Limp and unfinished, I wipe the excess KY from my dick. I turn Emma’s picture back around and switch off the TV. I cap the KY and put it back in the drawer by El Captain™, that bastard.
That’s when I wonder, What’s with the huge stack of letters?
So I sit on the edge of the bed and unfold one after another. They’re all love letters. They go back years. Some are dated. The one at the bottom of the pile – it’s from a month before my father died.
‘Jerry,’ my mom says. She’s standing at the bedroom door. ‘Those are private.’
The nape of your neck… one reads.
‘They’re private, Jerry. Put them back.’
Will hold you once more…
With all my love…
‘Jerry Dresden! Put! Those! Back! Now!’ my mom orders through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t know what you’re reading.’
Why is it that people always try to tell you that you don’t know what you’re talking about when you realise some horrible truth about them?
‘There were things–’ my mom says.
‘You were cheating on Dad … with Roland?’ Not this. Not today.
‘Jerry, there were things,’ my mom says as she cautiously sits next to me, ‘that were very wonderful about your father. He loved you two so much. But Jerry, when Emma got sick – your dad, he changed.’
I shake my head as if doing so can help me unlearn this horrible revelation. ‘No, you two changed,’ I yell. ‘Both of you! You can’t blame this on Dad! You two both stopped being there for each other.’
‘For me,’ I say.
Mom, she shakes her head. ‘It was difficult, Jerry. Your father, he was convinced he was responsible for her leukaemia. To lose your child–’
‘We didn’t leave her in a park!’ I yell. ‘She died! She died and no one talked about her anymore!’
‘He lost himself in regret,’ Mom’s saying more to herself than to me. ‘He wasn’t there for us like he should have been.’
‘Don’t blame Dad,’ I warn, but Mom, she doesn’t even acknowledge I’m speaking.
‘His depression – he wouldn’t let me help him.’ And now it’s like she’s having this conversation with herself; trying to justify her actions; creating a narrative. ‘Sometimes, sometimes I even think the car accident wasn’t an accident–’
‘Dad wouldn’t drive into a tree!’ I shout. ‘I was with him, remember? You think he would have risked my life? The police said he must’ve swerved to avoid hitting an animal!’
But my mom, she just continues with her jumbled monologue, recounting past events everyone here knows already. ‘He threw himself into work. His work at the studio took him further and further away. He was out of the country so much.’ Finally she looks back at me as if she’s suddenly become aware I’m in the room. ‘Jerry, it’s hard enough getting through the death of a child with your partner. Without him, it was unbearable. He wasn’t there to help me through it.’
Then she says, ‘Roland was.’
Roland with his sleeve tattoos.
Roland with his stupid goatee.
Roland with his tripod in his eye.
‘After the accident, after we moved to Chicago, I tried telling you,’ she sobs. ‘Maybe not as hard as I could have, but I wanted to. It was just such a hard time for you with your problems. The porn. The hallucinations. I just wanted you normal again.’
‘I am normal!’
‘I know. I know, baby. Now you are,’ she quickly patronises me. ‘But I was afraid telling you would make you spiral and we’d never get you back.’
Mom, the way she’s shaking, I haven’t seen her like this since the night Dad died.
‘And, do you still–?’ I say, ‘Are you and Roland–?’
‘Roland and I are friends now,’ she says with a pursed frown.
‘Friends?’
‘Baby, I want to be honest with you,’ she pleads. ‘Roland and I, I never wanted you to find out. Stress isn’t good for you. You know that. The doctors always said so. I just didn’t want you getting worse. Having to end up in shock treatment.’
She sits next to me and sobs. I almost feel bad for her. But through her muttering I hear a little slip, a little scrap of a feeling; an accidental truth.
And I say, ‘Do you still love him?’
And my mom, she whimpers.
‘Do you?’ I breathe.
And she says, ‘Every day.’ And a little part of me relaxes, hearing her say that.
Then she says, ‘He helped me so much after we moved to Chicago.’
‘I was talking about Dad!’
