Underworld Earth

by Nicholas Gagnier

  “What is your point, Harper?”

  “Before he disappeared,” I reply, “Tim told me she can’t be killed or woken.”

  “Then I guess you will have to figure it out, won’t you?”

  There is no sympathy on Gabriel’s part for the woman who helped create the Breach. He effortlessly opens a portal which will return us to the Arcway to rejoin Reaper and Grace. I cast a final look at the city I spent nearly a decade in trying to avoid beings like Gabriel, whose position of power among the stars has somehow given him ownership of my soul. There is no use arguing.

  Following him through black liquid which will drench my clothes but leave none wet, my fingers wrap around the locket; a reminder that just because I wish to be rid of it, does not mean we would easily part.

  Maybe it released my mother because she fulfilled a task for Atlas. With that done, she was allowed to remove it.

  And maybe, if I undo Tim and Ramona’s mistake the locket will allow me to do the same. And I shall fade into nothing.

  Samantha

  Reunions are a bleak affair.

  Looking into a version of another life, flowers in my hand seem like overcompensation. At the closed door to my mother’s hospital room, two thousand miles out of my comfort zone, doctors and nurses hurriedly pass from either direction. Orderlies and janitorial staff respond to the human wreckage of ending life like clockwork. Paramedics ferry the sick and injured in one entrance while those who can still limp or wheeze through the hospital doors on their own enter another.

  The last person I helped bury was Derek’s mother Vanessa. The woman prayed until the end of time for God to save her. He didn’t, and she wasted away bit by bit. To those dealing with death on a regular basis, it must get less unnerving, given time and practice, but it never plagues my dreams any less.

  In another life, I might have stayed in my hometown and watched my mother Catherine endure it. Organ failure trumps cancer in her case, and bitterness weighs more than peace. Through the slit of a window in the wooden door, idle toes arch the blue blanket covering them skyward, pointing to the tile ceilings. Beyond them, the crook of another person’s elbow is visible, the rest is obscured.

  I do not need to hear her voice to know the contempt that takes up real estate in every tone. Stephanie already texted me all the way from the airport. I briefly regretted sparing Nathan from seeing his grandmother shuffle off this mortal coil, but he barely knew her, and with good cause.

  It comes with the territory of moving half a continent away.

  Breathe, Samantha.

  My fists wrapped around the other, collectively clutching lilacs I bought down the street from the hospital. I free one to open the door, pushing inward. The air in Catherine’s room is drier than the hallway, which benefits from people constantly moving through it, creating brief but merciful breezes. The curtains are drawn, cancelling out natural light, spilling shadows over my dormant mother’s face.

  Stephanie’s head perks up from her cell phone; Catherine does not flinch. The old woman’s breathing is replaced by whirring from the ventilator obscuring her nose and mouth. She looks nothing like the last time we spoke in person. Creases in her skin are entrenched deeper, its complexion damaged by time and cigarette smoke.

  “About time you showed up.”

  My youngest sister, whose hair was bright red last we met, is back to brunette. Ever single and childless, Stephanie would be my carbon copy if our mutual spite didn’t outweigh love.

  “Sorry. Took forever to rent a car at the airport,” I reply, holding the flowers in front of me for protection.

  “That explains the last three hours. Not the last ten years, Sam.”

  I walk to Catherine’s bedside. The woman who gave birth to us is shriveled and weak; her skin is yellowed, and I can only imagine bloodshot eyes beneath the lids.

  “When was she last awake?”

  Stephanie rolls her eyes at the flowers I lay at my mother’s bedside table. No thought is given to a vase, because she’ll never be conscious long enough to appreciate them. Not that she would. Even sleeping, Catherine’s jowls and creases in her face radiate bitterness.

  “Does it matter?” she asks. When I don’t respond, Stephanie pouts and shakes her head. “Since she was awake, maybe a day. Since she was alert... much longer.”

  “I’m sorry.” Nothing can atone for my absence or being stuck with the brunt of Catherine’s care. But as the words leave my mouth, a blinding pain flashes in my right temple.

