"When We First DECEIVE"

PROLOGUE

Henry strained to draw in each breath, wondering if it would be the one that would sound his death rattle. He had all but given up hope. But he refused to release his grip on the last strand of the lifeline that kept him alive, as frayed and thin as it was. He must get word to Elizabeth. He had something important he had to tell her. If he could only feel the warmth of her hand in his, one more time. The labor necessary to force‑fill his lungs with oxygen, and to hang on to the slightest hope of ever seeing her again, if only for a moment, or if only in his nightly dreams, was worth every miserable tad bit of effort he could exert. On that day long ago when he met Elizabeth, she had become his will to live.

           He pulled the plastic mask, placed it over his nose and mouth, and stretched the elastic band over his head to hold it in place. He turned the handle counterclockwise on the top of the tank and freed the canned oxygen. The pain shot through his hand like electric shocks; but rather than call in the nurse, he had preferred to do it himself. He inhaled deeply for a couple of minutes. His gasping ceased, giving him more time to think about his loneliness. At his bedside his only companion was a scratch pad of paper where he penned his heart’s feelings, and retrieved remnants from his withered mind, which for five decades had carried the burden of retaining the secrets of the two deceitful lives he had been living. Only he knew his real surname was Manchester. He removed the mask and began to feel sorry for himself.

From his raised hospital bed, Henry put on his eyeglasses and stared out of the window at the fishing pond nestled in a meadow next to the hospital. Sparse clouds passed under the sun and for one glorious moment the pond's water changed from choked blue‑green algae to a shiny bowl of liquid silver. The small pool was a mere pittance in contrast to the expanse of landscaped lagoons and marble sculptures that graced his family's property in the county of Somerset, back in England. He wondered if, after years of his intentional neglect, the Manchester pools now had more in common with this lowly fishing hole.

As it had so often in the recent past, Henry's mind carried him back to his homeland and his childhood, to a time when he stood to inherit a vast estate and a royal title — instead, he had made a willful decision to leave the royal family and give up his entitlement. He had demanded a much simpler life, something closer to a natural pond than a lustrous silver‑plated existence. He could not have foretold the treachery that would attach itself to his innocent desires. The powder‑blue sky marbled by stretched clouds was very unlike the dismal day many years earlier when the debacle of his first death was published.

           Lakes filled with silver, indeed. Henry, or Alfred, or whoever you fancy yourself to be this morning — what a load of rubbish. It appears a bloody bit late now to mourn the end of a lifestyle you gladly abandoned as a young man. Impatiently, he tore his gaze from the view. His mind continued to wander. I could have had anything I wanted. Could have had? Am I certifiably unbalanced? Here I am babbling again. Well, why not? I speak drivel every day. Verbose, long‑winded, meaningless prattle. From my tainted childhood, I spoke the Queen's English, East London Cockney, and French, fluently. And I could fool the best of them with my impersonations of American English and Canadian dialects. My Irish well spoken, even eloquent, as if I were born and raised in the middle of Dublin itself. A slip of the tongue now and then, certainly, but today I find myself speaking gibberish, bedded in a stark whitewashed room, with a commoner changing my diapers four times a day.

It is all balderdash, you damned old fool. You stately turncoat. Your legacy and your dignity are as muddled as your brain. Blessed Mother, I fear I have truly gone mad. Is it conceivable that the opinions of the majority are true, that the masses have properly diagnosed my affliction? But, by God, it simply cannot be. I have feared for my sanity for some time now, and if derangement has not taken control by this time, I surmise I still must take responsibility for my actions. Why, hell, if I walked in here and heard me carrying on like this, I would probably join in with all the slandermongering of this former nobleman.

Lying here with this aged and seasoned body, I would never present the outward appearance of having ever possessed anything of value. But some items do remain — priceless antiques now. Yet they are mere drops in a rain pail compared to the riches I could have had. But why do I lament their loss now, now that it is too late? Especially when I know I would throw it all away again to have my true love back?

           One last glow from the warmth of looking upon you again, my lovely wife, Elizabeth. One more glimpse of your eyes is more than I should ask. To look into your soul, always so full of life, and have you look back at me with love the way you once did, is more than I deserve. Ours was the only deeply meaningful relationship I have ever known between two people. Yet I find myself lamenting because of the shortness of time we spent together.

Does that make me selfish? Or does that accurately define my love for you? If selfish is the answer, then let it be … Come to me one more time … even if I am not worthy of your presence.

           Henry's nurse, Martha, a portly, genial woman who was greatly loved by all of her patients for her ability to listen, came in with his afternoon tea. Although the old man was officially diagnosed with senile dementia, Martha treated his rambling as truth and indulged his English habits. No one in the hospital could believe Henry's claims that he was actually Lord Alfred Manchester, heir to a great British fortune. After all, the old fellow had already told all of them wild stories about his days as a rancher and rodeo rider. No, the whole thing was too incredible to be taken seriously, but Martha enjoyed his stories much as she enjoyed her own grandfather's tales of his immigrant days. And so, she played along, knowing Henry liked to tell his chronicles.

        "Mr. O'Bannon, I have your tea, but I won't give it to you unless you promise to tell me more about those days when you were young and growing up amongst all that fine art," Martha teased.

          "If only my own children would listen as closely as you do, dear Martha," Henry sighed. "They tell me I'm berserk, crazy, senseless, have hardening of the arteries leading to the brain and all that. You know, my whole life people have called me insane, mad, out of my mind. The only other one to trust me was dear Elizabeth, and I guess she must be gone now."

Tears for his lost wife filled his eyes. Martha came forward to plump his pillows.

"Now, I thought we agreed to start your story at the very beginning, Mr. O'Bannon. You were going to tell me exactly why you gave up your legacy, remember?" she prompted.

         Yes, he thought. Maybe if I can convince one person of the verity of my story, I can die in peace. Oh Elizabeth, if I could see you once more — then, maybe the pain of reliving my mistakes would be worthwhile. But I cannot forsake my commitment to my children to listen, to believe the important knowledge I have to share with them. My chance has passed, but they can still have it all, God willing.

"Martha, the truth is that I have already died. So I know what it is like to be no more. Yes, I died once, as a very young Englishman. And, somewhat like the Lord in the Bible — but without the aid of miracles — I resurrected myself. Only I came back as an Irishman. Not by reincarnation. By choice. To spite my parents. Filled with vicissitudes. Ready for new challenges. I began a second life hoping to escape the curse of madness that befell me early on. But my reprieve was terribly short; I only succeeded in passing the curse on to my children."

Looking at the reality of the situation, this hospital might be his final palace and this bed his last throne. Only one duty remained to be fulfilled. But how to do it? His mind was torn; it was impossible for him to rest. The children must listen and believe. His crimes would be exposed; his name synonymous with a traitor, a betrayer, Judas. But the curse must be stopped. They must keep their wits about them. Aristocratic power, wealth, and privilege — pretty possessions on paper but deadly to a shallow soul. The danger is very real. His deception was flawless.

Henry took a deep breath and massaged his age‑spotted, arthritic hands. "I realize no one believes my story, Martha; it seems I have spent my entire life trying to convince others of my sanity. If you will be patient, I will prepare for my second funeral by telling you how my first came to be. Allow me a moment to recollect. Let me reflect on my past to see if I can remember everything. Every detail. Overlook nothing. See where I went wrong."

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