by Eli Constant
We were looking for a suitable pull over when Megan spotted a sign for the Lewis and Clark River Boat. It was 7:30 am and early morning bright. She was so excited and I couldn't resist her pleading to see the boat.
I coerced Jason into taking exit 157. We hadn't made a pleasure stop for some time. The girls deserved some fun.
Months and months ago, before meeting Jason, we'd stopped off in Charleston, SC. It was a bright day, a stark contrast to the state of Charleston's historic streets.
I had always wanted to see the Battery, Rainbow Row, and the Old Slave Market (repurposed as a flea market). Where we'd lived in Georgia wasn't that far a drive. David and I could have gone, should have gone. We kept thinking we'd go some other month... some other year. The time passed. We never went.
Now he was dead.
I thought it would honor our time together to visit Charleston. The girls were thrilled to stop. It was a semi-return to normalcy. Megan climbed on the cannons. The grass on the Battery was green and soft. Kara rolled in the grass. Her high pitched giggle rang out and her clothes became riddled with green stains. It wasn't all pleasant though.
Rainbow Row wasn't as cheery as it should have been. The colors seemed muted. The windows were dark and lifeless. Maybe it was my perspective recoloring the townhomes. The girls only saw pretty pastels, bubble gum houses. I saw one more reminder that the world had been chewed up and discarded.
Maybe the sticky mess was presently stuck on the sole of God's shoe. And God had a dilemma- scrape it off and leave it for the next wayward foot or own the tasteless, rubbery ruin that used to be our planet.
The Old Slave Market was exactly what I'd expected: dark, disturbing, and littered with trashed sales booths. The girls did not laugh, did not smile. They felt the haunted souls, the lives that had been affected by the market. It reminded me that we were all slaves to the light now, avoiding darkness and death.
When we'd left the market, when we'd left the city, I'd been happy to go.
Remembering our depressing Charleston stop and the beasties at the Natural Bridge, I now hesitated to continue towards the river boat. What if it too was a colossal disappointment?
We were already at the river boat though... too late to redirect us back to the highway and avoid possible disenchantment.
Kara was fully awake now. When both girls saw the huge white and red boat, smiles spread across their faces. Any parent that has had a child look at you with trust and anticipation knows that there's only one option: close your mouth, keep your promise, and deal with the consequences of giving permission in the first place. The girls were giving me that look now. So I shut up and put on my happy face.
The cold didn't deter the girls from enjoying the open air. If nothing else, the stop was great for letting the girls run around and burn some energy. There was a restroom facility on the boat- a rather nice one- and we all relieved our bladders and wet-napped our bodies. I even washed the girls' hair in the sink, grateful that the generator on the boat worked and could still pump water. I used the same watermelon scented shampoo I'd always used. The smell of it brought on an onslaught of memories. I felt emotionally buckled under the weight.
I was a freaking mess over a fruity hair product.
The girls were happy just to have their hair cleaned.
We hung out in the bar while the girl's hair dried. Someone had hit the liquor supply well before our arrival, but Jason was able to scrounge up a bottle of table wine. It was a far cry from a decent bottle; we didn't care. The taste was pleasant despite the cheapness. We sipped to the sounds of my daughters making a play fort with the dining tables and white tablecloths.
"That's why children are so amazing."
"Why's that?" Jason looked over at the four shoved together tables, towards the sweet giggles.
"Can you even imagine in yourself the capacity to pretend? It's something I've completely lost. I can't fake it anymore. Things aren't going to get better overnight. I'm not going to wake up and this all be imaginary. I can't pretend that I'm the woman I was all those months ago."
"I still pretend."
"How? How can you possibly conceive of anything other than this shitty reality?"
I felt desperate for an answer. If there was a way that I could make life mentally easier... easier to swallow, I needed to know. Just like our course change, I needed a mind change.
"I think about a life where I'd gotten to Michael in time. I imagine we're truly a family. We're on a road trip to see the sites of a beautiful country. Our son and daughters can play in a park until closing and not have to fear the twilight." Jason took a sip of wine. "Sometimes, when we're driving, I imagine holding your hand. It's pretend, but it keeps me sane." His hand reached for mine, but stopped mid gesture. My hand stayed firmly in place- gripping the wine glass stem in terror.
"Jason... we've only known each other a short time. I do feel something for you. I feel a kind of gratefulness and kindred, but you're not..."
"I'm not your husband." He finished for me.
"No. I'm sorry. David is imprinted on my life. He was my true partner for 15 years. I carried his children. Every time I look at Megan or Kara, I see him. I don't want to hurt you by pretending I can heal the scar that losing David left on my heart."
"I'm not asking you to love me. Just humor me. And if I reach for your hand, you reach for mine. I'm asking for humanity, not romance." His eyes pleaded with mine. I was in a position of complete powerlessness.
