petulance of a perturbed five-year old, he muttered, “Ok.”

The doors were unlike any of the other doors, they were double doors, not like on the westerns, they were the double doors you push trolleys through, hospital doors.

As he pushed through the door, Peter became one with the room. The sensation that he was the room and everything in the room was still disturbing, however repetition brought familiarity. The room was dimly lit not like any of the others. He breathed in sharply when he saw the sandy haired boy from the courtyard, he turned to Sabine, she nodded, he let himself drift, until once again, he became one.

Through a radiant myriad of bulbs and switches, an intense round red light flashed, synchronising a sound to a rhythm of life. The frail body had just one intrusive tube, a feed for relief. His father is slumped in a sterile hard blue plastic chair; head resting on the white starched stiff sheets of the bed is no longer holding his son’s hand. Nine months of worry, four days of exhaustion had momentarily broken the bond between them, the connection of father to son. The blue with yellow bear curtain that contains their world moved, disturbing the warm dry air. Stirring for one second, the father, if he’d come fully awake would have seen the curtain waft against the crescent of electronics around his son’s head and the ghostly blue brain trace of the oscilloscope change. He’d have known something was happening.

The boy mumbled. He was scared, very scared from a ratcheted culmination of emotion since being diagnosed, he knew he was dying, he knew it was close. His mind was misty, frantically he tried to move, he couldn’t, he tried to call out, he couldn’t.

The peep increased, trace activity increased.

He needed his dad, he needed his dad to hold him, keep him safe, as he had done so many times before in his nine years of his life. Especially in the last three years, even more in the last nine months, he needed his dad, he needed his dad desperately.
He urgently tried to reach for his father’s safety, but nothing would respond, only panic and panic rose pitilessly.
Suddenly something cool touched his hand, the tension slowly…ebbed…away.

The peep slowed… the trace decreased.

“Hello sweetheart.”
He knew the voice, it was a voice he hadn’t heard for three years, and through mind miasma he searched for her face. Not the pale face of when he’d last seen her. He searched for the face of her laughing, her face of Christmas tears, the special smiley face she saved for him and dad. Through the fog he called for her, desperate not to be alone, not now, not at this time.
“Mum, mum I can’t see you!” His words were searching.

The peep steadied, trace activity increased.

“Just wait sweetheart, it won’t be long.”
The boy searched, at first there was only a shadow, then a shape and finally his mum came to him. She wasn’t dressed as she normally was, but it was his mum and she was here, calming him, cooling his brow, taking some of the pain.
“I’ve missed you mum,” deep down, he wept.

The peep slowed, trace activity steadied.

“And I have missed you, more then I could ever explain.”
The boy sensed his mum, he felt her love for him, encapsulate him, holding him, something he’d missed for the last three years. Taking more of the pain away, comforting.
Suddenly something lurched inside.
“Mum!”

The peep increased, trace activity increased.

Her touch eased the physical pain, yet another pain rose, a pain only his mother could answer.
“Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me and dad?”
“I didn’t want to… I stayed as long as I could.”
She was calm, slow and understanding.
“My only comfort was you had your dad and eventually Fran. I knew the strength of his love would carry you through what happened, as I knew you would be the support he needed when I’d gone.”
“Mum I’m ill.”

The peep stayed even, the trace decreased.

“I know darling, that’s why I’m here. I know, I’ve watched, I’ve been waiting ‘till now, I couldn’t help before.”
“Why not before?”
She didn’t answer question.
“Your dad didn’t need me until now. Wasn’t he great,” she deflected. “When they told you about the cancer. When he would clean you up when you were sick, the trip to Disney land, shaving his hair when you lost yours, he had all the years of love he was going to lose, to fit into these last months.”
“Mum, I don’t want to die.”

The peeps increased, the trace steady.

“No one does sweetheart, no one does.”
“I hurt mum!”
“Hush, it’ll soon be gone...”
“ I’m frightened, mum.”
She watched her son’s agony, with the helpless pain only a parent can feel; she needed him quiet for what lay