The Black Room: Door Eight

by Jasinda Wilder

  Then I’m floating again, back in the emptiness. It’s not darkness, now, though, but real true emptiness, a nothingness. But the nothingness nonetheless still somehow contains the spark that is me, and I can feel the fractal crystals of me floating in the nothingness. But maybe, just maybe I can gather them, cobble them into a larger sensate existence.

  The effort is endless and tiring. But I cannot, do not, do not dare stop trying. It is like trying to gather handfuls of sand and grip them as tight as possible, hoping to reform them into a block of stone—only I do not have hands, only a fragmentary semblance of I.

  There is…a lightening. A slight, vague filling of the void with some kind of…reality. Light, truth, I don’t know. Just…something. Yet as vague and insubstantial as it is, that something heartens me, gives me renewed hope.

  If awareness is a sunrise, then I am the subtle tinge of gray staining the blackness on the horizon. No pink yet, just a lifting of the complete darkness of night.

  I struggle in the void, yearn for more, aware of Conrad and of his existence, if not his presence.

  I have to wake up for him.

  ++

  “—And then he—he fucking jumped! Can you believe it? He fucking jumped, the dumbass. And wouldn’t you know, he made it? Cleared it like it was nothing. Must’ve been, oh, at least three or four feet. Doesn’t seem like all that much until you have that gap in front of you and the cops are behind you. Then three or four feet might as well be a fucking canyon. But the goddamned asshole didn’t even slow down, just fucking jumped across. He got away, and I got arrested. Spent three days in juvie lockup before my aunt showed up to get me out. She knew I was there the whole time, but figured I needed a lesson, so she let me twist. I learned a lesson, all right. Learned that you can’t trust anyone, not anyone. Nobody. And I never did after that. I found the so-called buddy who ditched me and let me get arrested, and I broke his goddamn jaw. Used a cigarette punch. Know what that is? It’s when you offer a guy a smoke, and when he’s got his mouth open and relaxed, you nail him in the jaw. Breaks it easy as you please. That was…kind of the beginning of it all, for me. Or maybe the end, I guess you might say.”

  A silence, and then his voice continues; he’s close, speaking just above a whisper.

  “Figured out I could hit like a Mack truck, and figured out I didn’t mind getting hit all that much. Get popped as much as I did when I was a kid, before the state took me out of there, you don’t feel pain quite the same way as others might. A crack across the jaw isn’t a big deal when you’ve taken a dozen hits like it from a full-grown man. I was a brawler, plain and simple. Not proud of it, but there it is.

  “I quit going back to Aunt Sue’s about a year after I got arrested. Didn’t see the point, you know? She didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to be there. She was probably gonna kick me to the curb at some point anyway, so I just quit going back.

  “This was the South Carolina coast, so being out on the streets was a different prospect than it might be somewhere like New York or Chicago. No winter to speak of, you know? I’d sleep in alleys, under bridges, wherever the cops would have a hard time finding me to kick me out. I had this one spot under a pier, man…that was the shit, that spot. Ocean breeze, stars on the water, and the sound of the surf…it put me to sleep like magic. I couldn’t stay there every night though, or the fuzz would get suspicious and I’d lose it. They figure out your spots, you know? And they make you leave, they’ll show up while you’re sleeping and make you move, usually by the oh-so kind method of a boot to the ribs. ‘Get a move on, kid. Can’t stay here,’” his voice turns into a gravelly growl, then goes back to his smooth, silky midnight voice.

  “You wanna know how I got off the streets? Pure luck, that’s how. Kind of a Hollywood story, you ask me. Kinda thing you’d see ‘em make a movie out of. I held up this old man, right? Stuck a knife in his face and told him to give me his money, or else. I probably wouldn’t have stabbed him, but I figured he wouldn’t know that. I was wrong, though. He knew. Man, he knew. Dared me to stab him, and when I wouldn’t, he slapped the knife out of my hand and told me to follow him. So I did.

  “Not sure why, even now, but I followed him. He took me to this junkyard, like a real deal junkyard, full of scrap and old cars and just piles and piles of old useless shit. And he gave me a job sorting through the shit, taught me operate the cranes and the tow truck and the front loaders, showed me how to itemize useful parts and how to find those useful parts for guys rebuilding junkers or whatever.

