The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  "Yeah, but I'm -" I start to say, before realizing that I should probably stop talking so much. I haven't taken any of my pills for months, but I'm damn well not gonna get into an argument with anyone; it's not as if they'd understand why I made this decision, so I figure it's better to just roll along, acting as if I've been a good little girl, until they eventually lose interest.

  "Trust me," the radiologist continues, "there's a good reason to be taking these scans. What would you prefer? Should we just cut you loose and send you out there into the world without any help? There might be a time when you need stronger pain relief, in which case these scans can show us how the cancer has been spreading. I'm sure that Dr. Gibbs is running a series of models to determine the nature of your particular condition." She pauses, before pressing a button that causes the machine to stop moving. "There," she adds. "All done."

  "So I can get up now?" I ask.

  She nods.

  Climbing off the table, I walk stiffly over to the desk where the radiologist is studying various screens.

  "So what do you see?" I ask cautiously, figuring that I might as well know the bad news as soon as possible. "Let me guess. The cancer's spreading faster than ever, right?"

  "All your numbers are really good," she replies. "Much better than I'd have expected, actually. The pills are really working for you."

  "Huh," I reply, resisting the temptation to tell her point-blank that I'm not even taking any of the goddamn pills. Still, it's surprisingly difficult to process this sliver of good news, and I can't help but allow my mind to wander. What if, by some miracle, my cancer clears itself up? What if my body, unlike anyone else's body, manages to work out how to stop this thing? For a few seconds, I allow myself to entertain the possibility that somehow I could be better than everyone else, and that I might actually beat this thing. Finally, however, I force myself to remember the truth: I'm dying, and a good scan today just means that the next one will be doubly grim.

  "I'm sure Dr. Gibbs will be very happy," the radiologist continues. "Between you and me, I think he was starting to suspect that you'd stopped taking your pills."

  "Perish the thought," I reply, doing a decent impression of someone who's genuinely shocked by the idea. "Does he really think I'd be so dumb?"

  "I'm going to get these results to him," she replies, as the nearby printer starts up, "and he'll call you in the next few days to discuss your next step. With results like these, though..." She pauses, and it's clear that she's not sure whether to continue.

  "What?" I ask cautiously.

  "There are some test programs in the hospital," she replies. "Please don't allow yourself to get your hopes up too much, Ms. Shaw, but your numbers are now looking pretty respectable. There's a chance that, if you want, you could maybe be referred onto one of these test programs. They're experimental, of course, and you mustn't start thinking that they could lead to a cure, but there's always a chance that you could get some real benefits."

  "Like not dying?"

  "Like not dying so soon," she continues. "Less pain. Less fear. I don't want to fill your head with flights of fancy, but some of these experimental programs can have a very positive effect on your quality of life." She pauses. "I happen to know one of the doctors in charge of a particularly promising line of research. If you're interested, and if Dr. Gibbs agrees, I'd be happy to put your name forward to him. I think there's a good chance he'd take you on."

  "I don't know," I reply, reluctant to let myself get too carried away. "I mean, I don't like the idea of being some kind of guinea pig."

  "At least talk to him," she replies. "What harm could it do, right?"

  I open my mouth to turn her down, but finally I realize that it might be worth giving it a shot. "Sure," I tell her, even though I'm convinced I'll regret the decision. "Go for it."

  As I'm getting dressed a little later, I can't help thinking about this test program, and wondering whether it might help. I know I should keep a lid on my expectations, but as hard as I try, I can't stop myself wondering if by some miracle I might wind up getting some real help. When I came to the hospital today, I knew I was going to die; now, totally unexpectedly, I find myself contemplating the impossible. I've spent so long trying to come to terms with the inevitability of my death, but suddenly there's this hint of optimism that seems to have been rekindled in my heart. Finally, feeling a little breathless, I take a seat and stare at my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. I look tired, but not necessarily ill. I know that hope is dangerous, and that it's just a dead end, but no matter how hard I try to remind myself that there's no such thing as miracles, I can't help it.

  What if I survive?

  John

  "If I let go," I hiss, still holding my hand firmly across Claire's gasoline-soaked face, "do you promise not to scream? I mean, do you really promise?"

  My heart pounding, I wait for some kind of response, but she merely stares up at me with a look of absolute terror in her eyes. I've got a knife pressed against her chest, with the tip of the blade pushing between the buttons of her shirt and digging gently into her flesh. She knows that I could easily finish her off right here and right now, and that's exactly what I should do. However, now that I'm certain she understands a little about my true nature, I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, it'd feel good to tell her the truth about my actions before she dies.

  She should know that I'm not just some crumby insurance salesman.

  "I can't trust you," I say eventually. "I'm sorry, but I can't take my hand away. You'd scream. Hell, you'd be a fool not to. I'm sure this has all come as a huge shock to you, and I swear, I wanted it all to be over quickly. Now, though, I guess I owe you an explanation." In the distance, I can hear the sound of sirens, as police cars and fire trucks arrive at the scene. I wanted to be well away from the area by now, but I figure I shouldn't have too many problems. They won't even have started looking for me yet, so I can spare a few minutes here.

