Fluke

by David Elliott

  I managed to get out of the bed without disturbing Sara, and I sprinted to the bathroom. I hadn’t had one of my infamous restroom episodes in my new home, fortunately…at least not while Sara was home. But, this time it wasn’t going to wait. I locked the door, and set the phone, which I had carried into the bathroom with me in my panicked rush, down on the basin. I scrambled to the shower and turned it on, pleased with the drowning-out sound that the blast of water created. I was beginning to sweat as I hastily lifted the lid to the commode and had what can only be decently described as an explosion. It was awful. I sat, practically quivering in the aftermath, relieved. One second longer and God only knows what—

  “Adam?” Sara’s knocking at the door jarred me. She had scared the shit out of me, only, not really.

  “Yeah!” I said to her, shouting slightly since the shower was going.

  “Why is the door locked? Are you showering?”

  “Uh, not exactly.” I was busted and embarrassed.

  “Not exactly, huh?” I could hear her laughing on the other side of the door. It was nice to hear her in a good mood, even if I was the source of the humor. “Could you elaborate?” she asked.

  “Well…” I started and didn’t finish.

  “You’re going stinky, aren’t you?” she said, laughing again, louder. I had dated someone else who used to say something similar to that, using a cutesy anecdote for the horror of the bowels, and it drove me nuts…with her. When Sara said it, I didn’t mind so much. And, actually, I thought it was cute…in a gross, pooping-as-a-topic-of-conversation kind of way.

  “Yes, Sara, I am going stinky,” I replied, only vaguely humiliated.

  “Okay, Adam. You keep going stinky. I’m going to call my doctor and see if he has time to see me today…to get a blood test done. You know.”

  “Okay.” Left alone for the first time this morning, I finished my business. Two flushes and half a can of potpourri spice air freshener later, and I decided to go ahead and shower. I cautiously unlocked the door and hopped into the already running water and quickly began to soap myself up.

  “Adam?” I heard the knock at the door and Sara’s voice, cautiously calling from outside the restroom without coming in.

  “You might not want to come in here yet,” I hollered to her, poking my head out of the shower.

  “Okay. Just got off the phone. I’m going over to the doc’s, okay? He said he’s free if I can come over soon. I should be back in about an hour.”

  “Okey-dokey. Good luck.”

  “I LOVE YOU!” she hollered.

  “I LOVE YOU, TOO!” I hollered back. I thought to myself about how great her mood seemed after the demons we dredged up last night, and then my thoughts switched to my mother. I wondered if maybe she could provide me with any answers about my real parents who had been, thus far, hidden from me. I cut the water off and grabbed the towel off the bar. The towel was huge and wonderfully soft. I hadn’t known that drying off after a shower could be such a pleasure. Sara-towels. I hung it up and went to get changed.

  While I was putting on my jeans I thought about how I had the entire next week off. Sara and I could drive to Texas to investigate everything if she were up to it. Maybe I would suggest it when she came home.

  Flukey was on the floor by my feet staring up at me. “What do you think, Flukey? A little trip to try and set some shit straight?”

  He didn’t answer, of course; but his shiny black eyes seemed to approve.

  ****

  Sara returned about an hour later to me nodding in and out of consciousness on the couch; the shower had effectively sapped me of my energy on that early, hung over morning. The television was tuned to a morning show, and I could hear the jolly weatherman talking about beautiful weather for the southeast.

  I had a few strange dreams in my catnaps while Sara was gone, the kind of dreams that people teetering on the edge of true sleep have. They were the beginnings of dreams, the setups that were unable to take hold. I woke myself up jerkily at least three times, with some faint, fictitious vision sifting away in my head.

  One of the visions that stuck in my head was a young Sara, from the picture of her in the swing, only it was in motion in my head. Sara hopped from the swing and seemed to be running at the cameraperson, a giant smile on her face, arms extended, wanting to be hugged or picked up. Of course, I was the cameraperson for the purposes of my dream, but I backed away from Sara every time she ran at me. She would get within arms’ reach, but I would jump back, feeling afraid, and she would fall forward, hitting the ground. This went on about four or five times, Sara picking herself up, wiping grass off of her chest, the big smile never leaving her face, and running for me.

