Alien Abduction

by Irving Belateche

  He followed suit, and we headed through the parking structure toward the stairwell.

  Because he’d turned silent, I spoke up. “I’m not changing my mind,” I said.

  “Let’s talk about it after we see the doctor.” His was response was curt, and that left me cold.

  In the waiting room, the receptionist asked for my full payment up front because I was uninsured. And the bill was hefty—eight thousand dollars—because it included a few of the tests I’d just taken.

  As I was fishing around in my purse for my wallet, trying to decide what credit card to use, Eddie stepped up to the counter and pulled out his checkbook.

  “Can we pay with a check?” he asked the receptionist.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Then Eddie wrote out a check for the full amount. I noticed that it wasn’t a check from one of our two checking accounts, but before I could ask him about it, he volunteered an answer.

  “I opened a new checking account so that we can keep our medical expenses separate,” he said. “That way it’s easier for ADM to reimburse us.”

  “Oh,” I said. This was a surprise. A good one.

  We sat down to wait for the doctor.

  Eddie pulled out his phone and buried himself in the online edition of the New York Times. I picked up the nearest magazine—an Entertainment Weekly, which I hated—and flipped through it.

  Neither of us said a word. When I glanced at Eddie, I saw that his face was taut and his eyes narrowed. He was angry.

  Luckily, the doctor didn’t make us wait long, and as the nurse led us back to his office, Eddie and I made eye contact for the first time since our argument in the parking lot. The look between us said it all. No words were needed. It was clear that the battle over my job had been overwhelmed by the gravity of what was to unfold in the next few minutes: Would the news be good or bad?

  We sat down in front of the doctor’s desk.

  “The doctor will be with you in a couple of minutes,” the nurse said. Then she exited.

  We sat in silence. But this time the silence was deafening. And it seemed to be full of dread. Which was probably why I decided to resume our argument. Arguing was better than dread.

  “Eddie,” I said, “the job is only for six weeks. And it fits right in between treatments.”

  “We can talk about it later.”

  “I know. I just wanted to tell you. It’s only six weeks.”

  “I got it.”

  I didn’t say anything more. He was angrier than I’d thought. Maybe the doctor’s appearance would lessen the tension between us.

  Dr. Rainer was an upbeat guy. When I’d been told I could pick any oncologist as my lead doctor—which was the only silver lining of not having health insurance—I settled on Dr. Rainer almost immediately. He was calm and had a positive attitude that wasn’t phony. He didn’t sugarcoat my diagnosis, and he didn’t pretend that a miracle was around the corner. But when it came to treatments, he was optimistic. He believed in what he prescribed. He told me that every treatment he prescribed, for me and for any of his patients, was the best option out there today.

  And I believed him. It was hard not to. He’d had cancer himself. And when he’d chosen his own treatments, he’d thoroughly researched them all. He told me that he’d promised himself that he’d always do the same when it came to the treatments for his patients.

  He walked into the office and greeted me with a direct question, as usual. “How are you feeling, Jenny?” he asked.

  “Good,” I said. “Especially the last couple of weeks.”

  “Great! I’m glad to hear it.” He sat down at his desk, but he didn’t open a file and glance at some report, as if he needed a reminder of what was going on with his patients.

  “I know you want to get right down to business,” he said.

  “That would be nice.” I looked over at Eddie, and then back to the doctor.

  “Well, you’ll be happy then,” he said.

  “Really?” I was shocked. So shocked that I finally admitted to myself that I really had been expecting the worst.

  I reached out, put my hand on Eddie’s arm, and glanced at him. He was already smiling, his anger long gone.

  “The results were good,” Dr. Rainer said. “The tumor shrank. Not much, but considering that at this stage we’re only hoping to keep it in check, it’s a great outcome.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I can’t believe it.” I was as thankful as I’d ever been.

  “I’m adding my own ‘wow,’” Eddie said. “And I know this is probably too much to hope for, but does this mean that the long-term prognosis is better now?”

  “Great question,” Dr. Rainer said. “But that’s a tough call at this point. It’s way too early to say. But for now, it’s pretty much the best outcome you could hope for.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” I said.

  Rainer laughed. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You picked the right treatment,” I said.

  “In this case, it wasn’t rocket science. The choices were limited.”

  I leaned back in my chair and let the good news sink in deeper. Had I been feeling better over the last couple of weeks because I actually was better? Maybe it wasn’t the anticipation of the pilot gig.

  Eddie put his hand over mine. That felt nice. He was enjoying the moment with me.

  “Does this change the course of the treatments from here on in?” I asked.

  “No.” Rainer seemed confident in his answer. “I think we should continue with the next phase as planned.”

  “So we’re still going to wait eight weeks to start again?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t think it might be worth getting more aggressive now?” I kind of wanted to go in for the kill, while the tumor was on the run. For that, I’d forgo taking the pilot job.

  “I think we should stick to the plan for now,” Dr. Rainer said. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And we have to consider the big picture. If we jump into the next treatment too soon, we won’t be giving your immune system enough time to recover. And that’s part of the calculation.”

