Imaginary Friend

by Stephen Chbosky

“Make me, old man.”

  The whole room was becoming as angry as Jerry.

  The ambulance pulled up and the EMTs raced in with a man whose wife had stabbed him through the throat with a kitchen knife. She had dressed his wounds with the curtains from their kitchen and waited to call the authorities. His legs kicked wildly. Christopher’s mother backed away as she shielded her son from the horrific image. He was still feverish, muttering to himself.

  “She’s here. What? Okay.”

  “Hold on, Christopher,” she whispered. “I’ll get you to a doctor. I promise.”

  She stood in the corner, so she could see if anyone came at them. She held her son in her arms, waiting for a chair. She refused to feel sorry for herself.

  Sorry doesn’t survive. People do.

  So, instead, she counted her blessings because right now, blessings were all she had. She looked up at the TV and was grateful that she was not in a refugee camp in the Middle East. Those people would have given everything they had just to be stuck in this emergency room for ten hours with vending machines full of food.

  To them, it must have seemed like the world was coming to an end.

  Chapter 58

  Daddy.

  When the phone rang, the sheriff didn’t know when he had fallen asleep again. That had been happening ever since he left the Mission Street Woods. He had passed the Collins Construction site, then driven back to the station. He traded in his black-and-white cruiser for his Ford pickup the way Mr. Rogers would trade loafers for tennis shoes when he got home.

  But the sheriff didn’t go home.

  He could barely keep his eyes open, but the sheriff forced himself to bring the old tools they found in the Mission Street Woods to his friend Carl downtown. The sheriff knew that he could have left the job to a deputy, but something told him that he needed to deliver those tools immediately.

  Call it a voice.

  After the sheriff dropped off the tools, he found himself parked outside Mercy Hospital. He stared at the place where he said goodbye to the girl with the painted nails. She touched his hand and called him “Daddy.” He stared at the Charlie Brown tree for what felt like hours.

  He fell asleep in the car.

  God is a murderer, Daddy.

  When he woke up, the sheriff was deathly ill. At first, he thought it must be the flu, but there were no aches. No pains. No swollen glands. If it was the flu, it was the weirdest God damn thing he’d ever had. Because a flu doesn’t usually cook your skin with a fever and spare the rest of your body everything except a little itchy part of your hand.

  Either way, all the sheriff wanted to do was drag his bones home and rest. His grandfather had given him a great recipe for any illness. “Down a few shots of scotch, wrap yourself up in five blankets, and sweat it out. It’s hell for ten hours, but then it’s gone.”

  The sheriff was about to buy the scotch when his cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID, hoping it would be Kate Reese. But it was dispatch. He shook himself alert and took the call. He’d told his deputy that he was down with the flu and to only call him in an emergency.

  But the emergency had already started.

  His deputy informed him that half of the department called in sick with the flu. To make matters worse, some librarian from the elementary school stabbed her husband. There were a couple of bar fights. Some car accidents. It was like the whole town woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

  “We need you to come in as soon as possible, Sheriff.”

  It was the last thing the sheriff wanted to do.

  “On my way,” he said.

  As the sheriff drove back to Mill Grove from downtown, he noticed how terrible the traffic was. It reminded him of Monday mornings as a boy. Whenever the Steelers won on Sunday, people would happily share the road. “No, please. After you, sir…” But if the Steelers lost, the only sharing involved middle fingers and honking horns. That’s how much the city loved its team. Monday morning traffic lived and died with the Pittsburgh Steelers.

  But this was Friday.

  And the Steelers were on a winning streak.

  When the sheriff arrived at the station, his fever was unbearable. The sweat ran in trickles down his back. But any hopes of him downing a little Nyquil and grabbing a catnap were crushed the minute he walked through the door. He couldn’t believe how busy it was. Mill Grove was a nice little town. But one look into that room, and he would have thought it was the Hill District on New Year’s Eve.