  I take a deep breath.

  "I'm not the man you thought I was," I continue, struggling to put things into words as Claire's horrified eyes stare up at me. "All those times I told you I was going off to sell insurance... I know you suspected that something was wrong. We've been playing this little game, haven't we, you and I? It wasn't until the other night that you really let me know that you were onto me -"

  She tries to say something, but my hand remains clamped over her mouth.

  "I can't hear a word of that," I tell her.

  She mumbles again.

  Sighing, I lighten the pressure of my hand.

  "I thought you were having an affair," she says, her voice trembling as tears flow from her eyes.

  I immediately press down on her mouth again.

  "An affair?" I reply, feeling the anger starting to rise through my body again. "Are you serious? After everything I've done, after everything I've built, my whole empire, you thought it was all just some kind of grubby little affair?" I try to calm down, but the truth is, I'm infuriated by the suggestion that all my work has just been in the service of an affair. The whole thing sounds so tawdry. Then again, I've been married to three women at once, but that's not an affair; that's just an arrangement that makes sense.

  She tries to mumble something.

  "No," I say firmly, "you're going to listen to me! For once, someone is going to listen to me and understand that I'm a success! I was not having an affair, you ignorant little piece of shit! I was building a fucking empire! Something to be proud of! How many other men are able to do something like that, huh? Answer me! How many?" I pause for a moment as I try to regather my composure. "You have no idea," I continue. "No idea at all. Your father, Claire, is a genius. I swear to God, I've spent the past two decades creating an empire of people and assets, valuable products to buy and sell. People, Claire. I've been farming people and selling their names, their faces, their identities... Every one of them retails for thousands and thousands of dollars, more money than you could ever
fucking imagine! I've got stacks of cash stowed away, but I always pretended to you and your mother that I was some pathetic, hard-working insurance salesmen, and the pair of you believed it!"

  She stares at me, and I can see that she's struggling to take this all in.

  "Couldn't you guess?" I ask. "When you looked at me, couldn't you have thought, just once, that maybe I was better than that? Did I really look like a downtrodden, put-upon insurance lackey? I mean, Jesus Christ, were the pair of you so blind that you couldn't see my brilliance?"

  I wait for her to reply, but of course she can't reply, not while I've got my hand over her mouth. All the stupid little bitch can do right now is listen.

  "I was insulted, you know," I continue, "that you could think I was just a pathetic little worker bee. I'm the fucking queen of the hive! Not queen, but you know what I mean." I take another deep breath. "I'm tempted to take you out there," I add, "and show you what I created, but I know you wouldn't be able to understand. That's the problem with you, Claire; you get most of your genes from your mother's side of the family, don't you? Dull, dependable, stupid... You could never comprehend the genius of a man like me!"

  I watch as her wide-open eyes stare up at me, and after a moment I realize that the tears have stopped flowing. Her expression is stony and calm now, as if she's accepted her fate. I guess the shock of my true nature is probably too much for her.

  "You're impressed, aren't you?" I continue with a smile. "Good. Finally, some fucking sense. You should all be impressed by me, but that's the problem; everything I do, my whole empire, has to be kept secret. I can't tell anyone, and do you have any fucking idea how much that hurts? When a man does great things, it's unnatural for him to not shout it from the rooftops. I've had to tuck my greatness away and disguise it, just so that a bunch of idiots wouldn't try to make me stop." Pausing for breath, I realize that I'm starting to get carried away. "You don't understand," I say after a moment. "You never did and you never will. You don't have the brains for it, Claire. It's not your fault that you're stupid and narrow-minded, I should just..."

  I press the tip of the blade more firmly against her chest.

  "I should just get this over with," I tell her, forcing back the tears. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have burdened you, not in your final moments. It's not fair, is it? It's not your fault that you could never have been a great person. I just hope that you can take solace in the knowledge that you were the daughter of a brilliant man. That's not so bad, is it? Your life had some meaning after all, and I promise: I'll never, ever forget you."

  "Please don't hurt me," she whimpers, like a pathetic little bitch. "Please!"

  "I've got no choice," I reply firmly, starting to drive the knife deeper into her chest until, suddenly, I'm struck by an even better idea. "Either that," I continue, "or I could take you with me. Would you like to come and see what I've built out there in the middle of fucking nowhere, Claire? You've always dismissed me as just a boring old insurance salesman, but maybe it's time for me to drag you out there and show you the -"

  Before I can finish, she manages to grab my head and push me away with enough force to send me tumbling down onto the grass. I try to turn back to her, but there's a sharp, painful flash across my face and I fall back again.

  For a moment, I struggle to work out what happened. Reaching up to my face, I feel a sharp, jagged line across my cheek, and seconds later I spot the bloodied knife nearby. I grab the blade and get to my feet, but Claire has already managed to run across the garden and down the side of one of the houses. I hurry after her, but just in time I realize that she's reached the street, where various onlookers have already found her. I can hear voices shouting for help, and screams, and sirens getting closer.

  I have to get out of here.

