“I miss you, Julia,” she said despite herself. She didn’t have a lisp when she spoke, she noted, again despite herself. She didn’t care about that.
She knew what this was. This was a dream.
Where is Isaac, why isn’t he waking me up?
She pushed herself to flail her arms to force herself awake, but she remained in the dream.
“I know you aren’t real, Julia. I know this is a dream.”
“I’m not trying to make you believe this is anything but a dream,” the voice spoke to her. She knew that voice. It had been the voice that visited her innumerable times, even in her daydreams, whenever her conscious mind wavered.
The voice had always remained patient, understanding, and reassuring. It had explained all about the nature of pain, and how Julia — wisely, after deep consideration — chose to unmake herself rather than await the indescribable agony that awaits us all. It spoke about how Julia one day just no longer was, and how this was a decision of her own making. Don’t feel bad for her. Envy her.
Julia had passed in her sleep without medical explanation. No furtive drug habit. No shocking heart attack or brain aneurysm. No unknown allergy. Nothing glorious, poetic or valiant. Not even something gory or tragic but at least understandable, something for which an emotion could be attached and understanding processed, other than whatever emotion or understanding lurked in the aghast, torn space Clare felt in the pit of her stomach. Confusion. Dread. Bewilderment. The space was the cousin of anxiety, churned the way anxiety does, sent its tendrils throughout her system the way anxiety does.
But it was not anxiety, just the absence of something.
“I hate you,” she said to the voice, even though she didn’t really mean that and was just speaking stupidly. “I hate you. You took her from us. If what you are saying is true, you took her from us. She was my best friend. She had a family who loved her. Did you know that? And now she’s gone.”
She’d had this conversation so many times and already been through the range of emotions.
She reached her hands out to hug Julia’s neck. Julia’s head tipped forward and fell hard to the floor like heavy luggage, though it made no sound. Roaches and black bugs crawled from the impossibly-proportioned spigot that was Julia’s neck.
Clare screamed without sound, averted her eyes and closed her palms. There were no bugs. Julia was sitting there again, head-and-all, undisturbed.
“You know that does not make sense. That is your brain, trying to scare you off, trying to upset you. It is reaching for the horrific, what it thinks will scare you, disgust you. Julia was cremated. You know that. There would be no roaches. There is no longer even a body. You know this.”
She looked back at Julia, which she knew was where the voice emanated from. Clare had been through denial, been upset, furious, depressed, overwhelmed, and even at times felt contented and felt something like acceptant. If what the voice told her was true, then Julia was in a better place: non-existence. She’d avoided the pain of natural death, the voice assured her. No one who loves anyone would permit them to experience a natural death. Having her alive for her company while subjecting her to the possibility of a natural death was, in a sense, selfish.
Clare didn’t really believe any of that, not really, but it was a nice thought, to think her friend had made her own choice, made what could be the “correct” choice. That her choice created meaning and understanding to fill — or at least create the semblance of something that could fill — that pit in her stomach.
“If it’s good enough for her, well, it’s good enough for me,” Clare said to the voice, in a half-space of resignation. She said it just to say it, almost as if on a dare. The paroxysms, the violent distortion, of adrenaline-soaked anxiety tore at the fabric of her dream for a moment.
Julia had been lucky, the voice explained. The vast majority of people were on a different mental wave length and could not receive these overtures. In a sense then, she was lucky, too, since here she was....
“I mean it.” She doubled-down her provocation.
“I do not believe you mean that. As much as I think it would be in your best interest to believe that, I am not sure you do.”
“No, I do. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had enough of this wondering.” Her voice sounded faintly contemptuous, even to herself. If she was awake, she’d be sitting cross-armed, curled into herself, steaming in a little tantrum, thinking fuck everybody else.
“I want to experience what she experienced. I want to know.”
“You do not understand. There is nothing to experience. I offer you the absence of experience. What you will eventually experience otherwise is the unendurable, never-ending pain of your own natural death.”
“I don’t want to talk anymore.” There was an edge in Clare’s voice, even though this was nothing but a dream. “I believe you. I’ve met and spoken with you so many times. I believe. I accept. You would not be so persistent unless you were real. You couldn’t know what you know unless this was real. Otherwise, this is just all fake, my crazy imagination, in which case I will just wake up.
“So, here I am. If what you are saying is true, then I believe, take me with you.”
She extended her hand and struck a pose of concentration and acceptance.
“I grant you permission, every permission you need. I believe you. I believe. My brain, my impulses, are hard-wired, in the interests of the species’ survival but not my personal interest. See? I understand. I believe. I accept, okay?! I accept!”
She extended her hand more forcefully, her look now of determination.
Julia took her hand and held her close. There was no classroom, just them, outside, in space. This space is the pit in your soul, the emptiness you feel, Clare felt, and panicked. She had buyer’s remorse before the thought was even expressed.
Wake up. Where is Isaac? Piss yourself, shit yourself, wake yourself up. Isaac where are you?! I told you to protect me!
She had been impulsive and didn’t want this anymore. She pulled back and before even running was an option she was already making her way toward the door of the classroom.
