Skin Cage

by Nico Laeser

  “I’m a sucker for classic science fiction,” I say.

  “Me too. I can’t believe it; you have so many of my favorite books here,” she says and stares in awe.

  I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. My view of her is no longer static, and I strafe a little to my right to see the light pinstripe the curve of her cheek. It’s as though both mere seconds and an eternity have been and gone since we were together in the same room. I have loved her for so long that I am unsure if I can ever pretend otherwise.

  My heart beats a complex irregular rhythm. I find myself lost in her image as it softens and is replaced by dissipating spots of light. I stagger back before reaching a hand for the arm of a chair, slowly sinking to a crouch. I feel my body slump to the carpet as everything goes dark. My broken heart skips and kicks my chest, digging a heel into the back of my sternum.

  “David?” Her hand touches my neck and my wrist.

  ‘David, can you hear me?” she says from somewhere far away.

  CHAPTER 48

  I am transparent

  “Cass must have made quite an impression on you,” Anna says.

  “Why do you say that?” I say and continue to swallow the pills one-by-one as I sip the water.

  “You were calling for her in your sleep,” she says.

  “Really?” As I wince, so does my heart, and with it comes a stabbing pain that makes me wonder if, in my condition, it is actually possible to die from embarrassment.

  “You’ve been confined to bed rest for a few days, David,” Anna says.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The doctor says that you are putting too much strain on your heart and that you have to take it easy for a little while,” she says, “No more lifting boxes or chasing after nurses in your sleep.”

  I smile and the first few notes of a laugh escape my throat without permission. “I was looking forward to exploring the house,” I say.

  “If you are feeling better after I’ve finished my rounds, then I will take you for a tour,” she says and gestures to the wheelchair in the corner of my room.

  “Oh, it’s okay, Anna, I don’t want to be a burden,” I say.

  “Not at all, David. This is not a hospital; it’s your home,” she says.

  “Thank you, Anna,” I say as she leaves my room with a smile.

  I pick up my book, continuing from where I left off, and soon, I am fleeing across the fringes with David, Rosalind, and Petra, fully immersed in their efforts to escape.

  ***

  My own escape is interrupted when I realize that Anna is standing in my doorway. “Sorry, did you say something?” I ask.

  “Are you ready for your tour?”

  I put my book down and slowly swing my legs down off the bed. Anna rushes to help me, and I tell her I’m okay, but she ignores this and escorts me to the wheelchair, supporting some of my weight as she helps lower me into it.

  I am reminded of our past rituals. “I’m really sorry, Anna.”

  “For what?” she asks.

  “All of the special treatment and extra work for you; I don’t want to put anyone out,” I say.

  “Doctor’s orders, David; no physical stress. It’s not your fault, and you’re not putting me out,” she says and unfolds a thick blanket to cover my legs.

  “I really appreciate it, Anna,” I say, but what I mean is, I appreciate everything that she has done for me my whole life.

  “I do this because I like to help people, David; it’s not a chore.” She smiles as she tucks the blanket out of the way of the wheels.

  “You’re a Saint.” I look her in the eyes, hoping that she will recognize her adoring nephew behind David’s eyes.

  “No, my mother was a Saint,” she says and moves around to the back of the chair.

  “She must be very proud of you, Anna,” I say.

  My thoughts turn to my own parents. I will never be able to talk to them again as their son. To them, I died and hopefully moved on to a better place. I did not ascend or descend but instead moved horizontally into the life of another, merely changing camera angle from static to mobile. The thought of leaving my parents behind and not being able to tell them that I am okay saddens me in a way far more tangible than the vicarious loss of David’s mother had, but I am no longer Daniel Stockholm, and neither am I David Wolfe. I am simply a ghost with unfinished business.

  ***

  Anna pushes me in the wheelchair, and I instinctively close my eyes as we exit the room, listening to the familiar clip-slap of her flat shoes. I open them again when Anna says, “This is C wing, our special care wing.”

  “Special care?” I ask peering through the open doors as we pass.

  “Some of the residents require special help with cleaning or feeding,” she says, “and there are some that are completely incapacitated.”

  “Coma?” I ask, in spite of my better instinct.

  “Awake-unresponsive or persistent vegetative state patients,” she says.

  My stomach churns as her words summon memories of being trapped. Claustrophobia begins to set in, and my knuckles are bone white, gripped tight around the arms of the chair.

  “I was in a coma,” I say, “It was terrifying, being trapped and unable to ask for help.”

  Anna says nothing but continues to push me down the length of hallway C. Through an open door, I get a brief glimpse of a figure in a chair by the window, surrounded by machines. In the next room, there is a woman rocking in a wheelchair in front of the television, and I have to close my eyes again to the visual triggers to sickening nostalgia.

  “This is the second dayroom, just for residents that require constant or regular help; this wing is not off limits to other residents, but it makes it easier on staff if those not needing full-time care use the other dayroom,” she says.

