“Dustin?”
I whispered his name at first, not wanting to draw the attention of the others, though that might have been impossible anyway.
I was lying in a tree that was close to the ground. It was very much like the Divi Divi trees that grow in Aruba with their affected lean and gnarled roots. My toes scraped the ground from my perch, but the rest of my body was enclosed in the tree as though its branches formed a massive head and I was sitting in its mouth. And the leaves were so green. Breathtakingly green. The most intensely bright green I had ever seen before. The tree was alive in a way that nature wasn’t intended to be. I felt like a cricket veering too close to a Venus Flytrap.
I pried myself out of the tree’s grip and stood on grass that crunched underfoot. “Dustin?” I said again, panic invading my
voice. He shouldn’t be here—I know that now. More than anything I’d hoped he wasn’t here. That sweet man who loved me right when I needed it shouldn’t have to endure this. I didn’t want to know what his face looked like in the light of the harsh crayon sun that hung overhead like a weight.
It dawned on me that this was exactly where I belonged. It felt like some kind of reverse Rapture. All the good people stayed on Earth and the bad ones—the ones who cheated and didn’t think twice about their husbands—were sent to hell. Because this was hell, right?
It certainly felt like it.
I saw him approaching in the distance and wondered about his size. Jared was a big man, sure, but something about him seemed disproportionate somehow. And his gait—it was too deliberate. Almost like he was trying too hard to put one foot in front of the other. I shook my head in resignation. This is what I deserve, isn’t it? Not Dustin but Jared—new and improved...and sure to be mad as hell. I bought it and paid for it, indeed.
“Corinne, baby! Oh, thank God!”
The words were his but the voice wasn’t. But that’s all right. As Jared’s arms encircled me, pulling me into his soft, fleshy chest, the name of that color blue that painted the sky popped into my mind. Cerulean. That’s what it was. The color of the Caribbean Sea transposed in the sky. My eyes fell onto the faces of people I don’t know. Some of them were paralyzed with fear and others in blissful ignorance of what lies ahead. I’m too sad to be scared even though Jared’s embrace felt more like a vise.
Chapter Five
Hazy.
That’s what it seemed like, but not what it was.
Maybe my vision was hazy —maybe my mind. I wanted to back, go to sleep. But I hadn’t been sleeping, had I?
Not really.
Wishing for it, maybe. Sleep was all I wanted to do these days. Being awake was a chore; the constant hemming and hawing about trivial things that most people my age engage in had started to grate on my nerves a long time ago. I wanted to shut all of that nonsense out. I did everything I could to make it go away, short of the final step.
Is that what this was? Had I finally gotten rid of that Catholic guilt and found the balls to do what needed to be done? Caroline would be disappointed to see me this way, if seeing the dead again is what really happens when all is said and done. She might say, in that exasperated tone she reserved just for me, ‘Oh, Edward,’ and give me a good smack to prove that point. But I would take it if it meant being with her again. I’d give anything to hear the sound of her voice again.
What took me so long to do it? When Caroline died all those years ago I thought I would go after her. I was sick. Hell, I had been sick first, so it made sense. But then my heart disease got under control (the doctors kept referring to my cluster of heart attacks as blips on my screen) and my health rebounded—not all the way, but enough to keep me kicking. The doctors patted each other on the back, the kids cheered and hugged, but I sulked. I pulled away, stayed home more because that’s where it was quiet. I stopped seeing the doctor because I wanted whatever they did to be undone. I wanted to go with Caroline. Life without her wasn’t much of a life at all.
But that was eight years ago. Eight years of living in the shadows, watching trash TV, crying over old pictures, only speaking to the kids when they pressed the issue: avoiding life. They knew what was going on—Robbie said he’d help me do it if I really wanted to. But I couldn’t saddle him with that for the rest of his life. My good boy would suffer too and I didn’t want that to happen.
I learned something over those eight years. You can’t will death. It’ll come when it’s good and ready and not a moment before.