  “I worked in that junkyard for six years. The old man gave me a bed in the back of the office, and there was a shower there, so I just lived there. Sounds like shit, but it was heaven to me. Safe, solitary, work to do, a little money in my pocket. Well, after six years, the old man died and left me the junkyard. Managed to turn the profit from the junkyard into enough cash to invest in a cube van, and I started another business hauling people’s junk away for them, like the shit too big for garbage trucks.

  “I cleaned out garages, towed cars out of yards, hauled away broken fridges and whatever else. I made a career out of actual, literal junk, babe. Never told you what I do for a living because it isn’t pretty, it isn’t romantic or badass or whatever. But it pays good, you know? I got my own house, a nice truck, a big old TV. I got fifty guys working for me. I own three scrapyards, and got four teams of guys serving most of the state.”

  A pause, silence filling the space, except for the beep—beep—beep.

  Then he starts up again. “I’m thinking of buying a restaurant. Did I mention that yet? I don’t think I did. It’s this shitty dive bar up the coast a ways, not much to look at, kinda dirty, kinda sketchy. But the guy in the kitchen makes these killer fucking burgers, right? Like, just the juiciest, thickest burgers I’ve ever had in my life. Clean it up a bit, redecorate so it don’t look like a failed biker hole, fix a few things, get a decent bartender? Man, I think it could make some bank. It’s right on the highway, looking out on the ocean. Decent spot, lots of potential. What do you think, babe?”

  Silence, brief, expectant.

  “Yeah, I think I should too. You’ll love it there, once I fix it up. I’ll paint it light colors, so it looks bigger. Make it like an old beach bar, you know? Ropes and boat steering wheels and fishing poles and shit. Keep the old wood floors, except maybe replace the ones that squeak. Bust a few new windows to let in some light—or maybe—maybe even open the whole front wall and put in one of those indoor-outdoor decks, you know? Where the walls slide apart and it’s all open? I think that’d be cool.

  “The bathrooms, though, those are important. People will judge a place on the bathrooms. If they’re small and dirty and smell like old piss, folks aren’t gonna come back, no matter how good the food or booze is. I’ve noticed this. I do the same thing myself. Nobody likes to piss in a smelly-ass pit where you don’t have room to even turn around, you know? So I gotta invest in nice bathrooms.”

  Another silence, this one long, and this silence feels…tense. Painful.

  “It’s hard to keep up these running monologues, babe. I’m not one to talk this much, usually. You’ve probably figured that out by now though, right? I think I’ve spoken more all at once over this last week or so than I have the rest of my entire life. They say, if you’re in there, that you can hear me. I like to think you can hear me. It’s fucking hard, babe. I’m trying, but I’m…I’m running out of shit to talk about. Maybe I’ll bring a book, read it out loud to you. That might be easier than trying to work up what I’m gonna talk about all damn day.

  “What do you like to read? We never talked about that. You like classics? Shakespeare and shit? Or newer stuff, like romance, maybe. What do they call ‘em…bodice rippers? Nah, that’s not you. I bet you like sci-fi. Ha, I’m just kidding. Maybe I’ll start with something cool, like…Hemingway. I know I don’t seem the type, but I love to read. Hemingway, man, that dude was the shit. You’ll like him. You’re smarter than I am, so you’ve p
robably already read it, but…what are you gonna do, complain?” He groans. “Too soon? Yeah, definitely too soon.”

  He groans again, and the sound is muffled, as if he’s scrubbing his face with his hands. “I’m going crazy, Hannah. I’m sorry, shit—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t crack jokes. It’s not fucking funny, I know it’s not.”

  Actually, that was funny, Conrad. And I’m not smarter than you. I’ve never read Hemingway, and I do like sci-fi—I like space opera. It’s kind of a guilty secret of mine. And I’m not a fan of Shakespeare. I mean, everybody raves about Shakespeare this and Shakespeare that, but…Romeo and Juliet? It’s so stupidly tragic—it was all so preventable. Like those stupid romantic comedies where the whole thing is predicated on a simple misunderstanding which could have been fixed if they’d just talked things out like rational adults.