  I woke up when Sara returned from the doctor’s office. She went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, then came out into the living room, sitting next to me on the couch as I tried to shake the sleep cobwebs out of my head. She was smiling and her mood still seemed upbeat, so my mood was thus determined.

  “Well, he couldn’t see me,” she said as I groggily moved into a more upright position and stretched. “Some sort of emergency came up, and his receptionist told me that she could work me in Monday some time.”

  “Monday…hmmm…” I wondered how I was going to approach the idea of going on a little ‘search for truth’ with Sara. I was becoming more aware as the seconds elapsed, and began formulating it in my mind.

  “Ooh, I think the coffee’s ready!” she said rather cheerily, and bounced up and into the kitchen to pour us some. The smell of the coffee alone was putting life into my weary body.

  She returned, and we sat sipping at our cups. I suggested that we should hit the road, “on a quest.”

  “A quest?” she asked, giggling. “Who are you, Magellan?”

  I laughed at the joke, the woman with the best sense of humor I had experienced was mine, sitting next to me on the couch, mocking me. It was perfect.

  “A quest for knowledge,” I said in an overly dramatic voice, “and its bastard son, truth!”

  “That’s probably fitting,” she said, looking thoughtfully into her cup. I could see faint trails of steam rising from the cup, drifting in front of her face. “A road trip to clear up the most confusing relationship ever,” she laughed.

  A silent minute passed as I thought about her comment. I said, “You know, it’s funny.”

  “What’s funny? Besides our lives?”

  “The surest thing I’ve ever felt in my life has been you,” I started, resting my hand on her thigh, “and you’ve brought out the most confidence that probably any Fluke in the long, storied Fluke bloodline has ever shown.” She smiled as I told her this. “And, now we’re at this fucking crazy point when I have to start wondering if the secrets of my heritage are linked to you.”

  “We’ll figure it out, Mister Fluke,” she said, running her fingers through my hair. “And I’m sure we’re going to be happy, no matter what.”

  Her confidence was reassuring to me, though I wasn’t too sure just how happy I’d end up being.

  ****

  We sat down that afternoon and worked out the logistical end of our trip. Sara called her boss at the museum and asked if she could take some sick days the next week.

  “No, I’m okay. I just have some…things I need to take care of,” I heard her say into the phone. “Really, I’m fine.”

  I already had the week off from work; all I would be missing were classes, and I could afford to do that. I was doing well in the classes and hadn’t actually missed any, up until that day, of course. I could make up some work when I got back, once my mind had (hopefully) cleared up some.

  I flipped open Sara’s laptop on the coffee table, went to a map website and punched in the addresses; it seemed like a pretty straight shot along interstate 10 to Texas. After that, Sara would have to navigate for us.

  I was torn; the thought of a road trip always excited me, as I loved to hop in the car and go somewhere I’ve never been (“Off into the
great unknown!” Sean said about five hundred times in his Blazer on our trip to Key West last year), but this just worried me. Sara, who always seemed honed in on exactly how I felt at any given moment, looked at me.

  “This doesn’t have to be too grim, you know,” she said. “We could stop off and check out New Orleans for a night. A little decadence on Bourbon Street.” She tapped New Orleans on the laptop screen with a lovely fingernail. “You know, enjoy ourselves along the way.”

  Her upbeat attitude about the trip, whether it was genuine or simply an attempt to soothe me, was a welcome counter to my hesitant, doubtful ideas. I wanted to get moving, but I was scared of what the final destination would be, not just of the trip, but also of Sara and I. The thought of a stop along the way, further delaying the inevitable, seemed like a great idea.

