by Fawn Bonning
“Oh please, it’s not your fault,” she said, scraping the bottom of the batter bowl to refill the waffle iron. “I should have set the timer. Now let me see,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she shuffled back to the table. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were walking on the beach.”
“Right. And when I woke up, well… there was… well…” She hesitated, squirming uncomfortably in her chair.
“Come on, Cher, spit it out.”
“Promise you’re not gonna think I’m nuts?”
“I promise, okay,” she whined, rolling her eyes. “What?”
“Okay. When I woke up there was… was…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cher, am I gonna hear the end of this story before the baby comes, or what?”
“Okay, there was sand on my feet,” she blurted.
Cindy stared at her expectantly from across the table, obviously waiting for the exciting conclusion.
“Beach sand, Cindy! On my feet! There aren’t any beaches around here.”
A look of confusion clouded her sister’s face for just an instant, before a small grin formed. “Oh, come on, Cheryl,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Are you expecting me to believe that you… transported sand from your dream?”
“Not my dream.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever. Please tell me you’re not expecting me to believe that.”
“You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”
“Well,” she said, scratching her cheek, “not nuts, exactly. Maybe a bit confused. I wouldn’t worry too much, though. Pregnancy has a way of doing that.”
“And how, pray tell, do you explain the beach sand?”
“Sand, Cher, sand. There’s plenty of sand—”
“I know beach sand when I see it, Cindy.”
“Cher, I guarantee after you pop this baby out, everything will be back to normal and you’re going to feel silly about this whole thing, trust me. Don’t worry though,” she added, giving her a wink. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Oh, no!” Cindy yelped, scrambling to the waffle iron and throwing up the lid. “Well,” she sighed, waving away the steam and stabbing at hockey puck number two. “Anybody up for cereal?”
How was Cindy going to explain this one away, she wondered as she rolled the coarse hairs between her thumb and forefinger.
Trevor was once again peering at the T.V., enthralled as Leonardo tossed a slice of pizza to each of his shell-backed comrades, each managing to catch it with ninja-like reflexes.
Oh, she would try to rationalize it somehow, there was no doubt about that. That was just her nature. Pragmatic. Two feet always planted firmly on the ground.
There was once a time, not so long ago, when she had been the same. But Trevor’s conception had changed all of that. She wasn’t so sure about her stance anymore. It seemed the ground was constantly shifting beneath her feet these days.
Trevor squealed as the mutated turtles found themselves in another precarious predicament, and the arms and legs began to fly with amazing precision.
Probably shouldn’t let him watch this garbage, she thought. Too much violence. But, she found it hard to disappoint Trevor. He was such a sweet child—well-mannered, good-natured, hardly ever fussy. A dream child, really. She laughed at her unintentional but appropriate choice of adjectives.
She wouldn’t approach Jeff just yet, she decided. She would watch Trevor. Watch him close. Sleep in the same bed, if need be. No need to panic just yet. Trevor didn’t seem to be negatively affected by whatever it was that was going on. Just your ordinary cheerful, healthy five-year-old. If anything, he seemed to be in extra high spirits this morning.
She watched his profile as he chewed on his lower lip, engrossed in his cartoon. The ninja turtles were all standing before a giant rat-thing that had kind, sort of sad eyes. He was chastising them about something and they all stood with their heads bowed and their feet shuffling, looking duly repentant.
He was so beautiful, she thought wistfully, feeling her heart swell with pride. Kind of small for his age and a little on the thin side. Kind of fragile looking. But Jeff assured her that he had been the same at that age and, though Jeff was still a bit on the thin side, he was almost six feet tall. So she wasn’t too concerned about Trevor in that respect. He’d shoot up one of these days.
She reached to her cheek and was surprised when her fingers came away wet. Crying? How could she be crying and not even know it?
But she was crying, because another tear went trailing down her cheek, and when she brushed it aside, another followed in its wake.
Yes, she was crying. She was frightened. Frightened for her fragile, golden-haired Trevor. Her only child. Her son. And she wasn’t even sure what exactly she was so afraid of. Perhaps that was the worst part, the not knowing.
Feeling as if she was about a hundred years old, she rose wearily from the couch and shuffled into the kitchen. Stepping on the garbage can lever, she popped the lid, and stood poised above it, holding the coarse horse hairs pinched tightly between thumb and forefinger.
Suddenly she was peering into a gaping maw. A huge gaping mouth full of razor-sharp teeth just waiting to devour her. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she shook her head to clear it, and when she opened them again, there was only a garbage can before her, awaiting its newest additions.
She released the hairs and observed as they disappeared amongst the wadded paper towels and other miscellaneous garbage. Releasing the pedal, she allowed the lid to snap shut, then took a few quick steps backward, staring down at it, her body tense, ready to bolt.
What was she expecting? For it to come miraculously to life? For it to start shaking and shuddering, shimmying around the kitchen? For it to levitate from the floor and sail throughout the house, it’s lid snapping maliciously, chasing her as she fled screaming at the top of her lungs?
“Jesus, Cher, get a grip.”
She brought her fingers to her mouth to nibble.
