The Shadow People

by Joe Clifford

  When I turned back around, that distortion lingered as the ally in front of me seemed to stretch further, walls expanding, a cheap gimmick in a horror flick, a room elongated as the camera pans in fast on its subject but the background remains still, Sheriff Brody after seeing Jaws. I assured myself my mind was playing tricks on me—I wasn’t buzzed off a single pear cider I’d barely touched. Yet, with each step, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking farther than I’d parked. I felt my pulse quicken and that made me angrier. My own stupid brain was creating the problem, internal conflict conspiring to create illusion and confusion. I had zero patience for idiosyncratic mental quirks, and hated feeling at the mercy of anything other than my own conscious thoughts.

  The night turned hot, winds rustling leaves, sweeping them up in tiny, dirty tornados, and scattering debris from out of the big blue bins. A raccoon the size of a small child climbed from the trash, reared on hind legs, hissing. I hastened my pace as the ally stretched ever farther. The narrowed, tunnel vision mimicked being sucked deeper into an MRI tube, a discomforting sensation that sparked an odd, tangential memory of when Jacob and I were kids, horsing around after hours at the construction site beyond our cul-de-sac. They had all these concrete tubes, maybe ten, fifteen feet long, about two feet tall. I didn’t know what these concrete tubes were for, but being kids, we were climbing on them, crawling through them, making a game of it. Slithering on my back, I lifted my knee too high in one these tubes and got stuck. I couldn’t dislodge my leg, and the more I moved my knee, the most entrapped I became, which left me freaking out, screaming, hysterical. Jacob ran to get his mom. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Balfour to come. Three, maybe five minutes. Felt like forever. Mrs. Balfour talked to me, got me to calm down, relax. Once my body wasn’t so rigid, she was able to pull me out.

  I didn’t know why that particular memory hitched itself to my emotions or chose that moment to return. It had been a great night, which only promised to get better. Outside of those creepos macking on my date in the bar, nothing was alarming. Why was I so out of sorts? Someone was watching me.

  I felt a presence—I wasn’t imagining it—I kept checking over my shoulder. No one there. No silhouettes in windows. No eyes peeping over the fence or out any back door. Yet the faster I tried to walk and outrun this perspicacity, the more I suspected my second sight was dead on, my mind a finely tuned instrument of detection. I saw my Camry, but its distance from me continued to stretch, a trick of the lens. I took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes, trying to remember if I drank more than I thought. But, no, I’d had the one glass of wine at the restaurant and the cider at the bar. Maybe I’d gotten a refill? I remembered the kiss but couldn’t remember if I’d ordered another. But even if I did, it was only cider. Why was it taking so long to walk to my car? I felt queasy, nauseated. For a second I thought I was going to throw up, resisting the urge. I didn’t go in for masculine stereotypes, and Sam didn’t strike me as the type to succumb to them either. But no woman is sleeping with a man who can’t handle his cider. I could feel a presence at my back. I spun around, shuttering, flinching, shooing, as if a cluster of spiders had jumped on my neck. I couldn’t catch my breath, the dark sky ebbing darker, the top of a coffin lowered, and I was suffocating…

  Then it was gone. Like that. As if the problem had been the world’s light bulb blowing out, and now a fresh one had been screwed in. All good. Problem solved. I could see again. What had that been about? I didn’t feel drunk or buzzed or the slightest bit nauseated anymore. And when I turned around this time, the scene behind me unveiled nothing but wood, brick, and the big blue bins from the steakhouse. A refreshing breeze scuttled, offering safe passage.

  Unlock door, slip key in ignition, turn down radio, easy. I pulled up the alley, trying to wrap my head around what that had been about. The best I could surmise: exhaustion at the end of a long week.

  When I eased out of the alley in front of the liquor store, I saw Sam talking to one of the guys from the bar, the older cop-looking one with that stupid hipster mustache. Which spiked my blood and sent my heart pounding. I’d barely had the chance to catch my breath from my hellacious walk. Getting out, I slammed the door harder than I intended, loud enough that both spun around to stare at me as I stood quaking in the streetlight, fists clenched.