  Sara picked up the laptop across the room, hooked up the printer, and began printing the map out. As she did, I kept telling myself that no matter what we learned, something good will come out of it. If indeed, it turns out that Sara and I were related, it would solve one of the great, dusty mysteries of my life: who are my biological parents? And, if the resolution I hoped for was the one we found in Houston, that it was a mistake, and Sara and I weren’t close to being brother and sister, another, not so dusty, mystery would be solved: Will I find true love?

  I forced myself to ignore the next logical question: if we are related, just how fucked up will we be when it hits us we’ve been doing our sibling for a while now?

  Push it aside for now, Adam-boy…

  We both had some running around to do once we were done with our planning; Sara needed to go to the bank to withdraw some money, so I volunteered to take her car to get the oil changed and gas it up. Sara’s plan was to hit the road at about six the next morning, which I good-naturedly objected to.

  “Christ, that’s early, Sara,” I whined.

  “Well, that gets us out of this apartment and moving in some kind of direction,” she responded. “And, don’t whine, Mister Fluke. It sounds terrible.” She pinched my belly as she said it.

  “Oww!” I whined again, pushing her hand away, laughing. “If we’re stopping over in New Orleans for the night, that’s only five hours away. What the hell are we gonna do in New Orleans at eleven in the morning?”

  “We’ll find something to do. Come on, Adam. You told me you like road trips.”

  “Love ‘em,” I responded. “Just hate that getting up early part, that’s all.”

  “Okay, we’ll compromise. We’ll hold off leaving until six-thirty,” she said, smiling.

  I could tell there was no talking her out of an early departure, so I agreed.

  So, she left for the bank in my Civic, and I drove her car to Wal-Mart, where I could get the express service on her car and do a little music shopping at the same time.

  As I dropped the keys off with the oil-stained woman in the garage (“We’re a little stacked up right now, Mr. Fluke, but we should have her done in about an hour, hour and a half,” she told me in a thick southern drawl. Great, fine, good.), I marveled briefly at how convenient America had become. A person could go to Wal-Mart and have his oil changed, shop for CDs, do their weekly grocery shopping, and get eyeglasses within the span of a couple of hours, at one place.

  As I walked down the crowded, brightly lit aisles, I had difficulty deciding if it was innovation at work or laziness. Did we really need all these services under one roof? Was it worth saving some driving time? It almost embarrassed me, buying a loaf of bread, a pair of shorts, and printing out pictures of mom’s birthday party, all under one roof.

  Oh, well. Convenience or laziness, old Sam Walton had certainly known what people wanted. And he became a very rich man giving it to consumers.

  I strolled into the electronics section, set on picking up some good driving music for our trip, and as I whipped around the cell phone display, I crashed into a female employee carrying an armload of CDs. I caught a glimpse of Janet Jackson’s face (Wow, she’s hot, I instantly and briefly thought) on one of the CD covers as a hailstorm of plastic cases crashed to the floor. I attempted to catch one before it hit the ground, hearing the sound of plastic cracking under my shoe as I moved forward, and I accidentally batted the CD at the exasperated employee, instead of catching it. The CD bounced off of her neck and dropped to the floor, landing on the pile.

  It is in those moments that silence is loudest. It seemed like all motion and activity had frozen inside Wal-Mart, and all available eyes were focused in our direction, Wal-Mart employee and I, CDs littering the floor around our feet. I carefully lifted my left foot and stepped back, glancing down and realizing that it was Janet Jackson’s face that I had stepped on and cracked. This struck me as a little depressing, but the overwhelming embarrassment completely outweighed any other emotion at the moment.

  We stood still for what seemed like minutes, just staring at the pile of CDs on the floor, although it was only a few seconds. I glanced at the girl, whose nametag read Amanda, and felt how hot my face and neck were. I knew that I was beet red, and all I could do was mumble, “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  I heard whispering behind me, then laughter, and then, suddenly, it was as though someone un-paused the Wal-Mart soundtrack, and the normal sounds of people talking and laughing, the announcements over the intercom, the quiet music emanating from a display stereo system a few aisles away, resumed.

  Amanda, who had a pierced eyebrow and wore heavy black eyeliner, looked at me with something akin to loathing, and said, “That’s fine.”