  “Sam?”

  It wasn’t fair you got stuck with that.

  The voice is my own, speaking words I have never said. Before I can ponder what it means, the pulsing in my forehead fades, and my vision returns to normal. Outlines reappear; I can distinguish my mother’s frail body, a hospital room in my hometown, and finally, my younger sister in my face.

  “Are you alright, Samantha?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, shaking it off. It will undoubtedly be a point of gossip with Laura later—a joke at my expense or fake laughter over wine. “Just a migraine, I think.”

  “I can call a doctor if you like,” she snipes, certifying she does not, in fact, believe me.

  “Anyway, Stephanie, I hope you know my absence hasn’t been intentional. Derek has this big merger opportunity, and I’ve been so wrapped up with Nathan... it’s just not possible to get out here often.”

  Whatever sympathy my moment of weakness might have derived is gone; replaced by her customary bitterness. Pulled mouth corners, and a clenched underbite she inherited from our ever-absent father—it’s been a decade and a half since we lived in the same cramped apartment, but I recognize my little sister’s triggers all too well.

  “Oh yeah? And where is my wonderful little nephew?”

  “Steph,” I chuckle, “you can’t possibly think it’s appropriate for an eleven-year-old boy to watch his grandmother waste away.”

  “Might be the only time he’s seen her. Would be a great lesson, wouldn’t it? Learning the true meaning of family, right Samantha? Just, move away! Move away and leave people you profess to call that word holding the bag!”

  “I told you, that was never my intention.”

  Stephanie scoffs, pacing to the window. She either called me across the country to kill me or to vent, simply because no one else will take her seriously. I’m still alive; it’s safe to assume she merely needs an outlet. With her face turned to the window, I may be able to avoid the back of her head, but not the gasps.

  “Listen,” I say, “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve gone through, taking care of her. Part of me recognizes that Laura is no help either, and I doubt Tom and Corey want anything to do with this mess.

  “I didn’t... move away, predicting something like this would happen, Steph. I saw a chance to... I don’t know... not be Mom. Not be bitter, and not be... this!” I gesture to the woman from the foot of her bed. The food beside her is hours old, untouched.

  “I wanted to be happy, Steph. Some part of you must understand that.”

  If the smallest sliver does, it is long layered over by anger. Having said her piece, she tells me to leave.

  “Stephanie…”

  “Get out.”

  She doesn’t look back, fixated on the wide-set window; as if whatever lies beyond it might ease her emotional burden. We both know she won’t find it out there. Approaching Catherine, I bend down and kiss her forehead. There is no point arguing with Stephanie, so I return to the door, pulling it open; trying to disregard my dying mother and her despondent daughter who hates me.

  Letting Catherine’s hospital room door latch closed behind me, I lean back against it, trying to recover some semblance of sanity.

  The world is yours now, Samantha.

  This time, the voice accompanying sharp pain through my temple is female, but not mine. Like pangs of a migraine, ripping through my skull, I raise a hand to both eyes and cover them.

  You decide what to do with it.

 
What is happening to me?

  The pain subsides, and I remove the hand over my vision. The nurse’s station is empty; branching hallways beyond the desk are eerily still. The green floors are infected by fluorescent lights pouring on them with a similar hue. A shriveled old woman seated across from the door is my only company, hacking into a rag. Her eyes barely open for all the irritation around them. Green phlegm pours from her nose as I offer a feigned smile and she looks up from her struggle, trying to staunch its flow.

  The woman does not return my gesture. Like everyone else in this fucking town, she is a reminder of why we left. We ran away, our only child in tow, halfway across the continent, in the hopes that our eyes would not meet this place again.

  Now my mother is on her deathbed, and the only silver lining is that I will never need to return.

  Stepping away from the door, I take my first steps toward home; the only place in the world that I still belong.

  Peter

  It only takes a single moment to realize you’re the luckiest man in the world.