  “Hey, you,” Sam said, cool as could be, like nothing was wrong.

  What the fuck?

  The guy from the bar eyeballed me. A primitive part of me, a part I’m not proud of, went to Sam’s side, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Lamentable behavior, sure. But I wasn’t getting pushed around by a hipster in a vest with a caterpillar on his lip.

  “This is T,” Sam said to me.

  “T?” I repeated, rolling my eyes so far into my skull I saw the alley behind me. What a stupid poser nickname. T. “What?” I said. “Like the drink?”

  “Like the initial, man,” T replied, all smiles and good sported, looking much younger than I’d pegged him for in the bar. “Short for Anthony.” He made like he was offering to shake my hand.

  Nice try.

  I jammed my hands in my pockets. I wasn’t going to be the one to rise above and be the bigger man. This asshole had been fronting on me in the bar, waiting for us to leave, and as soon as we split up for a second, he’s there, moving in.

  “What took so long?” Sam asked me.

  “Huh?”

  “Getting your car,” she said. “You were gone for twenty minutes.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  We all stood there awkwardly. Sam alternated looks between T and me. She must’ve been able to pick up on my hostility. But she hadn’t seen the way this jerk was trying to stare me down in the bar.

  Sam grabbed my hand and shook it, calling my attention. “T said there’s a party on Dumas.”

  T smirked. Snaggle-toothed bastard.

  “And you want to go?”

  “Why not?” Sam said, tugging my hand. “It’ll be fun.”

  “No, I’m good,” I said. At that, I considered the matter closed. Sam wasn’t going off with another guy to a party. We were on a date.

  “What about you, Sam?” he said.

  “She’s good too,” I said.

  Sam snatched back her hand, and I knew I’d screwed up.

  I couldn’t explain to Sam what T was up to, not in the spot we were in, and he knew it.

  I tried to fix the situation but managed to screw it up more. “I thought you had to get up early? That’s what you told me in the bar.”

  “I got a second wind,” Sam said. Her tone was confrontational, adversarial, like we were enemies.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, I do have to get up early. So…” Which wasn’t true, but she was the one who’d issued curfews. Now it’s party time?

  “Thanks for dinner, Brandon,” Sam said.

  Thanks for dinner? That’s it? Not, “Okay, Brandon, let’s stick to our original plan, go back to your place, and continue what’s been a nice evening.” Fine. If that was the way she wanted it.

  “I should get some sleep,” I said. I didn’t want to get some sleep—I wanted to keep hanging out with Sam, but I’d gone too far now. I couldn’t backtrack. Sam wasn’t my long-term girlfriend. I couldn’t say, “Hey, let’s head home.” I’d gambled that if given the choice between this joker and me, she’d pick me. I lost.

  “Come on,” T said to her. “You can roll with me.”

  Roll with me? Okay, Del Amitri. What an asshole.

  And Sam left. The entire time she was walking away, she kept stealing glances over her shoulder. I didn’t know if she was expecting me to put up more of a fight. What was I supposed to do? Challenge the guy to a fistfight? Duel at dawn? Apologize? I folded my arms and stood my ground. She wanted to party, have at it.

  I waited in that street awhile, feeling like I’d been gut punched. I should’ve just gone to the stupid party. I wasn’t thinking straight. It was that alle
y. It got me all twisted around.

  When I got back in my car, I cranked the radio, and that stupid song by Imagine Dragons, “Thunder,” came on, which I fucking hated. I smacked the dash so hard, a shiver shot from wrist to elbow. I could feel a crack, cartilage wrenched, ulna stinging with hot needles. It hurt so bad I wondered if I’d fractured the carpel bones. I wiggled my hand. I could still move it.

  The physical pain paled next to the hurt I felt inside. I was such a moron. That T had played me. He’d waited for me to slip up to swoop in. All semester I’d angled for a chance with Sam Holahan. I finally get one, and this happens?