Maybe she should have the hairs analyzed. There was the possibility that they could be dog hairs or something, right? That way, at least, she would know for sure.
No. They were horse hairs. She was sure of it. She knew exactly what the results would be if she had them analyzed, and she didn’t think that she could handle that—having the wonderful modern world of science confirm what she strongly suspected.
Besides, she had the distinct impression that if she stuck her arm into the garbage can to retrieve them, it would snap it clean off at the elbow. It was stupid, but she left the hairs where they were just the same.
She wandered back to Trevor’s room. Just a room. That’s all it was; small, twin-size bed in the corner complete with Batman bedding; white Formica dresser; matching bookcase filled with assorted books and toys. A Thomas the Train toy-box in the corner. Just your ordinary kid’s room.
Her eyes drifted to the rocking horse where it sat motionless, frozen eerily in mid-stride, its nostrils flared and eyes wide. Its mouth was drawn back by the reins tugging at the corners, exposing white teeth as it made a mad dash to nowhere. A tingling coursed through her as she studied it, sending the hair prickling down her arms and the back of her neck. There was something about the eyes that was unsettling. The whites were showing, as if it was frightened, as if it was running from something terrifying. How many times had she looked at this rocking horse? Had they always been that way? And the way its ears were laid back. She didn’t remember that either.
She rubbed her arms briskly.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
Of course the horse hadn’t changed. She was just on edge. And exhausted. She never did get back to sleep after Trevor’s mad dash to nowhere, so was it any wonder?
Her eyes darted to the Spiderman pajama bottoms lying on the floor next to the hamper where she’d dropped them. Moving quickly, she crossed the room to snatch them up. Tearing the Batman sheets from the bed, she hurried with her tainted load to the laundry room where she stuffed t
hem into the washer. Pouring in way too much laundry detergent and slamming down the lid, she turned the water dial to hot and started her up.
She leaned heavily on the machine, listening as it filled with water, then, as an afterthought, threw open the lid to pour in half a bottle of bleach before slamming it shut again.
She brushed aside more mysterious tears.
“Damn bleach fumes,” she mumbled, and hurried from the room.
~~~~
Cheryl glanced out the window to where Trevor was swinging, then back to the VHS cassette in her hand. Pushing it into the VCR, she rewound it for a few seconds before pressing play.
Standing a few feet from the screen, she watched her son riding his black stallion in his sleep, and then rewound it and watched again, and then again, studying his tiny face flushed with excitement, his open eyes someplace so very far away, so intense, so focused…on nothingness. She studied his parted lips, his breaths passing through them in quick succession as he rocked frantically to the point of almost spilling over. She studied the tight grip of his hands on the handles, the tight grip of his knees to his steed’s sides, listened to the springs creaking as they were stretched to their limit, and she felt a cold sweat break out over her body.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” she muttered under her breath, concentrating, rewinding again and again until her head began to pound.
Cutting the tape off, she went and stood by the window to watch Trevor swing as she rubbed her throbbing temples.
She would stick by her decision. She would try to handle this alone. Unless of course things got out of hand. Then she would seek help. It would be tricky though if she had to go that route. She really had no hard evidence that anything out of the ordinary was happening.
Trevor had picked up momentum on the swing, his head thrown back, eyes shut, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness, the tickle in his tummy sensation, a wide grin on his face.
No hard evidence. Just a feeling. A deep, dark feeling.
~~~~
Late that night, when she heard the familiar sound of Jeff’s light snoring, she grabbed her pillow and slipped from the bed, padding quietly down the hallway, feeling her heartbeat quicken as she entered Trevor’s room.
Situating herself on the floor beside his bed, she watched him sleep. In the warm glow of the Mickey Mouse nightlight, she watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest, listened to his deep, even breaths, and marveled at the sheer beauty of him. Though his hair was a light golden color, his lashes were dark and long where they rested so delicately against his skin. She watched them flutter as the eyes behind closed lids twitched. And then he rolled, putting his back to her, and an end to her doting admiration.
She settled down on the floor, crinkling her nose at the smell of Trevor’s sheets. Even after running them through the rinse cycle three times, they still smelled of bleach. She was going to have to buy him new ones anyway. These were ruined—all spotted and faded. Jeff had himself quite a hearty little laugh over them. “That’s my little housewife,” he’d teased. And then he’d wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to place a peck on her cheek.
She fought to stifle a snort. She really had been in a panic this morning. And over what? A few unidentifiable—
She shot up at the mewling sound, just in time to witness Trevor roll to his back, his body oddly rigid.
Realizing that she was holding her breath, she let it out slowly through her teeth with a soft whistle.
She gasped when his eyes popped open, and her hand flew to her mouth to hold back the scream.
Dark, shiny eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Lifting one stiff arm straight up from his side, he pointed a finger to the spot his eyes were glued to.
She felt the goose bumps course over her as Trevor began to giggle at something she couldn’t see.
Her first instinct was to shake the living daylights out of him, but she forced restraint. Instead, she watched, transfixed as he lifted his other arm and began to make strange movements with his hands, as if tying or untying something above him. Plucking nothing from thin air, he began to peel what could have only been a banana. She could practically see it there in his hand, his movements were that precise. Carefully peeling back four separate sections, he then took a bite and chewed gingerly. It was uncanny.
