by Nico Laeser
“ … This high profile case may turn into a very complicated battle of laws and loopholes versus ethics and opinion … ”
My skin crawls, or more accurately, David’s skin crawls, as I read through the various articles detailing my life and my death. The name under the heading of one of the articles is Christopher Dennis, the journalist who left a message on my phone. I was Daniel Stockholm and I am dead. I am David Wolfe and I am dying.
***
I look at the clock in the corner of the screen, and, judging from the directions on my phone, it is almost time to leave for my appointment with Dr. Hossieni.
I know now that I am not David Wolfe, but they are his memories that are returning to me. My own memories came back the instant I left his body and have stayed with me since. I am thinking that I should try to limit my interaction with any of David’s family or friends. He made the choice to leave this world, and I have hijacked his body. I am the tapeworm, a symbiotic life form that lives inside another, survives on another.
I want to respect David’s wish to die, but if I leave his body, I will be stuck once again in limbo. I am beginning to wonder if there is such a thing as death. My body is dead, but I have seen no god or heaven, and the afterlife, it seems, is just a timeless version of this one.
CHAPTER 35
I am the lamb in Wolfe’s skin
“How are you feeling, David?” Dr. Hossieni asks.
It makes me cringe a little inside when he says David, like somehow the simple use of his name exposes me as counterfeit.
“I tried to commit suicide,” I say.
The doctor rubs the side of his face, and I let him off the hook for a response that is taking a long time to formulate behind the deer-caught-in-headlights expression slapped on his face.
“I was in a coma for eight days and in the hospital for almost two months,” I say, “I lost my memory, and it’s just started coming back in waves.”
“Do you remember anything about your condition, David?” he says.
I nod. “I know that I’m dying, but I don’t remember what pills I’m supposed to take and when. That’s why I’m here.”
He opens the folder on his desk, takes a piece of paper out, and begins to write.
“These are the medications that you need to take, David, do you still have all of these?” he asks and slides the paper to me.
“I have a whole pile of bottles at my apartment,” I say.
“Those are the ones that you need to take; just follow the instructions on the bottle,” he says, “Have you been taking the Digoxin?”
“I don’t know which ones I’ve been taking or which ones I am missing,” I reply.
“The Digoxin will help manage some of your symptoms. You need to take all of your regular medications if you want to maintain any kind of normal activity, David,” he says.
“How long do I have?” I say.
In spite of his seemingly curt nature, he manages to skirt around the answer for around five minutes with misdirection like “with adequate treatment,” and, “with a healthy diet and subtle lifestyle,” and, “some people live as long as.”
“A year? Two years?” I cut him off.
He nods. “but there is a chance it could be much longer.”
“Or shorter?” I ask.
He nods again and closes my file.
“Why didn’t they tell me about my heart at the hospital?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, David, I was not informed that you were in the hospital until now,” he says.
I look over the pill schedule that he has written out, and it looks like a pharmacist’s shopping list.
“In your condition, coming off of your pills for more than a day or two could prove fatal,” he says.
“I was in the hospital for almost two months without pills,” I say.
“I guarantee that your condition was being monitored and stabilized through medication, David, or we would not be having this conversation,” he says with a hint of condescension.
He hands me a prescription so long that I wonder if it could be filled in time to save my life if I were to run out.
“If you have any more questions about the medication, then call me,” he says and writes something on the back of his business card before handing it to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Visit the website on the back of my card; there’s all kinds of information about dietary needs, exercise requirements and restrictions, and there is number for the heart health helpline you can call.” He stands up and offers his hand out to shake.
I shake his hand and walk out of his office.
CHAPTER 36
I am a stranger
I know that I shouldn’t answer; I should just let it ring, but even as I am thinking this, I pick up the phone and hit answer call.
“Hello?”
“David?” a male voice says.
“Yes, this is David, who is this?”
“It’s Harry,” he says.
I recognize his voice from my messages. “How are you?”
“I’m about the same, how are you?” he says, and there is an urgency in his tone.
“I’m okay. When was the last time we talked, Harry?” I’m hoping that he will let me know who he is and how we know each other without me having to ask and risk offending him.
“It’s been four months, David, why haven’t you picked up your phone or gone to any of the meetings? I was worried about you,” he says.
I’m thinking about the awkward silence during the elevator ride with the building manager and breathe a sigh through my nose.
“This is going to sound a little strange, Harry; I was in the hospital. I was in a coma for eight days, and when I came out of it, I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t even remember who I was at first,” I say.
“Hospital? Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
There is a small pause, and then Harry says, “Do you know who I am?”
“I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t.”
“We met at the support group for,” he hesitates.
“I know that I’m dying, Harry, it’s okay.”
“We’ve been friends for two years,” he says.
“It’s nice to know that I had a friend; I was beginning to wonder.”