  Parking my car in the garage, I walked to my complex, up the stairs to my apartment, where I found my door ajar. I’d been in a rush to meet Sam but not so much of a rush I’d forgotten to lock my door. My place was in an okay section of town, but not so okay you went around leaving doors unlocked.

  I pushed it open, flicking the lights, looking for…what? I still had that freak-out in the alley on my mind, the fresh sting of humiliation outside the liquor store, my right hand throbbing from where I’d punched the dashboard. I plucked the biggest knife I had from the cutting board, slinking room to room, pushing open doors, checking inside closets and under the bed like the final girl in a slasher flick. Nothing. No one. I didn’t see anything missing. What did I have worth stealing?

  After exhausting my search like a melodramatic dope, I returned the knife to its home, dropping in a seat at the kitchen table. I was getting as loopy as Jacob. My stare fell to the kitchen table and I realized something was missing.

  Jacob’s zine, Illuminations.

  Goddamn Francis. Like I wanted that crap in my house in the first place.

  I caught my breath. I was getting all worked up. I could feel my temperature rising. Deep breaths. Stay cool, Brandon.

  I was not racing across town at midnight to a Best Western to wake a crazy old man so I could yell at him. You want your magazine back so bad, Francis? Have at it. Then stay the hell away from me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I got to Ledgecrest for my shift, Mrs. Talbot, the hospital’s director, called me into her office and asked me to close the door. It’s never a good sign when the boss asks you to close the door.

  Mrs. Talbot told me to have a seat. I tried not to overreact. I was an exemplary employee, always willing to take an additional shift or go the extra mile, doing whatever was asked of me.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look tired.”

  “Trouble sleeping.”

  My boss didn’t say anything after that, which left me looking around her office, a sad sight. These were the aspects of the convalescent industry I tried to ignore—the underfunded touches that highlighted America’s healthcare deficiencies, especially where the elderly were concerned, how one’s worth, welfare, and well-being hinged on the size of their savings account. Ledgecrest wasn’t making bank off the private insurance of the wealthy. This was a small facility, with most of the patients on one form of government assistance or another. Ledgecrest catered to a particular demographic, mostly locals of modest means whose families couldn’t take care of them anymore. Administrators like Mrs. Talbot—who wasn’t far from retirement herself—were not rich. The woman had been working at the hospital most of her life, paycheck-to-paycheck paltry, small office reflecting that.

  Dusty souvenirs sat in dustier corners, keepsakes picked up during yearly sojourns to Lake George or Lake Champlain, Niagara Falls, travel destinations within driving distance. Coffee mugs, heavy on word play, World’s Best Grandma and inoffensive eldercare puns, sat between the brood of grandchildren in cutesy picture frames.

  “Brandon,” she said, calling my attention back to the moment, as if I’d been drifting. “Did you talk with Mr. Johnson the other day?”

  “I try to speak with each patient every day.” Which was true. I did my best to reach out, take the time to touch base, excluding no one.

  I wore this attention to detail as a source of pride. Yet, Mrs. Talbot’s face squinched sour, demonstrating she did not share my enthusiasm, as if my selflessness were a display of overzealousness or, worse, ego. Normally, I liked my boss. Mrs. Talbot was older, stuffy, not flexible, but I believed she was a good person and competent supervisor. In that moment, however, I didn’t like her and found her managerial acumen lacking. I could feel an admonishment coming on. She was about to chastise me for doing a good thing.

  Mrs. Talbot tented her fingers, an officious posturing that grated with its pretentiousness. “We feel like you are making it too personal with Mr. Johnson.”

  We? There was no one else there.

  “I was talking with the other nurses,” Mrs. Talbot said, clarifying her statement.

  “Who?” Mary, Sandy, and Dorian all liked me.

  “Mr. Johnson had another episode this morning.”

  “He had an episode the other day too. That’s why I went to speak with him. To make sure he was okay.”