  “That makes sense,” I said.

  Dr. Rainer smiled. “Just enjoy the next eight weeks.”

  *

  On the way back to the car, I felt even better than I had over the last two weeks. But I understood that I wasn’t home free. It was crystal clear that Rainer hadn’t changed my prognosis. Regardless of the good news, I still had only two years to live—actually less now, since it had been months since my original diagnosis.

  When Eddie and I made it back to the parking structure, he turned to me and said, “This was great news. I’m sorry we argued.”

  “Me too.” But we hadn’t settled the argument, had we?

  “Why don’t you text the kids and let them know?” he said.

  “I don’t want to get their hopes up.”

  “Why not?” He grinned.

  He was right. Better to get their hopes up and let them enjoy the good times, rather than having them live in a constant state of fear that the worst was just around the corner.

  As soon as we got in the car, I pulled out my phone and texted Jake. And while I was composing my text to Hannah, Jake texted me back. His text was pure joy: “Congratulations” followed by five exclamation points, two smiley faces, and a hands clapping icon. He’s a great kid, I thought.

  I sent the text off to Hannah. “Okay. I’m done getting their hopes up,” I said.

  Eddie laughed.

  Then neither of us said anything as we started on our way home.

  The seconds turned into minutes, and I realized that the tension between us was growing again.

  He addressed it first. “You want to talk about the pilot,” he said.

  “Yeah—I do. But I don’t want to fight again.”

  “Then let’s not.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “It’s possible like this: I’m okay with you taking
the job.”

  “What?” The turnaround shocked me almost as much as Dr. Rainer’s good news had.

  “I’m sorry I made a big deal about it,” he said.

  “Why’d you change your mind?”

  “It’s like you said. Everything’s changed. And it’s continuing to change. And I have to get used to it.”

  So that was that. I was going to be working on the Disney pilot.

  *

  When we got home, we got another piece of good news. At least, I thought it was good news. Eddie got a call from Larry about a job possibility—a job as a journalist. But his reaction was strange. He didn’t ask Larry any questions about it, as if he wasn’t planning to follow up on the lead. And he didn’t seem too excited about the prospect of getting back into the journalism game either.

  So when he got off the phone, I said, “I guess you’re liking the new job.”

  “Yeah. I am. So far,” he said. “But I’m still learning the ropes.”

  “So you wouldn’t consider going back to journalism?”

  “I don’t know. I guess the money is better at ADM, and I kind of like that.”

  “Nothing beats the money when you’re working for the man,” I said.

  “Yep,” he said, as if that was the bottom line. Which—considering he just wrote a check for more than eight thousand dollars—it was.

  He then set himself down in the den and buried himself in his computer. This was part of his routine with ADM. He’d spend a good chunk of time on his computer, doing research, then he’d spend a few days out of the house conducting interviews. And whether or not the job was provisional, he’d decided to go all in. He’d bought a more expensive and more powerful computer a couple of weeks ago—a MacBook Air—which didn’t surprise me because he was spending so much time on the computer.

  What did surprise me was that he didn’t give his old computer to Jake. Not that Jake needed another laptop; he had a fairly new laptop himself. But Jake wanted it so he could experiment with it—get into the operating system, play with the code, et cetera. I didn’t understand the details, except that “modifications” was the operative word.

  Eddie told him that he needed to keep the old computer, just in case he later found out that some information didn’t get transferred over to the new MacBook Air. And even though Jake volunteered to make sure everything was transferred, Eddie didn’t budge.

  Then I noticed that the old computer had disappeared. Or at least, it wasn’t anywhere to be found in the house. And when I asked Eddie what he’d done with it, he said he’d sold it on Craigslist.

  “I thought you wanted to keep it,” I said.

  “Jake was right. All the information was transferred.”

  “Then why didn’t you give it to Jake?”

  “Every penny counts,” he said. “I got a few hundred bucks for it.”

  I couldn’t argue with that—I was the reason we needed every penny. But I still thought it was strange that he didn’t give the computer to Jake.

  *

  When evening fell, Eddie was still entrenched in the den. I made dinner, and he took a break to eat with Jake and me. Hannah didn’t get off work at Gregory Brothers until eight.

  It would have been nice for all of us to have dinner together, basking in the good news as a family, but I was happy that at least Jake could join us. I had gotten his hopes up, and Eddie had been right about that. It hadn’t been a bad thing to do. And it put me in an even better frame of mind than I already was.

  In the midst of a lively conversation—where Eddie, Jake, and I were debating the merits of China’s state-controlled capitalism—I guiltily admitted to myself that this dinner was more fun without Hannah here. If she’d been at the table, there would have been a constant threat of a flare-up. She resented my lack of support over her decision to quit the swim team. And truth be told, I still wasn’t totally on board with her decision.

  After dinner, Eddie went back to work in the den, and I went through the production design notes that Mimi had sent me. I’d already made a list of the props I’d definitely need, and I was now working on a list of props that would add to Mimi’s vision for the show, but which weren’t necessary. What I called the “sprinkles on the cake.”