I remember going to bed with Caroline and the kids on my mind. I was thinking about an outing at the lake up in Greenbrier, Maryland from 40 years ago. The sun was shining and a cool breeze ruffled my hair. I could feel warmth on my cheeks even in the darkness of the one room I lived out of anymore. I couldn’t make myself walk around the house much. Too many ghosts occupying the rooms.
I don’t remember deciding to do it. I had contemplated the ways a million times—pills seemed the easiest. The thought of shooting myself and not dying made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t think I could take a knife to myself and I wasn’t about to jump off anything. Pills I could do. I’d just take all the doses of Tambocor that I missed and let my heart literally skip a beat. It would be quick. Not painless, but that’s not what I’m looking for.
But then this happened.
I looked around at the landscape I woke up to. It was beautiful, yet odd in a way that frightened me. My house was gone. In fact, I couldn’t see any houses at all. There were too many people around - people who were paying attention to everyone else but trying to look like they weren’t. And the sky. There was something wrong with the sky. It was like a kid’s coloring page— the colors were too bright and unrealistic. And harsh.
Where the hell is Caroline?
If this is what I think it is and I’ve checked out of life for once and for all, why isn’t she here to greet me? She can’t still be mad that I put her in a home, not after all these years… could she?
Some people were crying quietly. Some cried out loud with such gut wrenching wails they made my hair stand on end. Some got angry, demanding an answer, a reason for being in this new place – they stood shouting into the open air. Others hugged themselves against the outside world. Me, I just sat and watched. I didn’t think I had enough control over myself to do anything else.
Chapter Six
The room was alive for the first time since the beginning, buzzing and beeping accompanied by loud, fast-talking nurses and doctors. There was a lot of reaching, running, and commotion.
And then nothing. No movement, no people, no noise.
Dr. Mitchell stood in the middle of the room, his vantage point allowing a view of all of them. Jennifer, 28. Brandon, 33. Carrie, 19. Corinne, 41. Edward, 77. All wheeled into the large room that would end up being their death chamber within minutes of each other. All gone at virtually the same time.
The hallucinogen had been injected into each patient’s IV in tandem. Brain scans for each of them showed hyperactivity spikes and relaxed rhythm at the same pace. They seemed to enter the new sphere, a place designed to comfort them as they awaited their deaths, at the same time also. Cerulean Fields was his life’s work: a utopia for the dying. It was supposed to give them peace at the end instead of pain, a loss of dignity, and fear.
But it didn’t. It couldn’t have. In the end they were all writhing, fighting, clawing at the air. Something chased them to their death over there. Something unexpected.
He looked at the pictures of his patients that were posted on their bedside tables and felt a sadness well in him that he had dreaded from the beginning of the research. He had never met them; by the time they arrived at the facility their induced comas had already taken effect. He didn’t want to know them, didn’t want to see their eyes. That would have just complicated things.
The pictures showed each of his patients in the prime of their lives, their smiling faces a testament to their health in contrast to their present situation. Edward stood tall and confident, musc
ular in the way that men who enjoyed the outdoors were. His son Robert said that Edward had been an avid camper, taking the kids into the woods every summer. Robert couldn’t bear to see his father like this, so frail and thin. It took everything he had to visit every week.
Jennifer’s picture didn’t look like her at all—the stroke paralyzed her entire left side and aged her overnight. Brandon’s picture was of him out at a lake. You could only see his profile but that’s the only image that his girlfriend would bring. She only came to visit once and didn’t stay long. Carrie’s picture was haunting. It showed a sweet little high school kid with her whole life ahead of her. It was Carrie before the drugs and the self-imposed isolation. It was Carrie before the accident.
Corinne was the true beauty in the bunch. Dr. Mitchell’s affinity for her was evident from the start. He could see a beautiful woman beneath the graying skin. Looking at her grounded him; made him see the patients as people instead of research specimens.