  Turning, I run across the lawn and grab my briefcase, before climbing over the nearby fence and hurrying across another garden. The pain on my face is getting worse and worse, but I can't stop to fix myself yet. I just have to keep going, get to a place of safety, and then hope I can work out what to do next. One thing's for certain; with Claire having miraculously managed to slip away, I need to ditch my old identities and come up with a new plan fast. I should have killed the stupid bitch when I had the chance, but I wanted to keep her alive long enough to make her understand that I'm a great man.

  In the distance, the house is still burning. Barbara's body is in there, and Claire's should have been too. This is my fault. I need to get my head together, or I'm going to run out of escape routes.

  Katherine Shaw

  "I'm glad you decided to come and speak to us today," Schumacher says, unable to hide the hint of satisfaction in his voice as he stares at me from behind his desk. "I know it can't have been easy, and I'm sure that Detective Carver will join me in expressing respect for the decision you've made."

  "Absolutely," Carver says calmly, sitting on the nearby sofa.

  I smile politely, even though inside I'm just about ready to boil over. I've been in the room for less than a minute, and already I've had to hold myself back from grabbing Carver and throttling him. I swear to God, in all my years working as a detective, I've never once had to apologize to a colleague like this, and the worst part is that I walked blindly into Carver's trap. In some ways, this situation is my fault. Worse, the anger is distracting me from getting on with my job.

  "Please," Schumacher says, leaning back in his chair. "We're both very keen to hear what you have to say."

  I take a deep breath. "Obviously," I say eventually, trying to stick to the little speech I memorized earlier, "I'm very much aware that I said and did some things over the past couple of days that caused Detective Carver some genuine distress. Although I'd like to state again that it was not my intention to upset him, and that I was in fact only joking, I realize now that I stepped over the line, and that my so-called jokes were actually highly insensitive and ill-advised."

  Silence.

  "I'm very much aware of the debate in this country regarding workplace conditions," I continue, feeling as if this apology is rapidly becoming absurd, "and I might be many things, but I'm not a bully. Nevertheless, I appropriated bullying language in order to make what I believed to be a joke, and while I thought I was being smart and funny, I realize now that this was by no means the case. I was, in fact, being a total ass. I can assure you that I'll moderate my language and behavior in future, and that I'll never again allow myself to cause this kind of emotional distress."

  I wait.

  Silence.

  I stare at Schumacher.

  He stares at me.

  "So that's how I see it," I add eventually, feeling a little dry-mouthed.

  "It's Detective Carver you need to apologize to," Schumacher replies sternly. "Not me."

  Sighing, I turn to Carver. "I'm sure that my crass and thoughtless comments caused you genuine distress," I continue, trying to sound polite even though I feel as if my entire body is filled with grinding gears. "My ignorance of this potential distress is by no means an excuse, and is not intended as such. I merely hoped to make clear the reason for my..." I pause as I try to summon up some suitably pathetic words. "The reason for my terrible behavior and my totally uncalled-for use of words," I add, before waiting a moment to see if either of them react.

  An uncomfortable silence descends.

  I wait.

  They wait.

  I wait some more.

  "Anything else?" Schumacher asks eventually, with a tone of voice that clearly indicates that he's waiting for me to continue.

  "I'm sorry for being an idiot," I reply, facing Carver once again, "and I'm sorry if my jokes came across as being abusive or mean in any way. I was trying to prove some kind of asinine point, and it came across all wrong. I hope you can see past that and understand that I never intended to upset you."

  Carver stares at me for a moment. "You're sweating," he says eventually.

  "Is that a problem?" I ask.

  "No," he replies with a s
mile and extending a hand for me to shake. "I'm happy to accept your apology, Detective Shaw. For what it's worth, I don't believe for a second that you were genuinely trying to bully me. I'm quite convinced that this whole situation was basically a misunderstanding caused by some ill-chosen language, and I very much hope that we can continue to work together as partners."

  "That sounds great," I reply, struggling to sound sincere.

  "Call me Jordan," Carver continues.

  I take a deep breath. "Call me... Katherine."

  "You know," Schumacher says after a moment, "I don't think I've ever heard you say sorry for anything in the past, Katherine. In all the years I've known you, and after all the stupid things you've said from time to time, you've never uttered a single apology. Not near me, anyway." He takes a deep breath. "It's a sign of growing maturity, in my opinion. You're becoming a more rounded and acceptable member of our department, and it gives me great pleasure to assure you that all disciplinary action regarding this matter will now be dropped. Provided that Detective Carver agrees."

  "Absolutely," Carver replies with a smile that underlines his sense of superiority.

  "So how are you two doing, anyway?" Schumacher asks. "I've got the media on at me to give 'em some kind of explanation for those women who showed up. You managed to at least work out why their backs were broken?"

  "To immobilize them," I reply.

  "They're being handled by a psychiatric team," Carver tells him. "It's going to take a long time to get any answers out of them. For the most part, they're terrified, but some of them also have developmental problems that mean we might never be able to rely on their evidence in court."

  "You need a suspect before you can get to court," Schumacher replies.

  "We're working on it," Carver continues. "In fact, Detective Shaw is pursuing a theory that might just reveal something interesting."