  At eight-thirty, I heard Hannah walk through the front door. I had asked her to text me when she got off work and was ready for a ride home, but she hadn’t. And walking home alone at night was already becoming a habit. I didn’t like it, and neither did Eddie, regardless of Hannah’s argument that we lived in a good neighborhood. Eddie had bought her a small can of mace, which she reluctantly agreed to keep in her purse, but that didn’t ease our worry.

  Still, I knew I’d have to get over it, unless I wanted to fight about it on regular basis.

  When Hannah walked into the kitchen, I offered to warm up some dinner for her.

  “Great,” she said. “I have to study for a French quiz, and I’d like to get started.”

  “Okay. Come back in ten minutes, and it’ll be ready.”

  “Thanks. And I’m really happy about your test results, Mom.” She followed that up with one of her beautiful, beaming smiles—genuinely happy—and it melted my heart.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. I felt terribly guilty for thinking our dinner was more fun without her at the table. I was a terrible mother.

  Hannah turned to go when I remembered that I hadn’t told her the other bit of news.

  “Oh—that reminds me,” I said. “There’s another update. I’m going to be working on a pilot starting next week.”

  She turned back to me. “You’re kidding. I thought no work until you get rid of me and Jake.”

  “I thought so, too. But I wanted to take this job.”

  “Hmm, sounds familiar,” she said, grinning.

  I could’ve said, But I didn’t quit the swim team, upping the stakes, but I was the adult, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Are you sure you should do it?” she said.

  “You don’t think I should?”

  “I don’t mean because you have to wait until Jake and I are out of your hair, but because you’re sick. Maybe it’s not the best idea.”

  Like father, like daughter, I thought, but I said, “It’ll be okay. It’s six weeks and the timing is perfect. It’s between treatments.” Then I got up to get her dinner ready.

  “I don’t know…” she said, hesitating, like she was thinking it through. “Aren’t you supposed to use the break between treatments to take it easy? To recover?”

  “Thank you, doctor,” I said, and regretted it immediately. It was harsh—the kind of thing Jake would have said to her.

  “It’s just my opinion,” she said. “But we know what you think about my opinion. Not much!”

  “I’m sorry, honey—it’s just that—”

  “Save your apology. I get it. You can do what you want, and you don’t give a crap about what anyone else thinks. But if I do what I want, all hell breaks loose!”

  She marched out of the kitchen.

  I knew better than to follow her out and try to repair the damage. If I did, all hell would break loose. That’s just the way it went between us. So I let it go and prepared a dinner plate for her. I’d bring it to her room, where I was sure she’d accept it with a terse “thank you.” I’d respond with a friendly “you’re welcome,” and we’d pretend that all was well between us.

  That was fine. Because today had turned out to be a great day. My cancer was on the run—sort of—and I was no longer hiding anything from Eddie. There were no longer any lies between us. The chasm was gone.

  EDDIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I had packed some clothes and was waiting for the morning rush hour to die down before heading to San Diego, home of my next target. Jenny was running errands, still catching up on the various things she’d fallen behind on during the pilot gig—which had turned out well for both of us.

  She’d been tired but cheerful during the entire str
etch, and that cheer had lasted. It had now been over month since the gig had ended, and she was still riding high. It had worked out well for me, too. During the gig, Jenny had almost always been on the set or out gathering more props, so I’d had the house to myself for hours on end and didn’t have to hide my nefarious activities from her. Maybe that was the reason there’d been no more major screw-ups since that first abduction.

  I had now abducted six more targets, and with each abduction, I felt like I’d gotten better at the job. I’d started using Ben’s MO, instead of the boyfriend-carries-his-diabetic-girlfriend-to-the-car routine. I felt more comfortable with my original ruse, but it had one major flaw: there was always the chance that a bystander to the abduction might know the target and thus know I was not the target’s boyfriend. Ben’s doctor routine didn’t have that flaw, but I still wanted to come up with an MO that better fit my temperament.

  By my fifth abduction, I was able to pull off the doctor ruse fairly smoothly. Smoothly enough that the highlight of the job wasn’t some little mistake I’d made, it was the conversation I’d had with Abel after I delivered the target. Up to that point on the job, Abel had been tight-lipped. The alien had said so little that I no longer thought he was lonely. But that night, Abel wanted to talk.

  He walked into the living room after finishing with the target, but instead of telling me tersely that it was time to return her, he said, “I’m going to give you an assignment outside of Los Angeles. It won’t be your next target, but the one after that.”

  “Should I prepare anything special?” I asked.

  “No.”

  So I wondered why he had told me in advance, if I didn’t have to make any extra preparations. But when he didn’t turn to exit, I thought maybe he just wanted to talk. So I tested out my theory by asking another question.

  “Abel. Will you tell me what you actually do with the targets?” I asked. I figured if he wanted to talk, I might as well make it worth it.

  “Is it important that you know?”

  “I’m curious. Especially because you used the term ‘crops.’”

  “You know what they say. Curiosity killed the cat.”