  I wish he could hear me.

  Conrad?

  CONRAD!

  Wiggle your toe, Hannah.

  I think of that movie—wiggle your big toe—wiggle your big toe—

  I’m not as badass as Beatrix Kiddo, but if I can wiggle my pinky toe, maybe he’ll notice. Maybe he’ll know I’m here, I’m here, I’m in here, I’m listening.

  Impulse.

  Wiggle your damn toe, Hannah.

  I feel an echo of sensation, and his breath catches.

  “Hannah? Babe?” His voice cracks. “You—you moved your toe.”

  Conrad. Keep talking to me, Conrad. I’m here, my love. I’m here.

  “Can you do it again?”

  I try. TRY. I focus on that echo of the impulse, and this time the echo is louder, closer. I feel—more toes. More movement. Not quite all five toes, but nearly. The four smaller ones, I can feel them twitch.

  “Babe…I—what do I do? Do I get a doctor? Shit.” He sounds panicked, excited. “Okay, Hannah, babe, listen. If you’re in there, if you hear me, wiggle those sexy little toes of yours for me again. Twice, can you do that? Wiggle ‘em twice.”

  That’s so much harder than you know, Conrad. You don’t know what you’re asking. But for you…I’ll do anything. For you.

  It takes an eternity. The void reaches for me, but I deny it.

  I wiggle. Wiggle.

  And Conrad laughs, but the laugh is a sob. “You’re there. You’re there! You hear me!”

  I hear you, Conrad. I fucking hear you. Keep talking to me, sweetheart. Read me Hemingway. Tell me about your aunt. Tell me about your scrapyards. Tell me—tell me about all your girlfriends, so I know how to love you better than any of them ever did. Tell me everything.

  Commotion then. Male voices, female voices, a flurry of sounds and activity. More sensation, now. Things happening…to me. I feel it! I feel it. Touching, poking.

  A male voice—the doctor?—asks me to move my toes again, and I do.

  But it’s too much, then.

  Too much; I’m tired. So tired.

  But this time, oh…this time what pulls me under isn’t the cold hungry darkness, or the empty void, but rather…

  Sleep.

  Precious, normal, peaceful sleep.

  The difference between sleep and what had me in its clutches before? It’s…impossible to describe, even to myself. But I feel it, I know it, I recognize the touch of sleep as I sink into it. Sleep is sweet, delicate, and temporary.

  I sleep…and I do not dream.

  +++

  “What are you doing here, asshole?” Conrad’s voice, angry.

  “I…I wasn’t in my right mind, before. The doctor, he made it sound like—”

  “Charlie, listen. There’s no love lost between you and me, right? We both know that. So I’ll just be blunt: you had your chance, man. Ten years worth of chances, actually. And then, when she needed you the most, you were just gonna, what…let ‘em shut off the ventilator? Let her fuckin’ code out because you don’t have the fuckin’ balls to stay by her side when shit gets rough? You don’t deserve her, Charlie. You don’t deserve to be here.”

  “I—I just—shit. You’re right. I know you’re right. But I didn’t come back for that. I had to see—”

  Poor Charlie sounds so confused, so disoriented.

  My brain wobbles, tilts, and I have flashes, fleeting glimpses and visions of Charlie, but not this Charlie, not my Charlie. A different Charles Markham. A Charlie Markham with a six gun and a leer, hauling me through the snow. A Charlie with a saber and a musket, arrogant in a scarlet coat. A Charlie dressed in a suit, blond hair slicked back, winning a hand of cards, kneeling between my tied-open thighs with a cocky sneer.

  So many versions, all Charlie but none are this Charlie. Which one is real, though? Did the real Charlie ever love me? The nights spent awake, alone, desperate for release, while he snored beside me…was that real? The sightless, fever-flesh moments suspended in darkness without time, his mouth on mine, his hands on me, touching me like I always wished he would…was that a dream, too? Or was that reality? It’s all tangled together.

  “Had to see what?” Conrad says, his voice low and grating. “Whether she died or not? Whether she’s a vegetable?”

  “I don’t know. I just had to see her.” Desperation in his voice, and then an attempt at bluster. “I am still her husband, you know. I have every right to be here.”

