by Erin Huss
Mom turns around in her seat. "We were at an open house when we got the call from Dr. Karman and rushed over."
"Couldn't you have come by yourselves?"
Dad looks at me in the rearview mirror. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, pumpkin."
"Pumpkin?" Homburg Guy shakes his head.
"Leave me alone!"
Mom and Dad share a glance then stare straight ahead. "I know you're in pain, sweetie, but there's no need to be so rude," Mom says.
"Me being rude? Wha-how-my. Gah! Never mind." I cross my arms and close my eyes.
When I open them, we're home and Homburg Guy is gone. Hallelujah! Mom and Dad must have dropped him off somewhere. It's a good thing I didn't get the job. I'd hate to have to deal with him five days a week. He has a lot of nerve showing up at the doctor's office and making fun of my clothes and calling me a dud.
I'm not a dud.
I'm a respectable, educated, and self-reliant woman!
My parents help me inside, and Mom makes a bed for me on the couch. Dad pulls a blanket up to my chin. "Are you comfortable?"
I nod yes. I'm quite comfortable. There's no place like home.
Jabba, my cat, jumps up onto the couch and nestles close, purring so loudly it sounds as if he’s about to explode. I’ve never heard Jabba purr before. I didn’t think he knew how. He showed up on our doorstep ten years ago, and he has never allowed us to pet, cuddle, get near, or look him directly in the eyes. He mostly lies around and eats.
Also, he looks like Jabba the Hutt.
Hence the name.
Mom puts a cool washcloth over my eyes, and it feels wonderful.
"I'll stay with her, and you go finish with the Attwood listing," Mom says to Dad.
"No, I'll stay, and you go."
"Neither of you needs to stay." I peek up from under my washcloth. "I'm fine. Stop fussing. Go work."
"Are you sure?" Mom asks.
“Dr. Karman said it's a mild concussion," I say. "Nothing to worry about. You can't afford to lose the Attwood listing. Please go, and if I need anything, I'll call you."
They hesitate but with a little more coaxing agree to leave and promise to be back shortly. I replace the washcloth and cuddle up with the blanket. Jabba curls up on my chest and even allows me to pet his head a few times before he bites my hand.
What a day.
I didn't get the job, got hit by a car, and was harassed by a man in a hat.
What's his problem anyway? He sees me once and is able to … oh, I get it.
I chuckle to myself.
It's obvious.
He's in love with me.
Homburg Guy is the town's bad boy, and I'm the shy girl. He's no good for me and he knows it. But he can't help himself and it kills him. When he witnessed the accident, it scared him and he took it out on me. He's angry now, but then one day, while we're passing by each other at the market or when we're caught alone in an elevator, he'll pin me up against the wall, rip open his shirt to expose his chiseled abs, and kiss me. Then he'll stalk off and pretend it never happened. We'll do the back and forth thing for a week or two until I either get knocked-up or we wake up one morning hung-over and married.
I read a lot of hot romance novels, so I know how this kind of thing goes.
Homburg Guy is handsome, I'll give him that. Light hair, blue eyes, square jaw, very All-American Boy.
I'm short with dark blonde hair and big brown eyes. Mom's hairdresser said I should add in highlights, but I don't have a source of income, so dark blonde it is.
Jabba interrupts my thoughts by digging his claws into my chest and hissing.
Ouch!
I throw the washcloth off my face and jolt upright, sending Jabba to the floor.
“Good, you’re up,” says a familiar voice.
I turn my head. Homburg Guy is in my living room!
Okay, so maybe it's not a hot romance novel but more so a psychological thriller and this guy is my stalker. Or this is some freaky version of Fifty Shades of Grey. Either way, I don't do bondage.
I scream again.
Jabba hisses.
We do this for a while.
"Stop that. Do you want your neighbors to hear?" Homburg Guy says.
"Yes!" I run to the kitchen and pull out a butcher knife. "Stay away!"