  For the next few hours, the sheriff dealt with everything from the librarian stabbing her husband to several car accidents involving deer. The minute he put out one fire, another would pop up. Robberies. Bar fights. Vandalism. The owner of the gun shop called to say he’d had a break-in overnight. The burglars didn’t even try to open the register. He wasn’t missing any money. He was only missing guns.

  It’s like the town was going crazy.

  The sheriff had seen enough to know that when things go south, death is usually around the corner. But luckily, none of the car accidents were fatal. The flu hadn’t killed any children or old folks. And while the deer might have totaled a few cars, no people had died. Not even the librarian’s stabbing victim. The knife sliced through his throat and vocal cords. Mr. Henderson would never speak again, but he was still breathing.

  It was a miracle.

  By the end of first shift, the sheriff was dead on his feet. It didn’t matter how much aspirin he chewed, he couldn’t get his fever under control. He had already given up hope that any lotion could make the itch on his right hand stop driving him crazy. He knew that if he didn’t get a little rest, he would be useless for the upcoming week. And he couldn’t afford to be sick the week of Christmas. So, he waited for a small dip in activity, then went to his office. He downed a shot of Nyquil and let the thick cherry syrup slide down his throat. He turned off the light, lay down on the couch, and closed his eyes.

  He lay there for a good ten minutes, but he just couldn’t get comfortable. The sticky sweat from the fever had already made a swamp of his clothes. He turned the pillow over and over again, but if there was a cool side, he couldn’t find the God damn thing. In desperation, he threw the pillow to the floor and put his head directly on the leather couch.

  The sheriff forced himself to lie back and make his eyes heavy. But it was no use. He looked around his office, and he found himself staring at his bulletin board with the Missing poster of Emily Bertovich. He wondered if the police over in Erie had any new leads. Or maybe they were so distracted by flu and hospitals and bar fights and car accidents they couldn’t find her. Just like he was too distracted to figure out who buried…who buried…what was his name? That kid. The little brother of the older guy. It would come to him. He just needed to get some sleep. What was his name? He was a nice kid. Missing those two front teeth. Just like the girl with the painte…

  Daddy.

  When the phone rang, the sheriff didn’t know when he had fallen asleep. His fever was worse, and his head throbbed behind the eyes. He looked down at the caller ID, and his mood instantly picked up. It was Kate Reese.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said. She sounded worried.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at the hospital. Christopher has the flu.”

  “Yes. It’s going around. I woke up with it,” he said.

  “You, too?” She sounded alarmed.

  “Don’t worry. I called around to all of the hospitals. It’s not fatal. It just feels like hell. That’s all.”

  He expected that news to put her mind at ease, but he could tell there was something else going on. Her silence just lay there like the itch on his hand.

  “Could you send a deputy to the ER?” she asked.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “The people here are too…” She paused, searching for the right word. “…angry.”

  “Everyone hates hospitals,” the sheriff said.

  “Are you going to pat
ronize me, or are you going to listen?” she shot back.

  “Listening,” he said, chastened.

  “I’ve been to ERs. In much poorer places, too. This is different. We’ve almost had a few fights. People seem really off. Sometimes just seeing a police car on the side of the road is enough to make drivers slow down—you know what I mean?”

  He nodded. Smart.

  “Okay. I’ll send someone right away,” he said. “And I’ll come by the hospital as soon as I can leave work.”

  “Thank you,” she said, finally sounding relieved. “I have to get back to my son. Good night, Bobby.”

  His first name never sounded so good.

  “Good night, Kate,” he said and hung up.

  The sheriff really couldn’t spare a deputy, but he told dispatch to send one to the ER anyway. The sheriff felt such a primal desire to protect her that he couldn’t explain it. He just had to keep Kate Reese and her son safe.

  He felt as if the world depended on it.

  When the sheriff left his office, he noticed that the station was even busier than it had been that morning. There had been more fights and accidents and disputes between neighbors. The flu had spread even farther. The people in the holding cells were all feverish. They would have moved them, but hospitals were filled to capacity.