  “Acknowledged,” Mrs. Talbot said, wielding that particular word like a dart. “Today, he had to be sedated. The initial dose did not work. He grew agitated, and we had to administer a higher dose. At his age, a man like Galen Johnson carries greater risks.” Mrs. Talbot slowed her diction. Like I was a patient she needed to placate. Like I didn’t understand the risk of medications and sedatives. “You know hospital protocol, Brandon. You chose to undermine authority and violate that protocol.”

  “Who complained?”

  “That is not important.”

  I tried to recall which nurse was on duty that day. I thought it was Mary. But Mary liked me best. I was closer to Mary than I was any other nurse. Mary gave me a card on my last birthday and a pair of jokey socks with lots of puzzles because she knew I liked puzzles.

  “Brandon, we’ve talked about playing favorites—”

  “I’m not playing favorites—”

  “There is a reason we don’t want to challenge patients’ delusions. Galen Johnson has dementia. He is old. Pushing back on his delusions can have catastrophic repercussions.”

  “I am well aware of—”

  “Telling him he was wrong challenges his perceptions. Again, against hospital policy. We want to keep patients calm, reassure them, make them feel safe—”

  “I tried to connect with him on a deeper human level. Maybe others should be following that lead. We are in a business of compassion, aren’t we?”

  “Compassion?” Mrs. Talbot inhaled bull-like through her nose. “Do you know his insurance ran out? We keep him here because he has nowhere else to go. Housing a patient who is not paying for a bed, food, shelter. Don’t tell me about compassion. He is very ill. He won’t last the year—”

  I stiffened my posture, folding my arms, head high. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Talbot. I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

  Mrs. Talbot reached in her desk, retrieving an envelope. It had the Ledgecrest insignia stamped in red, off kilter, a shoddy job at a quick printer. Unprofessional. That’s the problem with this country. No one takes pride in their work.

  She placed the envelope on the table and slid it forward.

  “What’s this?”

  She pursed her lips. “We think it’s for the best if we conclude your employment.”

  “Will you stop saying ‘we’? There is no ‘we.’ We are the only ones here, Carol.” Normally, I wouldn’t address a superior that way. “You’re firing me?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds like you are.”

  Mrs. Talbot’s face washed sympathetic. Phony. It was her grandma expression, offering a second helping of chocolate chip pancakes to soothe a hypersensitive child. “You were planning on leaving in another week anyway. We are paying you for your time.” Mrs. Talbot grinned. “You aren’t losing any money—”

  “This isn’t about money.”

  Mrs. Talbot glanced around her tiny office as if searching for a clock, but she knew damn well what time
it was.

  “Fine.” I snagged the envelope and stuffed it in my back pocket. “I’d at least like to say goodbye.”

  “We don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Not a good idea? I’d cleaned up after these people for the past seven years, since I was a sophomore in high school. Emptied their bedpans, given them sponge baths—I’d been a friend and caretaker—I’d been more of a family to them than their own family had been. Now this woman was going to deny me a last chance to say goodbye? Extract me from their lives without any acknowledgment?

  Mrs. Talbot stood, ignoring my simple, reasonable request, reaching over the desk for a handshake. “You’ve been a good employee. If you need a recommendation, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I stared at her, jaw clenched, teeth grinding over the injustice. I dropped my haunches. There were other hills to die on.

  “And best luck at Syracuse,” she added.

  When I got to the door, I pointed down the hall. “Is it all right if I get my belongings out of the locker?”

  “Of course.”

  I made toward the lockers, stole a quick glance back, then darted down the hall to Mr. Johnson’s room.

  He was sitting up in bed, looking gaunter and frailer than the last time I’d seen him. An old man, Mr. Johnson wasn’t expected to look spry, but today his skin slacked off his skull, melted cheese congealed, and his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. His intense gaze fixed straight ahead, at a spot on the wall. I followed his line of sight but nothing was there.

  “Mr. Johnson?”

  He turned his head, slow and deliberate. It took a while for his eyes to find me, as if he were searching out fabled lands across murky waters. A smile came to him. It was weak and tired. “Brandon.” The way he said my name made my heart break, as though this would be the last time we’d ever speak.