  I keep my eyes shut tight until a cool breeze strokes my face to let me know it is safe, and we exit through humming automatic double-doors to the gardens outside. I succumb to the calming effects of nature as we move slowly around the winding path that cuts through grass, trees, and flowerbeds. The grounds are large and surrounded by tall thick trees that square off the garden at the far end.

  We enter the building at the other end. “This is the cafeteria. If you would rather take your meals in here than in your room, then just let us know.”

  We go through another corridor that leads us back into the library.

  “Where are A and B wings?” I say.

  “A and B are on the second floor; most of the residents of A and B are bedridden and in the final stages of their illness,” she says.

  Death row. I have no wish to continue my tour of the upstairs and foresee that I will be less than enthusiastic about my inevitable transition, when it finally comes.

  We come to a stop back in my room, and I am mentally exhausted. Anna helps me out of the chair, and I don’t resist the help.

  “Thank you for the tour, Anna,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, David; if you need anything else, then push the white button, and someone will come by as soon as they can. Don’t push the red button unless it is a medical emergency,” she says and smiles before exiting my room.

  I let my slippers fall to the floor as I slide my legs under the covers and lay my head on my pillow. I can’t get the images of C wing out of my mind. The feelings of being trapped, that have now become more than just far away memories, stir in my stomach. For the first time, I share the irrational fear of contagion with the countless voyeurs in Danny’s past, recoiling from the clay-sculpted remnants of a tapeworm’s entrée.

  CHAPTER 49

  I am the cowardly liar

  I am walking steadfast to wing C. I don’t know if it is morbid curiosity that is propelling me, or a need to conquer the almost crippling fear that gripped me previously, during my tour with Anna.

  Beyond the first open door I come to, sits a boy with a blank and detached expression, surrounded by machines, some of which I recognize. My throat tig
htens, and my lower eyelids tremble as they fill with hot stinging tears. There is a clipboard hanging next to the ventilator, and I read the name aloud, “William Emerson.”

  “Hi, William, I’m David,” I say as I wipe my eyes.

  William maintains his posture and continues to stare forward. I attempt to speak again, but no words come out, only a whimpering, blubbering accompaniment to the streaming and uncontrollable tears.

  ***

  As I make my cowardly retreat back to hallway D, I am plagued by memories of McGuire, of young David slouched down behind a car, hiding and drenched in self-pity, and seething with subsequent self-loathing.

  When I get back to my room, I am crying and unable to stop. A million thoughts run through my mind at a confusing pace, and all of which leave me in a cold panic. Empathy for William and the frigid fear of my own fragility work like alternating pistons behind my tear ducts, as I sink down into my chair.

  Prominent in my mind is the selfish and unrelenting realization that I have willingly entered the grim reaper’s halfway house. My continued existence is nothing more than gloating arrogance, rubbed in the face of death as it lurks outside my periphery, waiting for the right time to reclaim its elusive quarry.

  I do what I can to take my mind elsewhere. With my laptop open on the table, I scroll through countless photographs of strangers until I find the only face among them that means anything to me. Harry’s words echo in my mind, “I am very proud of you, David.” If he could see me now, would he still feel proud, or would he see me for the lying coward that I am, pleading before his image for the lending of courage.

  CHAPTER 50

  I am intrepid

  I open the web browser, copy and enter the password given to me for the wireless Internet connection when prompted, and the Statham House home page opens with terms and conditions of use. I click agree without reading the above text and stare at the page, with William’s face seemingly super imposed, as I type his name into the search bar at the top of my screen.

  After scrolling through multiple social media profiles, looking for the boy in the chair, I almost dismiss his profile along with the rest bearing the same name, because the boy in the photo looks so different, the graven image seemingly more animated than its physical counterpart.

  “Comment has been removed or deleted by user” underlines almost every other comment within each of the turn-based conversations. I browse through his photos, and there are pictures of William with other members of the chess club that bring similar images from David’s unpopular childhood to the forefront of my mind. I see, “Stranger in a Strange Land,” listed as one of his favorite books along with around ten or so other titles that are now on the shelves of bookcase sixty-two.

  ***

  Almost two hours have passed before my return to room 157C, William’s room. I hesitate at the doorway before walking in and sitting down in the chair. William’s position and expression remain unchanged.

  “I’m sorry I left in a hurry earlier, William,” I say, “I’m new here, and I don’t really know anyone. I was hoping that maybe we could be friends.” My eyes well up again, and I take a second to compose myself.

  “I brought a book along with me. I thought that maybe I could read it to you.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and search for the courage to look into his. He is the picture of frozen innocence, a child locked in a daydream.

  “Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein,” I say and open the book.

  CHAPTER 51

  I am the scarecrow

  Last night there was a crow outside my window, cawing and keeping me awake into the early hours of the morning. When sleep finally came, the crow came along with it, infiltrating my subconscious, whispering the synopsis of a dream-memory hybrid of my family’s last trip to Africa.