  Sometimes, the smallest signs from the universe reinforce this fact. It could be the twenty-dollar bill found walking home from the store on a summer day—the kids pedaling around the block would argue who got to keep it, but it was claimed the moment your hand tightened around it. Your mother taught you to wait three days before spending it, but you blow it inside of an hour because your absent father’s parting advice was “fuck the world”. It’s a dog eat dog philosophy, and that poor sucker’s shit luck is your two packs of cigarettes gained.

  It could be you’re an unsuccessful Internet entrepreneur who gets to live in a decent condo because your wife rakes in the dollars; you supplement doing any actual work by staying home and raising your only child. I was never one to debate gender roles, nor what needed to be done.

  My daughter drawing backward incarnations of the letter S with a run-down purple crayon is my reinforcement. I look on, beaming with pride from the couch opposite her crossed legs on the floor, shoulders hunched over the glass coffee tabletop.

  She fucks up the direction and looks at me, grinning ear to ear. To her, it appears completely normal; her expression, composed of improperly spaced front teeth and her mother’s face, forces me to stop overanalyzing the spelling habits of a seven-year-old. To Fiona, that letter is right-side facing as the sun sets in the West. Every word is made more awkward by it, being the only letter she struggles to position correctly.

  “Awesome, sweetie,” I tell her. “So, I’m not trying to make you feel bad, but…” I gently draw the paper across the coffee table and take the crayon, demonstrating it to her; “The S goes this way. See?”

  Fiona’s eyes widen, realizing the mistake persists. She has my hair—wild, thin and dark—but everything from the eyes down is her mother. My flesh and blood snatches the paper back. Focused on my example, she mocks it perfectly.

  Soon as the paper disappears, she’ll be back to writing it backwards.

  “Hey, guys!” a voice calls from the entryway, followed by the front door slamming. I kiss Fi on the forehead and tell her I’ll be right back.

  My wife Meghan, two years my senior, removes her heels at the door. Leaning against the wall for support, one thumb massages the ball of her foot.

  “Hey yourself,” I reply, reaching the entryway. She stands and kisses me briefly before removing the other heel. “Long day?”

  Meghan groans, right thumb moving to the left sole, now freed from its prison of a shoe.

  “Absolute hell, Pete. Sometimes, it makes me wish you were the lawyer, and I got to stay at home with my child.”

  “Hey now,” I reply, “I made the choice a long time ago to work in an industry where I don’t have to deal with people. That, and it’s a woman’s world now, right?”

  Meghan walks to the kitchen, past the room where Fiona diligently practices the most challenging letter in her alphabet. I follow my wife to the fridge; she retrieves a transparent bottle from inside the door. Bringing a stemmed glass to the kitchen island, she pours it to half level.

  “Sorry,” she remarks, raising the white liquid to her lips. “I know you work hard, raising her.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, I mean... thank you for saying that. It can’t be easy dealing with her all day.”

  Meghan replaces the wine glass on the counter, and wraps her arms around my waist, kissing the beard which has grown longer the more time has passed, and without a legitimate reason to shave it.

  “Can’t be easy being away from her, all the same,” I reply, mirroring her smile. Despite all these little differences between us, the end goal is the same. After seven years, it no longer matters Fiona was the result of a drunken one-night stand.

  The rings around our fingers, five years strong, are a testament to that.

  “No, it’s not. But someone has to provide for you two. I don’t know what on Earth you would do without me, Pete.”

  “Starve, likely,” I joke, unsure if it’s humor at all.

  “You know, I was thinking today…”

  “Yeah?”

  Meghan cocks her head in such a way her elegant black hair falls over her shoulders, draping the blouse as she re-secures the wine glass.

  “Maybe it’s time we got out of Haven.”

  I would be lying in saying I hadn’t long considered it. The small town we’re from is weak on prospects and archaic in just about every way.

  “Where would you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. New York?”

  “Oh,” I reply, “that’s a long ways.”