Every time he looked at the picture of her on the beach with her sarong flowing in the wind revealing slender, shapely legs,
he grew more attached. Her caramel skin, sun-kissed in the picture, seemed to glow. She radiated confidence even before the vast sea in front of her.
He wished he knew her before the cancer ravaged her body, before chemotherapy stole her hair, before her eyes closed forever. If they had met in a coffee shop, would she have noticed him?
Would she order a Chai tea latte and turn to see him staring at her? Would she smile the same way she did in the picture, joyful and provocative, and make his knees buckle? If they met on a crowded street would she be interested in him or would his blue eyes not be her cup of tea? Sometimes he got angry because he would never have the chance to find out.
Sometimes he touched Corinne’s hand when he thought of what could have been, wanting to feel her skin next to his own. He interlaced their fingers when the fantasy was particularly compelling, gingerly holding her paper-thin skin against his, gaining closer contact in the most appropriate way possible even though, in his mind, they moved from hugging to kissing to more. He imagined how he would caress her skin, run his hands through her hair, kiss her beautiful full lips—lips that had only been parted to brace a feeding tube since he had known her. Dr. Mitchell spoke to her about the places they would have gone if they had the chance, sharing a fantasy that could never come true with a woman he wasn’t entirely sure could hear him. He felt like a kid talking about his hopes and dreams. Corinne made him giddy in a way that he hadn’t been since he was 20 years old. He regaled in a past they never shared and mourned a future that would never be. Many times he wondered how life could be so cruel to show him true love in the touch of a dying woman.
Dr. Mitchell looked at Corrine, studied her. This would be the last time he saw her. Once he left the room she shared with the other patients their connection would be lost. He was not ready to say goodbye.
He puttered around the room a bit more, cleaning up, wasting time, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. Soon the families would be notified and the bodies would be claimed. They would be gone within hours. Corrine would be gone forever.
The thought was unbearable.
“Dr. Mitchell, we need your signature on the files.”
The nurse’s voice barely registered to him. The only sound he could hear was waves crashing on the shore.
“Dustin?”
The nurse had moved close enough to touch his arm. He had to restrain himself from shaking her hand off. She handed him the folders and left him alone. He saw the concern in her eyes as she did, but she was mercifully silent.
He touched Corinne’s hand one last time. It was still warm.
Perhaps that was the worst part.
Perfect Connection
by Deana Zhollis
Naomi clutched her knees to her chest, her heels digging into the plush couch. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her cheeks were wet. Across from her, an unoccupied chair slowly rocked back and forth. It gently swayed with a slight creak, like the sound of the crackling fire that threw light into the log cabin’s dark living room.
Her eyes fixed on the rocking chair. She could not see what sat there, but it had many names.
Christians called it the Holy Spirit. Muslims called it a Jinn.
Witches called it a Familiar.
Science called it the Unconscious Mind or Inner Voice. Others called it a ghost or entity. But most called it a demon. Naomi just called it Alexa.
She closed her eyes tightly and allowed more tears to escape. A few dropped and mixed with the blood that soaked her pink, satin negligee. The same blood covered her hands and was smeared on her arms. She took a deep breath and slowly looked towards the fireplace, where blood pooled heavily and drained towards a thick white rug. Next to it, a man lay with a sword buried deep into his chest.
He would have killed us, the voice from the chair whispered.
Naomi shifted her eyes. The chair continued to casually rock. “Shut up, Alexa,” she said, lowering her head down to her knees.
How could you weep for him? The voice slowly grew in persistence.He lied. He lied about everything, and then he tried to kill us.
“He tried to kill you!” Naomi yelled, raising her head. “Not us!
You!”
The chair stopped rocking.
The sudden stillness increased her uneasiness and filled her with dread.
You think he loved you? The voice hissed. You think after getting rid of me, you would have been happy with him? Is that what you think? Happily Ever After? It mocked.
Naomi took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think.”