  We were housed in large tents and kept inside the compound for most of the trip because of escalating violence in and around the neighboring villages. There were armed militia in the streets, and the sound of distant gunfire played like tribal drumming in the background of every conversation.

  We were allowed to leave the compound on the condition of strict adhesion to specific routes and with the accompaniment of an armed escort. I made a comment to my mother about the dead crows that were strewn along our route and in the villages. My mother’s reaction to my comment was a worried glance that begged for silence, adding to the tension in the vehicle, which seemed to have replaced the hot air around us.

  I was told to remain in the back seat of the guarded jeep while my mother haggled for supplies within the village. I am not sure if the armed guards were appointed by government or paid for by the church, or by my parents, but at least one remained with each of us at all times.

  Through the window of the Jeep, I watched as villagers scattered and disappeared into houses as the militia came through firing shots into the air and dragging people into their trucks. They pulled three children from a house, in a tug-of-war fashion, with their hysterical parents dragging behind them like the entrails of a mortally wounded animal. As the children were loaded into the truck, the mother and father were made to kneel at gunpoint as one of the armed men set fire to their house. A crow cawed from the roof of the family’s home as it began to smolder and smoke. The muzzle of the semi-automatic rifle was raised from the father’s forehead to the roof of their home, and a round was pumped into the black bird before it rolled and fell next to the crying couple.

  Later that day, within the safety of the compound, I overheard my parents in one of the tents talking with their translator. He was asking my parents to consider abandoning the construction, or at least putting the project on hold, because of the escalating hostility. My parents were adamant about staying for the completion of the medical depository, but agreed to stay within the compound for the remainder of their visit.

  The translator had also asked for more stringent treatment of food waste within the compound as it was attracting crows. My mother asked about the significance of the crows, and why there were hundreds of the dead birds littering the streets in and around the village, and his reply was that the crow was a bad omen, thought by some, to be a spy for the witches. He said that the militia kill them as a warning to witches, and the villagers kill any around their homes that would be interpreted by militia as a sign of witchcraft in the house. People used to see the crows as guides for the soul, a blessing, but the villagers have come to see them now as a bad omen, a harbinger of death.

  The crows were perched on the high walls of the compound, cawing and waiting for food scraps. I was terrified that the crows would bring the militia back to our camp. I spent the next few hours running around, shouting, chasing, and throwing rocks at the crows. I winged a few, which made the rest caw louder. I didn’t want to kill the birds, but I wanted them gone before the militia returned.

  ***

  I woke up this morning in a cold sweat, with the loud cawing chorus still echoing in my mind as I sat up.

  The lingering fear from my dream still wraps my thoughts as I question if the crow outside my window last night was indeed a spy for the underworld, sent by death to search me out.

  CHAPTER 52

  I am the antecedent

  I have with me the box of items that I had requested, and that Harry brought for me during his visit this morning. I set them down on the table in 157-C; William sits still in the same position he’s been in every time that I have visited him.

  “This may be a little more interesting than the boring white walls,” I say as I unroll the massive poster of the Orion nebula and pin it to the wall. I show him the items as I pull them from the box. Every movie listed on his profile under favorites. Complete box sets of his favorite television shows, mostly science fiction.

  “And I brought a chess set for when you get better,” I say and sit down in the chair with the book I’ve been reading to him. I open it to chapter nineteen.

  After three or four pages, I look up and there’s a large man s
tanding in the doorway. I close the book and stand. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Who are you?” he says, which comes across like, name and rank?

  “David, room 117-D,” I say with a dither.

  “George Emerson.” He extends a hand that looks more like a baseball mitt as it wraps around mine.

  “You’re William’s father?” I ask, as I’m shook by the hand.

  He nods. “Where did all of this stuff come from?”

  I feel a sudden guilt for having encroached without permission. “I had it brought in for William. I’m sorry, I should have asked if it was alright,” I say, mentally squirming for adequate reason.

  “What’s this?” he asks, pointing at the poster.

  “It’s a photo of the Orion nebula, taken by the Hubble telescope,” I say, “I thought it would be better than the plain white walls.”

  “Will loved this stuff.” George stares in the direction of the poster but seems to be looking right through it, and the wall.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I always wanted him to get into sports. I never took any interest in any of this stuff,” he says and closes his eyes.

  I try to stay the feelings of claustrophobia, stemming from the fact that this large man is standing directly in the way of the room’s only exit.

  “I was an athlete all the way through high school and college; I thought he’d take after me. I signed him up for everything, but he wasn’t interested in any of it, would rather play chess, or read a book,” he says and turns a stern gaze toward me.

  “Why did you bring all this stuff in here?” George’s eyes narrow, and for a second, I am reminded of the fear I felt, standing in McGuire’s shadow with nowhere to run.

  Backed into a corner, I am a Wolfe with a demeanor more fitting of a startled rabbit. “I was in a coma ... ” I start, “I could hear everyone around me talking, sometimes I could even see what was going on, but I was trapped inside, and I couldn’t do anything about it. If William is aware of what is going on around him, then we should make him as comfortable as we can.”