Homburg Guy looks at me as if I'm being ridiculous. Like his breaking into my house is completely normal. As if I'm the one acting crazy in this scenario.
"Back away!" I hold the knife up. "Back off!"
"Put that thing away and get to work," Homburg Guy says.
"I already told you, I didn't get the job!"
"Not at the newspaper, you nitwit. If you want to write about this crap town, I don't care."
"Watch your language."
He squints his eyes. "Crap."
"Stop it."
"Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Dammit!" He runs his hands down his face.
Jabba strolls into the kitchen and rises to his back legs, as if to appear taller, and bares his teeth.
“That is the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen,” Hamburg Guy says, staring down at Jabba. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with some crazy cat lady.”
"I am not a crazy cat lady!” My hands are shaking so badly the knife slips from my grip and falls to the ground. "Leave my house at once," I demand.
"No."
"Leave my house right now!"
"No!"
I grab the cookie jar and hurl it at him with all my might. It goes right through him and crashes against the wall.
Through him!
The cookie jar went through his body and is now shattered into tiny pieces on the ground.
I fall into the fetal position. This is the concussion. I'm hallucinating. That's it. Once the swelling in my brain goes down, I'll be fine. Perfectly fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
"Are you done with your nervous breakdown?" he asks.
"No," I say, rocking with my head between my knees. "You're not real. Leave me alone."
"I can't leave you alone. We have work to do. Now get up and do your job."
"I saw you at The Gazette, and now my injured brain has manifested an intense hallucination."
Homburg Guy grunts. "If I were a hallucination, could I do this?" He looks around the room and shakes his head. "I've got nothing, actually … Look”—he lowers to one knee—“you need to put on your big girl panties and act like an adult, because we've got stuff to do and not a lot of time to do it. Suck it up."
My hallucination is mean.
I reach my arm up and feel around on the counter until my hand lands on the cordless phone. My fingers shake as I dial.
"Are you calling Mommy and Daddy?"
I put the phone to my ear. "Mom, I need you to take me to the hospital."
Homburg Guy slaps his hands over his eyes. "We don't have time."
"Right now!"
Chapter Two
The ER doctor pulls open the curtain. Mom and Dad each have one of my hands, and I hold my breath while I wait for the news. A brain bleed. Tumor. Stroke. Aneurysm!
"You're anemic," the doctor says.
I blow out a breath. "That's it?"
"Considering you've been hit by a car, I think you're in great shape." The doctor doesn't look old enough to have MD behind his name. I need a second opinion.
One hour later:
"CT scan looks normal. Urine sample is fine. The only thing I found is low iron. I'm recommending you start on an iron supplement and follow up with your regular physician," says the second opinion. His name is Dr. Girt, and he's not much older than the previous MD, but I've been told they're busy and a third opinion is not an option.
"Hold on." I yank my hands free from Mom’s and Dad's grasps. "No one else can see that man at the nurses’ station? The one with the hat on?"
Everyone switches their attention to Homburg Guy, who is reclining in a chair with his feet propped up on the desk, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, looking like he owns the place.
&n
bsp; "Who?" Dad asks.
"The man with the shiny black shoes. Right there. He's checking out the nurse with the curly hair. Do you see him?"
Mom's smile goes tense, and she tugs on her blazer, which is black with shoulder pads and gold buttons. "Can we speak to you privately?” she asks the doctor. The three of them take five steps, pull the curtain, and begin talking like there's a brick wall between us, not a thin piece of fabric.
I tune them out and drop my head into my hands. This is not happening. This is not happening.
"Does your mom always dress like a member of that … what was that group called?" Homburg Guy is sitting at the foot of my bed. “Bratty Pack? Brat … something brat from the eighties. They were in all those high school movies.”
"What in the world are you … wait! No, no, no, no. I'm not talking to you. You're not real."
The curtain slides open. "Did you call me?" Mom asks.
"No," I smile what I hope is a reassuring I-am-not-crazy smile. "I'm fine."
Mom's brow furrows, and she yanks the curtain closed.