His voice breaks a little. “I thought that maybe you had … ”
I cut him off before he has a chance to finish. “It’s okay, Harry, I’m fine. I guess I got my pills all mixed up and took a bad combination. I went and saw Dr. Hossieni yesterday and got him to write down my pill schedule for me.”
“Did he tell you how long?” he asks.
“He said that if I keep myself relaxed and lay off the salt that I could keep going for years, three, four.” I make an effort to keep my pitch optimistic.
Harry is quiet on the other end of the phone.
“Harry?”
“I’m still here. I guess when your only chance of making friends is at a group for the terminally ill, you should expect a limited time offer on friendship,” he says.
I try to think of something to say, but I can’t.
“Sheryl died last week, and I didn’t say goodbye,” he says.
“I won’t leave without saying goodbye, Harry.”
I can still hear him in the earpiece, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Is it your heart too, Harry?”
“No, leukemia. I don’t know how long I have left. They said a year. That was five years ago,” he says.
“I’ll come by the meeting next week, Harry, I promise.”
“I just wanted to talk to you. I know that you don’t remember me, but it’s still good to hear your voice, David,” he says.
“You too, Harry.”
“Goodbye, David,” he says.
“Goodbye, Harry.”
CHAPTER 37
I am the common denominator
As the day progresses, I find that I become more confused, trying to untang
le my childhood memories from his. Our lives have become entwined, but he no longer has any say in the authorship of what is to be the epilogue of his life. I feel an overwhelming guilt at times when I am forced to impersonate David, and to all that perceive my performance, I am indiscernible from the original, a perfect copy with all of his memories to use for reference during unavoidable interactions.
At night, I recline in his chair and let the world around me turn to stone as I leave my nest and liberate myself from his memories, begging God, karma, or fate to give me a sign to let me know if what I am doing is wrong. Each night, I expect to return to a reclined statue, locked and reluctant, but instead, he waits for me like an empty suit, or more aptly, a uniform that comes with its own expectations and responsibilities.
Is this the way it is for everyone when they die? Do they leave their shell, to wander around a frozen landscape until a new host is found? Maybe when we are ready to let go of our memories, we are allowed to move on. Maybe we are symbiotic entities by nature, needing to fuse with flesh to comprehend time and fluid physicality. Maybe, when we let go of our old lives, we are allowed to settle in a new womb, to be born once again, cleansed of our memories and of our sins.
I do not feel as though I have eluded death, and I have no delusions of grandeur or exclusivity. I am the unwilling participant in an esoteric game of which I am ignorant to the rules. I take my turn each night as I negotiate the petrified blue-black game board, expecting fate to take its turn and for me to be locked out once again. I am unsure as to whether the correct emotional response should be one of indignation or gratitude as I am allowed to return to the world and continue with a life that is not my own.
CHAPTER 38
I am the product of his environment
I’m twelve years old and hiding behind a parked car, waiting for McGuire and his entourage to pass on the other side of the street. Other kids walk past me, glancing down at me, and I am cowering and pathetic. I meet the gaze of each with a silent plea that they won’t give me away. I am used to the teasing and the beatings, but if they see me and decide to toy with me for too long, I will miss my bus and have to wait an hour for the next one or walk home. In the short stories I write, I am heroic, courageous, and tough, but really, I’m just a victim. I didn’t really ever have a father to teach me how to fight or stick up for myself. The heroes in my stories are as much a surrogate for the father figure that I wish I’d had instead of the one that walked out on my mom when I was a baby, as they are surrogates for me, with my skinny non-threatening frame and low self-confidence. I aspire to be more like the protagonists from the science fiction stories I read, strong, bold and unafraid, but I am weak and unable to defend myself. Not that bravery would in any way overcome the fact that McGuire is over a foot taller than me, built like a car, and always has his two friends with him, ready to chase down his prey and hold it squirming until McGuire saunters up and lays in with his fists and size eleven boots. I wonder if I ever meet my father, if I will be able to look him in the face and admit to him that I am unpopular, a coward, a weakling, and I wonder if I can tell him that all of it is his fault for not teaching me how to be a man.
CHAPTER 39
I am the product of my environment
I am twelve years old and asking my mother to tell me about Grandma Jane. She knows what I want to know, and I am expecting her to shush me or tell me that I’m too young to understand like she usually does, but instead, she tells me to sit down and gestures to an empty leather chair in her office.
“Just give me a minute while I finish this e-mail,” she says.
The walls are covered with various photos of her shaking hands with people, or standing as one of the few white faces among a group of people all smiling. One of the photos is of my mother as a child standing with Grandma Jane, and behind young Hilary there is Anna with her hands clasped and her arms over Hilary’s shoulders framing her smiling face.
“So what do you want to know?” she asks as if ignoring the countless times I have brought it up to her in the past.
“I want to know about Aunt Anna’s scars, and about her sister,” I say.
“Why do you want to know so badly?” she asks.
“I don’t know, I just do,” I say, not knowing if morbid curiosity is enough of a reason to have been pestering her about it, off and on, for three years, although I assume it is the same curiosity that she, as a young girl, exhibited while pestering Grandma Jane for the truth about her sister.