Mom looks at me with guilt in her eyes. And me, well you know those times where you say something without knowing you were even going to say it? I mean, when words seems to come out of nowhere from your stupid little mouth? This is one of those times.
I say, ‘Roland’s in the hospital, you know? Right now. He’s in the hospital.’
A look of caring-too-much runs across her face, but before either of us can say any more, the phone on the nightstand rings. Mom, she doesn’t know what to say; me looking at her, her looking at me. In the space between us the phone rings again. Then again, and my mom answers. Her replies are short.
‘Yes, this is,’ she says into the phone.
‘He’s here with me now,’ she says and looks at me.
‘What do you mean?’ And then, ‘I don’t understand.’
By the time she’s hung up her face has gone white.
‘Mom,’ I say, ‘I–’
But out of nowhere a flood of violence breaks across my mom’s face. ‘What did you do?’ she screams, striking me with the palm of her hand. ‘What did you do to him?’ She howls and hits me again. And again. She cries and tells me that was the police. They asked if I was here. If I was calm. They wanted to come over and have a chat with her. Roland, it seems, has died.
The next hit draws blood as she scratches my face. I yell that I don’t know what I did. I tell her that I’ve been sick again, that I’ve been seeing things. She doesn’t care. Her eyes are full of rage. She hits me again and I slip off the edge of the bed.
And really, what do you do in a situation like this? I mean, you shouldn’t exactly hit your mom back. I am getting the shit kicked out of me by a fifty-five-year-old Joan of Arc expert, though. So I reach for the nightstand to grab whatever I can get a hold of and swing it.
The slapping stops. My mom, she’s recoiled in fear. When she removes her hand from her face a long red mark, a mark that’s curved like a large banana, appears on her cheek. In my hand El Captain™ pulsates. His testicle sack full of synthetic semen jiggles. And I know this isn’t the time, but I almost want to give it a squeeze, just to see how it works.
Mom, she slinks back to the bed, holding her face, sobbing. And in this moment, with her hair tangled in different directions and the age lines of her face made more visible by her crying, it’s the first time I realise she’s getting old, and I have a sudden overwhelming need for her to be young again and reading me a bedtime story about Joan of Arc.
I want to plead for her forgiveness, but I’m stopped cold when I catch someone from the corner of my eye. It’s my figment. She’s watching me from outside the bedroom window. My pills, they haven’t worked.
And to my mom I say, ‘I’m so sorry.’ I tremble, ‘It’s not me. I’m seeing things again.’
But Mom, she just cries.
‘I always knew you would end up like this,’ she sobs and my heart sinks. ‘I knew it and I let you down. I should have gotten you the shock therapy. You’re sick, Jerry.’
‘Mom–’
She won’t look at me.
‘Just go,’ she says.
‘Mom?’
Her face contorts in a ripple of pain. ‘Go!’ she shrieks.
And I want to scream ‘But I need you!’, but all I can do is place El Captain™, wobbling, on the nightstand and leave.
7
Spork
The street’s elms a
nd oaks rustle in the biting wind. A police car speeds past in the direction of my mom’s house but the early spring night easily conceals me.
‘Jerry?’ a voice says from behind me. The voice, it doesn’t belong to a person. It belongs to my figment. The one with the raven hair and pale white skin. I turn around and she’s standing not two feet behind me. This is the closest we’ve ever been.
‘Jerry Dresden?’ it says. ‘I need you to come with me.’ Her voice, it has a hint of desperation.
I shut my eyes. I tell myself she’s not real. Then I open my eyes and, just so she knows it too, I tell her, ‘You aren’t real.’ Then I turn and walk across the street, averting my gaze, hoping my affirmation has done its job. And I think of bees buzzing around flowers on a spring day.
I think of colour-correcting a Renoir at my boring job.
I think of the latest superhero movie staring Hugh Fox.
My first shrink taught me that your mind can only consciously be aware of seven things at any one time. So if you’re thinking about your mortgage, focusing on driving, listening to the car radio, tapping your finger on the steering wheel, chewing gum, concentrating on an itch in your side and feeling your foot on the pedal, it would be impossible to realise that the impacted wisdom tooth you have is bugging you.