"Look," I say at a whisper. "Please, please go away."
"No." Homburg guy cocks a thumb. "They're talking about admitting you to the psycho ward, woman. You're no good to me if you're drugged up."
Psych ward? My parents would never do such a thing. I mean, yes, I am being harassed by a figment of my imagination. Still, I don't want to be drugged up or locked up. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "You are not real. You don't exist. I am fine." I repeat this to myself until I believe it.
"I'm still here," Homburg Guy whispers in my ear.
Darn it!
The curtain flings open, and the trio returns with fake smiles plastered on their faces, like they all just received heavy Botox injections.
"Good news!" I say before they whip out the straight jacket. "I'm feeling much better. I was so concerned about possible internal damage caused by the accident that … um … I talked myself into a panic attack. That's why I threw the cookie jar. I'm all better now."
Dad places a hand on my shoulder. "So you're not seeing anyone?"
"Not at all," I manage to say. "Only you three." And the Homburg Guy hovering behind the doctor.
"You weigh a hundred and five pounds?" He's reading over the doctor's shoulder. "I would have guessed you had another thirty on you. That outfit isn't doing you any favors."
"Totally fine," I say through gritted teeth. "How about that ice cream, Dad?”
"Honey," Mom smooths out the blanket draped over my legs. "I would feel more comfortable if you talked to—"
"Dear," Dad cuts her off. "She said she's better."
“But, dear”—Mom juts her jaw—“it won't hurt for her to talk to someone."
"You heard her, dear. She had a panic attack. She's fine."
"People don't typically see men in hats when they're having a panic attack, dear."
"Do they always talk about you like you're not here?" Homburg Guy asks.
"Pretty much." I lay back against the scratchy hospital sheet and wait for them to finish.
"What was that, pumpkin?" Dad asks.
“Um … errr … um.” My parents are politely arguing over me. I'm getting fashion advice from a hallucination. And my doctor looks like he recently hit puberty. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to completely freak out, but I'd rather not spend my days in a padded cell. "I'm pretty much fine. Can we please leave?"
Mom lets out a sigh. "I don't think—"
"Ice cream it is." Dad turns to the doctor. "Can we get the discharge papers?"
* * *
We're home by sundown. My hallucination is still here but quiet. When we stopped for ice cream, he chose to sulk in the car, and I was afforded a few moments by myself. Well, not technically by myself. I was sandwiched between my parents who silently watched me eat my single scoop of vanilla ice cream as if I might spontaneously combust at any moment.
It was exhausting.
Almost as exhausting as having to pretend a man isn't following me around.
"I'm going to sleep," I announce as soon as I exit the car and then proceed straight to my room and close the door. Jabba is sprawled out on my bed, fast asleep. I nudge him out of the way and bury my head in my pillow. I already know what Homburg Guy is thinking. Probably because he's a figment of my imagination. "Don't say it."
"What am I about to say?"
"You're going to make fun of my daybed or the fact I have a porcelain doll collection. But I’ll have you know that they’re vintage and worth a lot of money."
"I wasn't going to say anything about your room," he says, his tone softer than before.
I sit up. "You weren't?"
"Of course not," he scoffs. "This doll collection is impressive, and I like the drapes. The white lace goes well with the wallpaper … oh, hell. I can't do nice. Your room looks like it belongs to one of those people you see on TV who eats deodorant. Now that your helicopter parents are gone, it's time to get to work."
I'm too tired to fight. "What is it exactly that you want me to do?"
"Find out how I died."
I put a pillow over my head and fall back on my bed, careful not to disturb Jabba. "This is not happening."
My body goes cold, like I just dove into an ice bath. I throw the pillow off my head. Homburg Guy is sitting on my legs. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not leaving until you help me."
I attempt to move but my legs are frozen still. I suck in a breath, about to scream, when I remember the look my parents exchanged in the hospital. I can't give them more reason to believe I'm crazy. Even if I clearly am.