And then she did scream as he sat bolt-upright with a frown that furrowed his brow.
“Cheetah, no!” he barked in a gruff voice, then leapt from the bed in hot pursuit.
Jumping to her feet, she watched in fascination as Trevor ran around his room, nimbly jumping over toys and maneuvering around furniture, running around and around his rocking horse, then abruptly reversing to chase his elusive target in the opposite direction in what was obviously a heated game of catch me if you can.
And then he dove forward, performing a neat somersault on the carpet, before sprawling on his back to giggle. “Cheetah very naughty,” he mumbled as he stroked the imaginary chimpanzee at his side.
In an instant, his smile faded and his hand relaxed and he was once again sound asleep.
Her legs were shaking and her heart hammering as she stood peering down at him lying smack-dab in the middle of his bedroom floor.
As she found her breath again, the oxygen slowly working its way back to her muscles, she knelt beside him, lifting him gently to the bed. Covering him with the bleach-streaked sheets, she seated herself beside him to brush a strand of hair from his eyes. He’d worked up a light sweat, the tiny beads of perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip. Other than that, he didn’t appear any worse for the wear. He was sleeping soundly once again, his lips slightly parted.
Though there was something—a thickness in the air. It was strangely humid. She breathed deeply, thinking she detected something earthy. Soil. Yes…a loamy soil, dark, rich in decay, teeming with fat, wriggling earth worms and fit, parading ants busily lugging cargo, struggling stubbornly beneath carcasses and vegetation ten times their size. She could almost see them scurrying around her amidst an array of ferns and exotic tangled flora mottled with fungi and lichen, all sweltering beneath the thick canopy of towering tropical trees. And in the high sprawling branches, complex entanglements of thick gnarled vines dangled and large colorful birds perched. She could almost hear them—parrots, toucans and macaws—a cacophony of raucous calls echoing throughout the sultry jungle.
Her eyes darted about the room, searching for a shadow perhaps a tad too dark.
“Shit,” she yelped, swatting aside something crawling on her calf. It was a beetle, hard-shelled and black as the ace of spades. It had landed on its back, its legs flailing in the air. As she watched, one barbed leg hooked a strand of the shag carpet and it righted itself to lumber laboriously back in her direction.
Scurrying into the kitchen, she tore off a paper towel and hurried back into Trevor’s room. Crouching low, she waited patiently while it crawled into her trap, then snatched up the corners and hurried it up the hall, through the living room, and out the front door, where she flung it to the grass.
“Damn thing scared the crap out of me,” she whispered as she padded quietly down the hall, stopping only briefly to peer in at Jeff. He was flat on his back, both hands up and tucked beneath his pillow, and his mouth was open, eliciting intermittent bursts of soft snoring. She allowed herself a few moments to envy him his deep slumber, before hurrying on to Trevor.
She halted in the doorway as a wave of stifling humidity hit her in the face. Blinking her eyes, she attempted to force her pupils to adjust to the darkness.
Trevor was up, crouched in the corner of his bed, an imaginary weapon held firmly in both hands, what was certainly a knife poised above his head. His wide eyes were directed toward the bed, and there was a fervid look of nervous anticipation etched upon his delicate features.
She tried to focus. Trevor’s sheet was rumpled, but she thought she detected movement beneath it. Something was slithering toward him. A snake!
/> She was screeching as she flew across the room and snatched him from the bed. As she sprinted for the doorway, she wondered if she had grabbed her son or the snake itself. He was squirming and wriggling and twisting so violently that she could hardly keep hold. Once safely in the hall, she crumpled to the floor, clutching his writhing body as he shrieked shrilly.
“What the hell!” Jeff bellowed as he came barreling from their bedroom. “I told you not to wake him!”
“Snake!” she gasped, barely able to get the word out as she struggled to contain Trevor. “In his room! His room, Jeff!”
“What!”
“A snake,” she repeated urgently. “In his bed.” She clutched frantically at his hand as he passed her by. “Wait, Jeff,” she pleaded. “It’s big… big… really big. Jeff!”
Moving to Trevor’s doorway, Jeff flicked on the light and disappeared from sight.
She clutched Trevor to her chest. Though he was still thrashing, his struggling had diminished considerably and his screaming had subsided somewhat. He was now down to a mere loud sobbing.
“Jeff?”
“Are you out of your mind?” he asked as he strode from the room to toss Trevor’s stuffed snake at her feet.
Dropping down by her side, he took the sobbing child from her arms and began to rock him, whispering soft cajoling words.
She stared in disbelief at the bright-orange stuffed snake. Wolly the Wallower. Of course it had been Wolly. He must have dragged it into bed when she went out with the beetle.
Standing numbly, she picked up Wolly and shuffled the few feet to Trevor’s room to peer within. It seemed so benign with the lights on. Just Trevor’s room. No moist jungle teeming with plant life and creepy crawlies, and especially slithering pythons intent on devouring her five-year-old son for a late night snack.