  “So? We always talked about leaving this stupid town, Pete. I don’t want to work for Dad my entire life, driving to Spokane every other day to represent some poor, washed-up Washington State hick who got his panties twisted about the federal government taking his guns away.”

  I can only laugh under my breath, because what she says is not wrong.

  “You’ve got your home business, but that can be done anywhere,” she continues. “Are we really so attached to this place, we’re willing to die here, Peter?”

  Before I can answer, we are unceremoniously interrupted by Fiona in the kitchen door frame.

  “We’ll continue this talk later, okay?” I tell Meghan.

  “Well, if you two are gonna run off on me, would you mind going to the corner store for milk? We’re out.”

  “What do you say?” I ask Fiona. She nods in agreement, smiling ear to ear and disappearing into the front hallway. I hear her immediately announce she is ready. I kiss Meghan on the cheek, joining Fiona at the door. Walking down the front steps, she reaches for my hand, and I take it in mine. We walk along the curb, because our gated community has no sidewalk beyond the main road it was cut from. Reminding Fiona to stay off the road, she occasionally wanders over safety’s perimeter, where cars would miss the little human at my side.

  The annual sounds of deck building and renovating have begun and will continue through the summer. The grass, only recently exposed in snow’s annual retreat, has begun to come back from its dreadful shades of brown.

  It only takes one moment to lose yourself in the bliss of it all. In contrast to my daughter’s limitless wonder at the world, I have found a place it might finally be replicated.

  Down the street from our gated community is a gas station attached to a convenience store. It sits on the corner between suburbs and low-income housing, making it a line of sorts for state cops between their coffee breaks and the next call coming in over their radio.

  Meghan often chooses to drive the five minutes to the store. I can’t blame her; she lives in a world of deadlines and time crunching. I don’t pretend to know about the realities she deals with daily. The long hours and slew of criminal cases take their toll, and the luxury of a casual walk with her daughter is often out ruled in favor of piling her in the car seat to buy milk, get home and finish her brief.

  To that end, Meghan and Fiona have a much different dynam
ic.

  Outside the door, a lanky adolescent in a jacket too large for him accosts individuals to buy his drugs. Walking past, he barely notices us; we are not his clientele anyway. Several variations of hand signals and street talk occur with other fellows coming from the opposite direction before I’ve pulled the door open, leaving them to their shady transactions.

  Inside, the girl behind the counter stands hunched over the bench on her elbows. Her hair is dark, but her face is pale, and she scowls every time the teenage drug dealer’s voice pours in the open door on a lukewarm breeze.

  Walking past the clerk’s station, I grab a white plastic jug from inside the fridge, and usher my child back toward the counter. The woman eyeballs me the entire time as Fiona asks to buy bubblegum, and I explain I only brought enough for the milk.

  “That’s quite the donation tray,” I remark to the clerk. We both look to the yellow penny tray with no change inside, and obscenities scrawled across its plastic frame in permanent marker.

  “Thanks,” the girl snipes, “Made it myself.”

  “What does it say, Daddy?” Fiona asks.

  I’m not about to tell her. I ask the counter girl for a pack of Malboros. She reaches above, pulling the cubic cigarette pack down, pushing it aggressively across the counter.

  “Bad day?”

  “Fuck do you care?” she asks. “Boyfriend ghosted me. We were about to move in together. Asshole.”

  “Well,” I reply, trading a ten-dollar bill for both the milk and cigarettes, “Sometimes things have to fall apart to make room for new things, right?”

  She sneers, passing two quarters back across the counter. I wish her a better day, and take Fiona’s hand, leading her back outside. The obnoxious boy with an Afro and oversized jacket tries to hail me—a man with a seven-year-old on his arm—if he wants to buy some weed.

  Lighting the cigarette over Fiona’s head, I keep pushing past the illegitimate businessman.

  “Whoa,” he says in a raspy voice, “Sure, dawg? Got some primo shit. Shipped from B.C. They call it Whitetail Kush. Can hook you up. Eighth for forty?”