I couldn't deepen his pain.
"My hand is all yours." I smiled. He smiled. "But if your hand wanders to any region other than my hand, my fist will wander to your face or my knee will wander to your crotch. Deal?"
"Deal." And the moment was over.
In one hour, I'd given my children an instance of normalcy and I'd given this man a source of human kindness.
The girls were sad to abandon their little Fort Swanson, but the road was calling and our tires were happy to oblige. We'd siphoned gas outside of Fargo, North Dakota while the girls were still asleep so we had at least two more hours of driving before we had to worry about another fill up. Megan and Kara were hungry. Kara was accepting more solids now and she shared a breakfast bar with Megan.
"Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"How old was Michael?"
"Fourteen. He'd be fifteen now if..." Jason's deep voice trailed off into an abyss I could not fathom.
My hands gripped the steering wheel painfully; I glanced in the rearview mirror, so thankful that in that rectangle, I could see the reflection of two sweet and youthful faces.
Fifteen. Years. Old. I couldn't imagine the despair, the horror, the never knowing.
Michael Chambers
My dad used to tell me when I was scared to close my eyes real tight and hum. I hummed tunelessly now; I hummed softly.
When mom wasn’t being mom- when she was drinking- she’d yell at me for humming. She’d say I was too old to act like such a baby. I’d keep my eyes shut tight and hope when I opened them, mom would be mom again. She rarely was.
If I waited long enough though, she’d be passed out on the couch or in her bed. I found her hanging over the toilet one time.
Things were happening. The news couldn’t explain it, but our neighbors were disappearing. Their cars were still there; their lives were still waiting, but they were gone. School was still running, which sucked. We lived in New Mexico so it’s not like we got many days off for snow. You’d think we’d get a ‘might be the end of the world’ day off.
When I’d gotten home from school today, mom hadn’t been as drunk as usual. She’d seemed a little crazy. I tried to call my dad, but he didn’t answer.
My backpack was discarded on my bed now, homework forgotten, and Tuesday’s math test was a thing of the past. Mom never paid attention to those things anyway. Sometimes I thought about slapping a beer label across my face and seeing if mom would look at me for more than five seconds.
I went to the bathroo
m. When I walked back into my room, mom was throwing clothes into my old duffel bag. Dad had bought it before the divorce. I loved soccer and under my initials was a black and white ball.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“We are getting the hell out of here. People disappearing, liquor store shut down. Fucking place.”
“I’m going to try Dad again.” She was scaring me.
“We don’t need your fucking daddy.” She dragged out the word daddy in an ugly, mean way.
She was stumbling around my room. I didn’t think she’d been drinking yet today- no new bottles in the garbage, no stained wine glasses on the counter.
Mom was a full-fledged alcoholic. I guess it didn’t matter how long it had been since her last drink; she’d never really be sober again.
Mom could fake it, but it would always be an act. When she needed to, she could play the perfect maternal figure. Just ask the judge at the divorce trial.
“Mom, I want to call Dad.” I walked over to my bed to grab my cell phone. Dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday. Before I could reach for it, Mom snatched it and held it in the air between two fingers. She waggled it in front of my face and then sent it sailing towards the wall. It broke in two.
“Try calling your daddy now, you little shit. Pack your own crap and wait around for your hero to come.” She pushed me roughly against the bed and stormed out of my room. A few moments later, I could hear her banging around in her own bedroom. Dad had tried once to appeal the custody decision, but mom didn’t leave marks. It was my word against hers. Dad believed me. He was the only one.
I picked up the pieces of the phone. It wasn’t broken. The casing was just separated. I put it back together and dialed dad. He picked up on the third ring.
“Michael, what’s up?”
“Dad, I need you to come get me.”
“Your mom again?”
“Yeah.” I hated calling him with more mom problems. He had enough to worry about and he felt so bad about losing me in the divorce. He’d wanted to take me and leave the country. I don’t think mom would have cared as long as he’d continued sending child support checks. “She’s weirder than usual. Says we’re leaving.”
“Pack a bag. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get to you. Okay?”
“Okay.” I emptied my duffle bag. Mom didn’t know what fit me anymore and the bag was filled with clothes that were two years too small. I tried to give away stuff I’d outgrown, but Mom got pissed. She said I’d wear what I had or go naked. Dad bought me clothes when I told him I needed them. I’d wear the new stuff. Mom was usually too drunk to notice.
I repacked the bag. I also threw in a few of my favorite things. My granddad gave me his stamp collection before he died. Dad and I organized them by year and put them in a small album. It didn’t take up much space. I took a picture off of my dresser- dad, mom and me. We actually looked happy. I was maybe four in the picture. It reminded me that we were a real family at some point and that mom used to be different.