‘I know what’s in your apartment,’ it says.
I think of jerking off to Scarlet Johansson.
Halle Berry.
The Pussy Cat Dolls. All five of them.
‘I know what’s in your apartment,’ it says again, ‘and soon the police will too.’
I think of sperm. Conception. The womb. Birth. Childhood. Death. I think of Emma.
‘You have no choice, Jerry,’ it says. ‘I know–’
‘Of course you do,’ I hiss, alarming an old couple that passes me. ‘You know because you’re me; I’m you.’ I’m making a scene. I’m attracting glances. People see me screaming at someone who isn’t there.
‘You can’t go home, Jerry,’ it says. ‘The police will be waiting for you.’
I turn and march up to myself (that’s a little psychotic depression humour for you). ‘Roland is dead,’ I say, shaking. ‘He’s dead.’ I muster a little laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like the guy. He was fucking my mom and all, but we didn’t have to kill him.’
‘I didn’t intend to kill him,’ it says.
‘What’s intended is irrelevant when there’s a tripod in the eye. And “didn’t intend to” really probably doesn’t matter when murder is involved.’
‘I needed to know where you lived,’ it says.
‘You knew,’ I yell. ‘You are me! I’m arguing with myself. This is insane.’ I reach into my pocket and pull out the opaque bottle of 486s.
‘What are those?’
‘These,’ I say, uncapping the bottle, ‘are what make you go bye-bye.’ The two I took at Mom’s house weren’t enough to stop her from appearing so I spill half the pills into my mouth. I chew them around and the gelatine capsules burst like bubble wrap. The tiny beads taste bitter as I suck them down my throat.
Several yellow cabs drive past the intersection ahead. As I walk in their direction my legs get heavier. The new-dosage pills are potent and it soon feels like my head is a balloon trying to float away, but it’s kept tied down to my concrete-block feet.
‘So, why aren’t you American?’ I say. ‘I mean, what’s with your voice? And what’s with the clothing?’ The trousers she’s wearing are men’s trousers. Her shoes look like male hiking boots. A green hoodie completes her outfit. ‘You’re dressed like a dude,’ I snicker. Over-dosing makes you slaphappy.
My figment, she doesn’t answer. She’s kind of fuzzy – everything is.
‘You know, my last one was much better-looking than you,’ I say. ‘I mean she dressed better. Showed off her body. Great ass, you know? Don’t get me wrong, your face is nice, but why’d I have to get one that looks like a tomboy who hasn’t showered in a week?’ She squints. I stumble and try to put my hand on her chest, but she quickly steps away. My head spins. ‘My last one liked to fuck.’
As I reach the intersection my figment says something I can’t make out. No matter.
‘It’s time for me to say goodbye to you now,’ I say, flagging a cab. ‘In thirty minutes you won’t exist.’ My brain throbs against my skull. ‘Maybe less than thirty minutes.’
‘You’re insane,’ my imaginary friend tells me.
‘No, we’re insane.’
A cab has slowed to a stop in the suicide lane. And as I step into the street I hear my figment’s voice, or a voice inside my head – or both – yell ‘lookout!’ Then a truck whizzes by me. The mirror clips my shoulder and I whirl to the ground like a top. The cabbie rushes from his taxi and asks if I’m OK. ‘Fool didn’t even slow down,’ he says but everything else that comes from his mouth sounds like the Wa. Wa-wa-wa. Wa that the adults speak in those Charlie Brown Holiday Specials.
I now realise it’s possible that I might have taken a few too many pills; that I might not only kill my figment, but myself as well.
‘I’m fine,’ I shrug him off as he tries to help me up. My head thumps with pain. My figment, she’s still standing on the side of the street in front of a diner, a look of relief pasted all over her face. ‘I’m just going to go to that diner. Get some coffee.’
‘That was stupid,’ my figment says as I walk past her. ‘Every child knows to look both ways before crossing the street.’
‘I already have a mother,’ I say. ‘Hit her with a dildo right before I took these abortion pills.’