  Clearly annoyed, she knelt down and began gathering up the scattered CDs. I knelt across the pile from her and picked up Janet and her cracked face, then Amanda said to me, “Don’t worry about it, dude. I got it.”

  “No, it was my fault, and I’ll…” I started, but she cut me off.

  “I said I’ve got it.”

  I glanced from Janet’s cracked face to Amanda’s glaring face, and said, “Okay, then.” I stood up, feeling like an ass.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “Should I pay for this?” I asked her, holding out the Janet Jackson CD.

  “No, sir, that’s fine,” she said, obviously forcing the “sir” out. She reached up and yanked the CD from my hand. I felt anger creeping up through me. I felt like grabbing her shoulders and standing her upright and screaming into her face, “It was a fucking accident! Quit being such a bitch! I said I was sorry!”

  Instead, I opted for a more Fluke-like response: I apologized yet again. After receiving no response from Amanda, I turned to take a much-quicker-than-originally-planned look at the CDs. As I turned around, I heard a voice say, “Fluke?”

  Man, not only do I feel like an ass, someone I know witnessed me in action, I thought.

  Heather stood by the cash register near the entrance to the electronic section, holding a pack of blank DVDs in her hand. She smiled at me and glanced around my side at Amanda, who was still cleaning up my mess.

  “Nice work,” she said, and laughed quietly, shaking her head.

  “It’s the Fluke Factor. What can I say?” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s beyond my control.”

  It had been a while since I ran into Heather at the carnival with Sara. She had seemed annoyed that night, and I remembered what Sara said on the beach: She wanted to be the one to grab the cotton candy off your face.

  “I thought you had disappeared off of the face of the earth,” Heather said, with a harsh-sounding chuckle.

  I glanced over at a rack of batteries uncomfortably. “Um, yeah. Well, I got a new job, and I’ve been pretty busy.”

  I felt the same twinge of guilt that I felt when I told her I couldn’t go to the carnival, and realized, as she raised her eyebrows, that she was seeing right through me.

  “Busy. You’re always busy, Fluke,” she said. “You moved, too, right? Kevin made a delivery to your apartment a few weeks ago, and an old black woman answered the door. That made for a few jokes back at the Palace. We thought
maybe you had gotten into the gigolo business.” She smiled at this last remark, but I couldn’t tell whether it was in a you-are-a-real-jack-ass way, or a friendly ha-ha way.

  “No, I, uh, moved.” I prayed that my name would be called over the intercom, telling me that the car was ready, even though I had only been there about ten minutes. I prayed for a fire, a masked gunman, a blackout. I fought the sudden impulse to just take off running.

  “Where’d you move to?” she asked casually, but I could tell that she already had a pretty good guess.

  “Um, over on Batts Lane,” I said, and decided to just tell it all. “I moved in with Sara, the girl you met at the carnival.”

  “Really, that’s great,” she said, looking away. “You two must be getting serious.”

  “We’re doing well,” was all I said. I felt something brush my left arm, and I looked over just in time to see Amanda, headed toward to CD display rack, armload of CDs once more in place. The old familiar awkward silence set itself up between Heather and I.

  “Hey,” Heather said, her face lighting up. “You want to go get a cup of coffee or something? Have some smokes, catch up a little bit?”

  Christ, why? I wondered. Why do I have to keep being an asshole to Heather?

  “Well…” I started, fully prepared to turn down the offer, and then stopped.

  I was torn. I hated to once again blow her off, after not having seen her for so long. I really enjoyed her company. It actually would be nice to grab a cup of coffee with her, but I was worried that she might take it the wrong way, as something more than platonic. I didn’t know how to tell her that, but it turned out I wouldn’t have to.

  “Listen, I don’t mean anything by it. I’d just like to shoot the shit with a friend I haven’t seen in forever,” Heather said, erasing my worries. “Although, if you don’t want to, you know, because of Sara and all, I’ll understand.”

  She looked at me, almost hopefully, I thought, and I said, “Sure. You’ll have to drive, though.”