"Fine," I say, giving up. If I help my hallucination, then perhaps he'll disappear. Or so I hope. "All you want is to know how you died?"
"Yes." He stands, and I can move my legs again.
"If you're dead, then why don't you ask God, or an angel, or someone in heaven how you ended up dead?"
Homburg Guy shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that. All I need you to do is get on the computer and find out how I died. Then I'll go."
"You promise?"
"Trust me, woman. I don't want to be here anymore than you want me to be."
I can't believe I'm even considering this. I can't believe I'm talking to a hallucination. I can't believe the only thing wrong with me is a lack of iron. I need a third opinion.
In the meantime …
"There's one problem," I say. "The laptop is in the living room."
"And?"
"And my parents are out there. It's their work computer. They're not going to just let me use it. I'll have to wait until they go to bed."
"We don't have time!" He paces the room and strokes his chin until he comes to a halt. "I've got it. Tell them you need to fill out the papers online for your new job and grab the computer like a big girl."
"B-but I don't have a new job."
"It's called a lie. Like what you did earlier in the hospital when you said you weren't seeing me anymore. They don't know if you got the job or not. They never asked. You never told them."
My hallucination makes a good point. I don't want to lie to my parents. But I don't want to keep arguing with imaginary people either.
If this doesn't stop soon, I will happily commit myself.
Mom and Dad are sitting on opposite ends of the couch watching a documentary on penguins. I wet my lips and smooth back my hair. I suddenly realize I'm still in the same ripped socks and dirty skirt ensemble. This won't work.
I quickly retreat back to my room.
"Did you get it?" Homburg Guy grabs ahold of the bed railing and stares at me anxiously.
"Get out. I need to change."
"What? Why?"
"Because they'll be less suspicious if I'm dressed and ready for bed." I open my closet and pull out my nightgown.
Homburg Guy moans and walks through the wall. My room feels eerily empty.
I get dressed, brush my teeth, wash my face, and comb my hair. My
hands are shaky, and I can't believe I'm even doing this. Looking up a man who doesn't exist on the internet is only going to prove that I have, in fact, lost my marbles.
All dressed for bed, I peek my head out of the bathroom door to see if Homburg Guy has returned.
Coast is clear.
I tiptoe to my bedroom.
"Get the damn computer and get on with it." He's at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping. “I want to get out of here!”
"Fine," I grunt and go to the living room. Mom has fallen asleep. Her head is back, mouth open, drool slithering down her chin. This is good. Dad avoids conflict like the stomach flu, while Mom grabs conflict by the balls and forces it to comply.
"Dad," I whisper so as not to wake Mom. "I forgot about the paperwork for my new job that I need to fill out online. It's due tonight. Can I use your computer for a bit?" I unplug the laptop from the wall and wrap up the cord.
"I didn't know you got the job, sweetie. Congratulations." He yawns and runs a hand through his dark hair. "When do you start?"
"Um … tomorrow.”
Dad rubs his eyes. "Don't stay up too late."
"I won't. Good night." I kiss the top of Dad's head and scoot out of the room before he realizes what he's done. In the past, they've only allowed me to touch their computer for homework purposes or to update MLS listings. We have sensitive client information on there, Mom had said. Can't argue with that.
I'm back on my bed with the laptop open. I click on the internet icon and go to Google. "What's your first and last name, date of birth, and date of death?” I ask.
Homburg Guy is pacing the room. "Willie MacIntosh, spelled with a capital I. Born September fourth, nineteen twenty-six. Died sometime in the last day or so."
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. "You're kidding me, right? You want to know how you died? You were …” I click on the calculator icon on the desktop and type in the dates. "You were ninety-three years old," I loudly whisper in shock. "Why do you look so young?"
"I’m no expert, but it appears that you are restored to your prime after you die. The fifties were good years for me."
"You're ninety-three."
"Age is only a number," he says defensively. "Before I died, I was in great shape. I played golf on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Cross-country skied in the winter. Took my boat out every weekend. I was the picture of health."