Clare turned around and saw a Julia of distended limbs and joints launching toward her. Clare was trapped between her limbs now, encaged underneath them, and Julia’s goopy neck cascaded down in front of her. Her head flipped back, upside down, revealing her face of ridged teeth.
“No. Embrace this.”
“I want to be awake. Isaac, where are you?!”
“You granted me permission. You made the right decision. Shut off what your brain is telling you. There is nothing to fear.”
A distended limb ending in the shape of a sharpened asterisk shot out and held her arm. She was trapped between stalk-like growths. The only exit was occupied by Julia’s distorted death-face.
A force gripped her throat and soft pads closed over her larynx.
“There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to fear.”
Her mind was not assuaged. Every cell in her body revolted, flush with hot terror.
“Isaac where are you?!”
“There is nothing to fear,” said the fearsome face, a cacophony of sharp threatening sights, repugnant smells and unsettling booming explosions.
“There is nothing to fear. Your mind has not realized it has lost. You are free from it. There is nothing to fear. This is just your conscious mind’s last spasms. This is nothing compared to what you’d experience upon your natural death.”
All was nothing.
>< >< ><
Venice pulled into the parking lot of the small shopping courtyard that contained JV Hot Bagels. It was 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday in December. Other than the post office, JV Hot Bagels was the only business she recognized. She’d only been upstate in college at Albany for a year and a half — and truth be told, she’d never been super-observant — but only reco
gnizing two stores was … something. A sign. A good sign, bad sign? Maybe a sign that this place was behind her. She didn’t know. It just felt like something, like moving on.
It was winter. Lakewood High School was not in session, so it wasn’t surprising JV Hot Bagels was empty. The only other customer — a mustached, overweight middle-aged man in a NY Giants beanie — gathered his brown bag and gave her the look-over, as most men did. She was inured to it, didn’t bother her except when she knew the middle-aged man in question, like if it was a friend’s father. She didn’t know this guy, so what, kinda icky, but whatever. She was taller than him, and liked being taller than most men. The door opened, she heard the little bell, and he left without incident.
She ordered what she had always ordered when she just another high school regular — pumpernickel bagel, toasted, vegetable cream cheese — and a coffee, light on the milk and sugar. She was serviced by the owner, who recognized her, and she made small talk with him. He was a nice guy, late thirties, gelled hair and muscular, attractive in a typical way. Rumor was he slept with a couple of the girls who worked here, but for all she knew those were just rumors, and, whatever, it’s a free country. She told him about what she was majoring in — “Undecided,” she said with a smile, but leaning toward double-majoring in business and sociology — and he said something about that being impressive and ambitious, as if college wasn’t just a bullshit way station between childhood and adulthood. She made small talk about how she liked Albany and got along with her roommates — yeah, she’d gotten lucky on that end — and how the school lived up to its reputation as a party school (“I bet,” he said, which he’d certainly said a hundred times before).
She took her brown paper bag and said her good-byes. She decided to eat outside, despite the dry cold. Nostalgia required a cold environment, she thought; it wouldn’t feel right in a place like Florida, where the warm weather is beckoning and life-affirming. Nostalgia warms you up, in a certain way. It requires gray cold and hot coffee and local restaurants and blue Giants beanies.
She could see the edge of the high school from here. She looked at the high school and reminisced without active thoughts. Just about her time there, her friends. There were no real feelings to unearth; it’s not like anything was buried here. No dramatic emotions. Just the sad reminders of loss.
Lynn would be back in town next week from R.I.T., which Venice was deeply looking forward to. As college went on, they’d seen each other less, but for valid, expected reasons. Their respective schools were a solid 3.5 hours away from each other, they’d made their own separate friends, and Lynn was an engineering major, so she actually had to study during the school year, especially come finals time. Venice hadn’t seen Lynn in about six weeks, actually. There’s that obligatory sense of gravitas about being back in town, but hopefully, they could enjoy their free time together without too much painful reminiscing, and hopefully each year onward would get easier and easier.
She put the too-hot coffee in the drink-holder, started the car with her right hand and snacked on the still-hot bagel. She pulled out of the parking lot and thought about pulling up to Lakewood, but didn’t. That would be too sentimental, and she really wasn’t that type of person. Just thinking about pulling up to her old high school was enough.
She drove down the main road and past the turn-off for Mohegan Lake. She stayed in the right lane, even though everyone rushed into the left-turn-only lane just to cut everyone else off at the light. It didn’t bother her. Everyone in town knew about this annoying light and this annoying behavior; it was kind of unifying.
She was multitasking; driving, texting, eating, furtively finger-checking on her coffee cup to see if it was drinkable yet. She should have grabbed a coffee sleeve. She was about ten minutes away from her parents’ home off Curry Street. She had a figurative stack full of DVDs and television shows to catch up on, a ton of extra coffee to drink at home, and absolutely jack-shit else to do. Ahh, to be home.
She got a hearty scallion chunk in the last bite. Mmm, that was good.
Her phone vibrated. It was jammed right against her coffee. She clamped down on the coffee lid to prevent any from spilling over. She checked the message: Brenda, a friend from college who lived in her dorm. Usual gripes about being back at home. Emoticons and empathy. Continued buzzing vibrations, the red-flashing light of her phone out of the corner of her eye.