“You need to promise me that you are not going to upset your Aunt Anna next time you see her,” she says.
“I promise,” I say.
“Your grandma was helping set up a medical depository in a small village a few miles away from where Anna and her family lived, when news came that evidence of witchcraft had been found in a few of the other villages,” she says.
“Were you there too?” I ask.
“Yes, but I was too young to remember any of it,” she says.
I wait patiently for her to continue, afraid that if I interrupt her again, and at the wrong moment, I will have to wait another three years for the rest of the story.
“When my mother found out about the accusations of witchcraft, it was already too late to save some of the children. Anna’s parents had been convinced by the pastor of the church that both Anna and her sister were possessed by the devil and performing witchcraft,” she says.
“Why would a pastor say that?” I ask.
“There are some people that choose to believe in superstition, and there are some very bad people that choose to capitalize on fear and ignorance. The most powerful and successful churches were the ones whose pastors were able to detect and exorcise evil spirits and demons,” she says.
“They thought that Anna was possessed by a demon?” I ask.
My mother nods. “There were seven children, two boys and five girls, including Anna and her sister.”
“So what happened?” I press.
My mother sits staring through the wall of photographs for what seems like an hour before continuing in a flat, hushed tone, “They claimed that they were exorcising the demons and forced three of the children to drink acid.”
My stomach churns for having made her say it out loud, but she doesn’t stop; she goes on in the same monotone fashion of someone on the brink of hopelessness.
“The parents of the children were told that their children had been taken by the devil, and the men of the church tortured confessions of witchcraft and association with the devil out of each of the children that were still able to speak.” I see tears well up in her eyes, but she doesn’t look at me.
“One of the boys was deemed a demonic wizard and was burned. One of the girls died within days of being forced to drink acid, another a week later, and Anna’s sister lasted a month before she died of her injuries.” My mother is crying silently and it is as if we are no longer in the same room.
“The three that were saved, a boy and two girls, had been beaten, cut, and whipped. Anna was one of those three children that survived. Mom took Anna, her sister, and the two others to the safety of the Christian missionary compound,” she says and gives in to the tears.
“They couldn’t save Anna’s sister, and as for the rest of them, including Anna, they remained terrified at the sight of the cross for a long time after,” she sobs uncontrollably into her hands, and in my mind, the rest plays like a later memory, when I am in my chair and unable to speak, a ghost.
CHAPTER 40
I am terminal
I called Gareth Peters, who runs the support group, for the time and place of today’s meeting. I promised Harry that I would go. Gareth said that it was being held in the same place as usual, the community center in the next town over.
There is a driver’s license in my wallet, but no car key on my key ring, so I am assuming that I do not own a car. I’m wondering how I would handle driving, if his knowledge and skill would take over like an automatic pilot, or if the fact that I
never learned to drive would impair my efforts.
I have become the sum of two parts. Sometimes, while performing routine duties, such as shaving, to which the sole privilege had previously been his, I step outside of myself, as if watching David from the other side of the glass. I have tried to separate his memories from mine, to compartmentalize our two lives, and keep them apart, but it seems that events spill from one jar to the other. Some are like oil and water, and some mix and blend, assimilating or consuming each other until I am forced to leave the shell of David at the end of each day to reset and divide.
***
I manage to pull up the bus information and route on the transit website; it says that it’s less than an hour away, but I leave early just in case. There is a bus that comes down Twelfth Street that goes to the bus depot, where I am to transfer to the number twenty-three bus, which will take me the rest of the way.
***
I have to stop every couple of blocks to catch my breath, and I am thankful that I gave myself extra time for the commute. A young woman offers me her seat at the bus stop, but I refuse, thank her, and make up an excuse about running to catch the bus, to explain the excessive panting and sweating. She smiles and returns to her magazine.
The bus arrives a few minutes later, and all seating is full. I make my way toward the back as directed by the driver. As the bus pulls away, I reach for the handrail, but miss and find myself stumbling into a large man that instantly reminds me of McGuire. I apologize at once, and he goes back to staring out of the window.
I have developed an irrational fear of a bully that I have never actually met. I was teased like every kid in school, but not to the extent that David was. Suddenly, being introduced to the emotional remnants of being hunted daily, bullied, and beaten has begun to erode my self-confidence. Even after nightly separation, the fear and hopelessness that he once felt seeps in and begins to frame my own childhood memories. My mother had said on more than one occasion that if I could put myself in the shoes of the less fortunate for even one day, then perhaps my life wouldn’t seem so bad; this is not what she had in mind, but she was right. Compared to growing up without a father, with a mother working two jobs to pay for a tiny rundown apartment, and being singled out by the school bully day after day, my childhood was not that bad. Maybe my lack of gratitude at the time was the reason that I was deemed undeserving to live out the rest of it, and why I was offered to the parasite as food.