  The sheriff walked past the holding cells to survey the day’s damage. He saw a few guys nursing wounds they got in a bar fight. A couple of others were arrested for refusing to get out of their cars or hand over a driver’s license when they got pulled over for speeding. Or reckless driving. Or a hit and run. All of them shouted things at the sheriff. Their anger was unsettling. But it was nothing compared to what he saw in the last holding cell.

  The one with Mrs. Henderson.

  The old woman had such a sweet face. It was impossible to believe that she’d stabbed her husband through the neck. Right now, the only thing standing between her and first-degree murder was her husband hanging on for dear life in the ICU.

  Mrs. Henderson looked up at the sheriff and smiled pleasantly.

  “Is my husband still alive?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s hanging in there,” he replied.

  “Good,” she said. “I hope he lives.”

  The sheriff nodded. The old woman smiled.

  “Because I really want to stab him again.”

  With that, Mrs. Henderson went back to reading the Bible.

  The sheriff knew from experience that the holidays bring out the extreme sides of people. Some feel a deep connection to love and charity while others feel murderous or suicidal. To the sheriff, darkness was as common to Christmas as Santa Claus.

  But this was different.

  This was scary.

  The sheriff headed downstairs. He knew he couldn’t count on the flu to keep the blood off its hands forever. And he didn’t like the idea of Kate Reese and Christopher being surrounded by it in the hospital. So, he wanted to review the emergency plans he made when he started the job. He had to make sure they were ready. For what? He didn’t exactly know.

  But something told him he had to prepare for the worst.

  The sheriff kept moving. Downstairs. Into the records room. He told Mrs. Russo to get him anything she had on previous flu outbreaks while he looked at the emergency plans. He knew that he had to keep Route 19 open under any circumstances. If the highway was open, the state police could get in and people could get out. If that road shut down, Mill Grove may as well be an island. The town was like a person’s body. The roads were the arteries and veins pushing blood back and forth from the heart.

  But in this case, the heart of Mill Grove was the Mission Street Woods.

  The sheriff suddenly remembered that he was investigating something from the Mission Street Woods when the flu outbreak hit the town. What was he going to do again? It took him a moment to remember. The tools. That’s right. Those old tools. He had brought them to his friend Carl. He thought they might have something to do with…with…what was that kid’s name again? The old man’s little brother. The one who went missing. Every time he tried to think of the kid’s name, his hand would start itching again and the sweat would break out on his brow. God, he really was sick. It would come to him.

  The sheriff went back to the emergency plan. He had to focus. He had a flu epidemic on his hands. He couldn’t spend all of his time worrying about fifty-year-old cold cases about Ambrose Olson’s little brother. What was his name again? Oh, that’s right. It was…

  Daddy.

  The sheriff didn’t know when he fell asleep again, but Mrs. Russo woke him up. The sheriff looked down at the emergency plan. It was covered in the sweat from his forehead. He was too sick to even try to save face. He had fallen asleep on the job. He would have suspended any of his deputies without pay for as much.

  “Sheriff, maybe you should go home,” Mrs. Russo said kindly.

  The sheriff wanted to go home, but he couldn’t. He was the dog who knew that a storm was coming long before the master does.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Russo. I’m fine. Let’s work,” he said.

  The two sat down and went over the records of old flu outbreaks. The worst was the Spanish flu in 1918, but there had been others. An Amish settlement was hit so hard in the 1800s that the surviving members left town and moved to parts of Ohio. There was another smaller epidemic just after the Revolutionary War.

  But the most recent outbreak caught the sheriff’s eye. It happened in the summer, not the winter. People got very sick, but no one died. The sheriff stopped. The itch and fever spread, but he wouldn’t be distracted this time. He read the entire manila envelope cover-to-cover. He didn’t find any helpful information as to how the sheriff’s department handled the emergency back then. But he did find one interesting piece of information.

  The flu outbreak happened the year a little boy went missing.

  The name of the boy was David Olson.

  The sheriff couldn’t remember exactly how, but that name meant something to him.