Crumpled bag, smeared on its edges with cream cheese. The phone between her legs at a traffic light; a long, hopefully final text until she got home. The coffee was good, she was glad he put in too much sugar.
Starting on the second half of the bagel. Car engine kicked a little bit, some pull-back, whatever. Rushing to make the right on the yellow light. Another insectile buzz from her phone. She checked to see who it was from, turning to make the light, ignoring the uncomfortable sting of the coffee that now dotted her hand.
Turning, that oncoming SUV was retarded, fucker, should stop. It didn’t. Nausea overtook her. No, that wasn’t right. A moment of dreadful anticipation, a pivot point that lasted a millennium.
The SUV crossed the yellow line while making its left and plowed head-on into her Kia. The metal mousetrap of her surroundings ruptured and exploded, roaring, folded into itself, a ship collapse in perpetuity.
Coroner’s report: She died instantly.
>< >< ><
Rowland, six years old, didn’t want to go to see Grandma Lynnie. He didn’t like the way she looked and the way she smelled. He hadn’t seen her for almost two months, ever since she had gotten sick and been in the hospital. He visited her in the hospital once and didn’t like it. He didn’t say anything about it, just kept to himself and didn’t talk. Grandma was nice and usually gave him toys or gifts, and if she did something he didn’t understand, his mom and dad would always let him know she did something nice by saying, “oh isn’t that nice,” and he’d feel comfortable about it.
He was going to visit Lynnie in the hospital. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie that everyone said was so cute and charming but was a little itchy and he didn’t like everyone watching over him.
He went with Mom, Dad, and his older brother, Kale, who was ten. Kale was acting like the big boy and telling Rowland to be on his best behavior. Rowland already planned on being good, and even letting Grandma pat him on the head and kiss him.
It took them a long time to get to the hospital. Rowland liked looking out the windows. He liked cars, was fascinated by them. Grandma Lynnie grew up near New York City, a place he’d never been, but he knew there were brightly colored taxis there. The most famous were the bright yellow taxis, Grandma told him. Then were also bright lime-green taxis, she told him, that went to the less crowded areas. And now there were bright purple and bright red taxis, too. And there were trains that went underground where all different kinds of people rode together. He wanted to visit New York and see the taxis and the trains and see the big famous toy stores and candy shops and eat ice cream. He lived in Delaware, and he didn’t know why that was funny but he heard people saying Delaware was funny and “no New York.”
When he got older, he’d go to New York City. His aunt and uncle and relatives lived somewhere in New York, on an island, but not a fun island, an island that looked a lot like his town except maybe more crowded. They were going to meet them at the hospital, too.
They all crowded into the hospital room. Rowland played by counting them all — One, himself; Two, his brother Kale. Three and Four, Mom and Dad. Five, Grandma who was Mom’s Mom, but maybe she didn’t count. Ok, then Five: Aunt Josie, Mom’s Sister; and Six, her husband William. Seven, Eight, Nine — Josie’s children, Auden, Alden, and August.
All in this one room. He was the youngest and everyone paid attention to him but he liked to stay quiet.
His Grandma Lynnie seemed very tired. She always seemed sort of tired and one time he said she should get more sleep, and she said something
and everyone laughed. But now she looked really bad, really thin and her eyes were dark-colored. She just didn’t look good, and he did not want to tell anyone but he was scared she would get him sick. He was brought over to hug and kiss Grandma Lynnie and he felt bad that he was scared to hug her and he felt bad that she must have realized that.
“Kiss your Grandma Lynnie,” his mother said. “Lynnie loves you and you love Lynnie, don’t you.” He did love Lynnie and he didn’t mean to be scared. He knew she wasn’t well, she was old, she was in her eighties which was an impossible idea: he was not even in his ‘tens’ yet. She had been alive eight times as long as his brother, which was amazing. He’d said it was amazing once and everyone laughed.
That laugh he’d liked.
He knew that Grandma Lynnie was special. She had been a successful engineer; he wasn’t sure what that was but it was hard to do and you had to be smart for it and read a lot. Plus, engineers worked on trains and helped build cars, although she was not that kind of engineer. Plus-plus, Grandma Lynnie made Mom, and Mom made him.
He hugged Grandma Lynnie and ignored the musky smell that reminded him of his dog when she was wet and sick. Lynnie was covered in a smooth, plastic sheet, kind of like the way his toys came wrapped. This sheet helped to keep her well. She had fallen recently and hurt herself and gotten really weak. He didn’t know much about it but she was sick inside. He knew that things disappeared when they died, and that Lynnie would probably disappear soon.
“I love you Row-Row. You’re going to go on a boat someday and you promise me to say ‘row-row’ for me?” He nodded into her shoulder. He’d already been on a boat and people had asked him to do that and he’d done it but he’d do it again. He had never gone on a boat by himself so he could make that promise to do it by himself one day.
She kissed him on his head, but it didn’t feel like lips on his head. It felt like a pencil eraser, it was so rough. He didn’t say anything.
He thought they would spend a short time there and leave, but they stayed for a long time.
With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer Page 4