My figment looks disgusted at my recap of tonight’s events, and that’s before I wretch all over myself. The undigested 486s come out looking like the little red-and-white sugar sprinkles you put on cupcakes. Some sick dribbles down my front, but this doesn’t bother my figment because it just squeezes through her fingers when she grabs me by my coat. Her eyes flash a wicked green in the streetlight. And for the first time I wonder if it’s possible for my own figment to hurt me. ‘I don’t know what the matter is with you–’ it begins, but I break her grip.
‘Look you – me – whatever little neuron you are inside my head,’ I say, thumping my finger on my skull. ‘Please disappear, OK?’ My voice trembles. I look up to the sky and, like I’m another contestant on a television talent show, I say, ‘Please, please; just this once, give me a break.’
A look of, not compassion, but something akin to empathy shows on my imaginary friend’s face. And I dare to hope the non-existent Big Guy in the sky is about to answer my prayers; that maybe this figment will dissolve in front of my eyes.
But no. No one dissolves.
No one is listening.
So to my figment, I say, ‘Do me a favour. If you won’t disappear, at least stay outside while I go and get some coffee. I don’t need to look crazier than I already am.’
Inside there are two police officers sitting at the counter, eating steak and eggs. One of the cops turns. I guess he can smell the vomit. For a second I consider turning around, but I’m so tired, so dizzy. I need to sit. I try to ignore the policeman as best I can, so I look out the window and that’s when I see the most curious thing. My figment, her lips are moving like she’s having a conversation. She talks, then pauses for some invisible person to answer, then she talks again.
And I wonder, Can figments have figments?
I sit in a booth covered in cheap red vinyl. In the reflection of the silver napkin dispenser, the cop has turned back to his steak and eggs.
‘What can I getcha?’ an older waitress asks.
‘Just give me a minute.’
‘Whatever,’ she says and plods away, her feet slapping the ground like pieces of meat.
My figment, I guess she’s done talking to herself outside because she enters the diner. As she walks by the police officers she casts them a glance. The police officers, of course, don’t glance back.
Then my figment, she slides into my booth without making
a sound, as if she’s weightless, which, well, I guess she is.
And I whisper, ‘Please just go.’ I feel like a little kid again, begging the bully to leave me alone. ‘Go on, scram. Get out.’
Shoo.
But I might as well be talking to thin air. Which, well, again, I guess I am.
My figment, she says, ‘What are you going to do, Jerry? You’re the main suspect in a murder case now.’ As she says this a woman in the opposite booth turns. I smile nervously and she goes back to her food. Am I acting both of our voices out loud? Am I playing one part and then the other?
I whisper to my figment, ‘Once you leave me alone, I’ll be able to figure out what I need to do.’
More and more my figment looks at me like I’m crazy.
‘I’m going to drink my coffee, then I’m going to wait for my stomach to settle down and I’m going to take as many of my remaining pills as I can without throwing them up again,’ I whisper. ‘Then I’m going to go home – I’ll go home and return the painting.’
‘You can’t go home to return the painting, Jerry,’ my figment says, glancing over her shoulder at the police. ‘They’ll arrest you.’
‘Just get out of my head,’ I say, ‘and everything will be fine.’
The grumpy waitress comes over again. Her nametag reads ‘VERA’.
‘Whatcha need?’ Vera asks, pen ready, not looking up from her little white notepad.
‘Just a coffee,’ I say. ‘Maybe some bread.’
‘We don’t serve bread,’ she says. ‘We serve san’wiches.’
‘Fine. Just a bologna sandwich with ketchup then.’
Vera lets out a little ‘All riiight’ as she scrawls my order in short little lines across her pad. ‘And what else?’
‘That’s it,’ I say.
‘I already got your order, big spender. What about you, girlie? What can I get for you?’ And Vera, she looks right at my figment. She looks right at my imaginary friend; my psychotic delusion; the bane of my existence, and she asks it what it would like for dinner.
‘Nothing for me,’ it answers.
Epiphany Jones Page 5