  Chapter 59

  Christopher couldn’t remember if he was asleep or awake. He looked down at his legs. He didn’t understand why they were so short. Or why he was in a hospital gown. Or why he was in a hospital room. He looked down at his hands expecting to see an old woman’s wrinkled hands. The hands that belonged to Mrs. Keizer. But he didn’t.

  “Why do I have little boy’s hands?” he wondered to himself.

  After all, ever since the Christmas Pageant, he could have sworn he was Mrs. Keizer. He didn’t know why. All he did was touch her arm. Maybe it was the meds they gave him. But her life passed before him like a home movie, playing on the inside of his eyelids.

  I’m a little girl. I am an honors student. I am going to college. Look at that boy over there in the gymnasium. What’s your name? Joe Keizer? My name is Lynn Wilkinson. It’s nice to meet you. Yes, I’m free this Saturday night. And the Saturday after that. I am looking down at my hands. Oh, my God. The engagement ring is going on my finger. We are holding hands in the church. I am not Lynn Wilkinson anymore. I am Mrs. Joseph Keizer now.

  Christopher sat up in bed. He looked into the window and saw a little boy’s reflection. But when he closed his eyes, the reflection was Mrs. Keizer’s home movie.

  Joe! Joe! I’m pregnant. It’s a girl! Let’s name her Stephanie after my mother. Okay. Fine. Kathleen after yours. Kathy Keizer, you come here right this minute! Wait until your father sees what you did. Joe, stop it. She’s freezing. Let her come into the kitchen. Fine, then I will! Joe, stop! You’re hurting me. Joe, please. Our baby is a teenager. Our baby is graduating. Our baby is getting married. She won’t be Kathy Keizer anymore. She’ll be Mrs. Bradford Collins. Joe, she’s pregnant! Joe, we have a grandson! Bradford Wesley Collins III! What a regal name. Joe, what’s wrong?! Joe! Joe! Wake up! Joe!

  Christopher opened his eyes and saw that nice woman coming out of the bathroom. What was her name again? Mrs. Reese. Yes. That was it. Kate Reese.

/>   “Can you hear me, Christopher?” she asked.

  Mrs. Reese turned the pillow to the cool side to make him more comfortable. Christopher closed his eyes, and her concerned face was replaced by Mrs. Keizer’s memories. Flickering like an old movie with each blink of the eye.

  No, Brady. Grandpa died. I know. I miss him, too. We had been married for forty…forty…God, how long had it been? Forty something? It’s on the tip of my tongue. God, why can’t I remember? I’m not feeling right. I can’t remember where I put my…my name. What do you mean my name is Lynn Keizer? Since when? I don’t remember getting married. No, you’re wrong. I’m not Mrs. Keizer. My name is…my name is…Lynn…I don’t remember. Who are you? Kathleen who? Who is that little boy with you? He’s not my grandson. I don’t know that kid. Nurse! Someone stole my memories! Someone stole my name! Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t you know what’s happening? Don’t you understand? Death is coming. Death is here. We’ll die on Christmas Day!

  Mrs. Reese brought a straw to his mouth to drink. He tasted ice-cold apple juice. It was the most delicious he’d ever had. He loved it more than even Froot Loops. But old women don’t like Froot Loops. So, he wasn’t an old woman, was he? He was a little boy with little-boy hands.

  “That’s it, honey. How are you, Christopher?”

  His name was Christopher. That’s right. Mrs. Reese wasn’t a nurse. She was his mother. They were in the hospital together. The doctor was holding a chart. The doctor thought it was a fever, but Christopher knew it wasn’t. He had just had Alzheimer’s for a couple days. That’s all.

  “How are you feeling, son?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Are you sure, Christopher?” his mother asked.

  He wanted to tell his mother the truth. He wanted to tell her that he could still feel Mrs. Keizer’s suffering. Her illness ravaged his joints. He didn’t know if he could walk. Let alone stand. But he couldn’t tell her with the doctor here.

  Not the doctor who was scratching his arm.

  “Yes, Mom. I’m fine,” Christopher said.