He was a Splitter! The voice roared as a great wind swept through the room, knocking a vase to the floor and shattering it. The curtains on the window whipped and a picture fell from the wall.
Moments later, all went calm, and a chill filled the room. Naomi shivered.
“Alexa...” Naomi felt tired and worn. “Please. Just please be still. Give me a moment. Please.”
You’ve had more than an hour, the voice said as the cold left the room and Naomi could feel the heat from the fire again.
Besides, it continued, your time is up. They’re here.
Naomi turned her head at the sound of the door opening and several footsteps moving toward her. She got up and met the cavalry in the hallway. Leading them was “R&R” Reese Richardson. He held a garment bag over his arm, and a pair of the coveted Truth Glasses glistened, hiding his eyes, as he looked at the empty space next to Naomi.
“Alexa,” he said with a slight nod, and then, rubbing his hands together, he said to Naomi, “And where is this little piece of dung?”
He curses so politely, the voice whispered near Naomi’s ear.
Naomi ignored it. “He’s in there. There’s a sword also, so be careful, Grasp,” she said, addressing her organization.
The five men and women moved past Reese and went to work.
Henchmen are so cute. I still think they should wear some sort of Grasp.
“Alexa!”
Reese turned to Naomi. “What did she say?”
Naomi was certain he could see Alexa’s mouth moving with the aid of his Truth Glasses, which was exactly what Alexa wanted.
The luxury glasses sitting on the bridge of Reese’s nose were worth more than three hundred thousand dollars. No one knew who the maker, or makers, were, or even how they were distributed. The intended would simply wake up one morning and find a box at their doorstep. When they donned them, they could immediately see everyone’s partnered spirit, like Alexa, and all other things unseen to the human eye. They were an anonymous gift from whom had come to be known in closed circles as the Truth Maker.
Naomi turned and looked into the mirror on the wall. This was the only way she could see Alexa, and sure enough, she was standing right next to her. Her black hair hung down her back in thick twists over a caftan dress with Afrocentric prints of black and gold. A mischievous sm
ile played across her dark brown face as she shrugged her shoulders innocently at Naomi. They were the exact image of each other, which Alexa adopted most of the time. Just an hour earlier, she had transformed into the head of a lioness as she merged into Naomi and they fought for dear life.
Naomi gently took the garment bag from Reese’s arm without saying a word.
“Naomi,” Reese said, his voice filled with concern, “If you need anything—”
“I’m fine,” Naomi answered, and then gestured to the garment bag. “Thanks.”
She went upstairs to wash and change, hearing The Grasp repair what she and Alexa had broken. When she returned, it appeared as though nothing had ever happened in that living room. Even the vase that had splintered into pieces stood just as it had before.
For a moment, Naomi stared at the floor in front of the fireplace where the body of her fiancé had lain, and then turned away and walked out of the front door.
#
It would take quite some time to drive back to the city, and with Alexa, Naomi knew she would not get a moment of silence. As Alexa had said, she had given Naomi over an hour already, saying nothing but rocking in the chair.
Piece of dung, Alexa giggled, thinking back to R&R’s words. I Love it!
When Naomi didn’t comment, she chided, Still don’t want to talk to me, huh?
Naomi looked in the rear-view mirror at Alexa sitting comfortably in the back seat, her long legs stretched out across the seat with her back against the door. She sighed inwardly and returned her attention to the road.
We really should give Reese another chance. After all, it’s difficult being a Grasp leader. Women are always attracted to physical power, and men are just weak. Man’s anatomy is for multiple women, Alexa mused. His heart is with you no matter what he does with other women; only his anatomy is irresistible.
Naomi stared stoically at the road as Alexa kept talking. Look at the men in the Bible. They had multiple wives, yet they always held only one in their heart: Jacob had Rachel; Solomon had his Queen of Sheba; and David had his Bathsheba. A man is going to have his women from time to time. We just have to accept that and focus more on his heart for us.
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