  “The fuck you do. I don’t give a shit about your legal rights. Get your look, and get out of here.”

  I hear him, sense him. I smell him, that cologne he prefers. And then…I feel him. His hand in mine—I feel it, but I can’t find the synapses to move my fingers, can’t find the impulse to squeeze his hand.

  I try: ten years together—I owe him that much.

  I loved you, Charlie.

  I feel his hand cover mine, and it feels both wrong and right at the same time. Ten years of familiarity; I know his touch, know his hand, I know this is his hand on mine even without sight. But yet…it’s not right. That’s not us, anymore. Not Charlie and Hannah. His hand on mine feels uncomfortable, awkward. Because it’s Conrad and Hannah, now.

  “Can I just…can I have a couple minutes alone with her, please?” Charlie asks.

  “Sure.”

  Conrad didn’t tell Charlie that I’m…not awake, really, not fully conscious, but…here. That I’ve wiggled my toes. That I’m finding my way back.

  I hear a door close, and then I know I’m alone with Charlie. I can’t feel it for certain, but I think he’s perched on the edge of my bed, holding my hand. Staring down at me, probably, with those pale, ice blue eyes. I can almost see the confusion and the hurt and the distance in his expression.

  “Hannah, I—I don’t know if you can hear me, or not.”

  I can, Charlie, I can; I don’t wiggle my toes—can’t. Also…won’t. Not for him.

  “I really did love you, you know. I hope you know that. I don’t—I don’t know what happened, between us. How did we get here? I mean, if you were awake, if this hadn’t happened to you, we’d still be…in this fucked up mess we’re in. You have Conrad, and I have Arelia, but you and I are still married. My feelings for you…they’re not gone.

  “I don’t know what happened, honey. I never set out looking for anyone, it just—happened. I mean, I know that’s bullshit. You don’t accidentally sleep with someone, I know that. I’ll never excuse it. But once…once Arelia and I started, we just—we just couldn’t stop. I think you probably kind of understand. But it never meant I loved you any less, or that I just…stopped having feelings for you. I just—I feel…more…for Arelia. And…I just—fuck, I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know how to explain it to you. Or even to myself, really.”

  A long, ragged sigh. “I don’t know. They say couples that start out in high school, as young as we did…that you can just…sort of grow apart. You grow up, you become who you’re supposed to be, and that person you are now just isn’t compatible with the person your partner has become, not like when you were both sixteen or eighteen or whatever. I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? We change so much between sixtee
n and twenty-six, don’t we?”

  I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me, Charlie.

  “I’m sorry we’re here. That we’re dealing with this is. That we got here. We can’t go back, I know we can’t. And…if I’m being honest, I don’t want to. That’s probably kind of terrible of me to say, but…it’s just true. I loved you, but we can’t go back, and I think it would be foolish to try.”

  I agree with that. There’s no going back. Not now. Maybe there never was. I can’t forgive the things I saw you do with Arelia, especially since you never did them with me. Am I more upset that you did them at all, that you cheated on me, or that in cheating on me you gave her things I never got? I don’t know. That there’s even a question is pretty fucked up in itself.

  “But…despite the fact that we can’t go back, that we won’t go back…I can’t just walk away from you. Not now. Not with you like this.”

  You did walk away, you bastard. You don’t get points for changing your mind and coming back.

  “I have to know you’re going to be okay. I know things are fucked up between us, honey, but…I’ll still be here when you wake up, and when you start getting better. We’ll figure the rest out later, okay? I still care about you.”

  It hurts, Charlie. Everything hurts. You hurt me, and I know I hurt you. That you cheated first doesn’t negate my guilt.

  I fade, then. It’s hard to remain above the surface of conscious for this long.

  —

  I don’t know what brings me to the surface, this time. There’s silence, except the incessant beeping of the heart monitor.

  Nothing—nothing. Where is Conrad? Where is Charlie? I don’t hear either of them, no snores, no breathing.

  Being alone brings panic. My heartbeat pounds frantically in my chest. Did they leave? Did they leave me here?

  Conrad? Don’t leave. Don’t go. I can’t do this. Not by myself. How do I wake up? How do I push through this?