Zipping up the bag, I listened to the sounds of my mother tearing apart her room. The noise was violent. I heard muffled cursing. I grabbed a book off my night stand to pass the time, hoping the story would override my fear.
Suddenly, the house was quiet. Then she was screaming. My mom was screaming. I heard her yell my name. I should have helped her; I should have done something. Instead, I jumped in bed and buried myself beneath a thick layer of quilt and sheet.
Head covered by cloth, I dialed my dad. He didn’t answer. He was on the road to me, but I needed him now. I knew mom’s screaming would be stamped on my brain for the rest of my life. Suddenly, I found my stamp collection less cool.
Just as quickly as the screaming had started, it stopped. I realized that I needed to get somewhere safer.
Sheets weren’t going to protect me from the boogeyman.
The single window in my room was open. It was warm outside, but a light breeze wafted inwards. I could get to that escape. I swallowed all my fear. I pushed it down and down until it settled in the soles of my feet.
Just as determinedly, I threw back my covers and pushed my body out of bed. It took mere seconds to throw my pack strap over my shoulder and launch towards the window.
I was perched on the porch roof now. I heard it enter my room. My bedroom door creaked audibly in a distinctive and squeaky pitch. That was the only noise I heard though. It moved soundlessly across the hardwood. Like a gruesome train wreck, the sight of it drew my eyes. My pupils were frozen in place.
My eyeballs felt like seeing marble, my body Michelangelo’s David minus the prestige. I’d also be lying if I claimed to measure up in physical stature. It’s funny how the mind wanders to random things in times of terror. For instance, currently I was thinking about how popular David must have been with the ladies. With that kind of package…
The figure crept on all fours to my bedside and climbed up onto my favorite sheets- they looked like comic book pages. It bent its malformed head downwards and sniffed. As it arched over, the bones of its spine protruded so much that I could count every vertebrae joint.
I was up to twenty-three when its head whipped up like lightening and its eerie eyes found me in the darkness. I jumped back, forgetting I was precariously standing on the roof. I fell backwards into the air and ended up sprawled among the azaleas. The sight was probably comical, but I wasn’t laughing.
“Oww!” My hands clamped over my mouth. It was surprising how much those blossoming bushes could hurt. They seemed so pink and delicate. Well, the current state of my bottom was proof positive otherwise.
I rolled out of the bushes and landed crouched down on all fours. I crawled to the right side of my house. Mom always kept a spare key duct taped behind the rear license plate of the car. My butt was killing me, but I moved quickly. The key was turning in the lock when I heard an awful screeching.
I glanced through the car door windows and saw the thing standing erect on the porch roof and howling at the sky.
I finished unlocking the door, opened it, and got into the car. As soon as the door was reclosed, I slammed down the lock and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. It was a miracle it started. Car maintenance wasn’t high on mom’s priority list. Oil changes and battery checks probably ranked even lower than being maternal.
I didn’t buckle the seatbelt, which I knew was stupid, but I had other things on my mind; my backpack crushed awkwardly against the seat, making me sit at an angle and too close to the steering wheel.
The noise of the running car sounded like freedom to me. To the monster perched on my house, it sounded like dinner was getting away. What if it didn’t want to eat me? What if it just wanted to gouge my stomach, tear my limbs, and use my blood to draw archaic style paintings on the concrete? My brain raced through all the dark possibilities.
I didn’t think thin glass was going to keep it out, so I put the car in drive and stomped on the gas pedal. The car barely moved forward.
“What the hell! Move you stupid hunk of junk.”
But the crappy car kept creeping forward at a frustrating speed. Then I realized the parking brake was still up. What a moron. I pressed the release button and pushed the brake handle down. The car jolted ahead at the same time as a huge clunk on the car roof signaled a guest.
The carpeted ceiling was slightly indented by the weight of the monster. I didn’t know what to do other than push the gas pedal down even further and barrel ahead. I could hear claws… claws attached to elongated fingers were scraping the car metal. I jerked the steering wheel from side to side hoping to dislodge the thing.
It kept hanging on and I kept zigzagging.
I made it half way down Maple Street. Then my vision was blocked by a big pale body. It scared the hell out of me and my zigzag became a full on misdirection.
The crunch of the pole reminded me I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt. I thought my butt hurt from falling off the house, but that pain was nothing compared
to the bone snapping sensation in my chest and upper stomach as I slammed into the steering wheel.
I was in too much agony to move and I knew that my time had come. I hoped the Grim Reaper had a sense of humor. Like in those Bill and Ted movies.
When I finally lifted my head up to look oncoming death in the ugly monster eyes, all I saw was red splattered across the windshield. Looks like I had to live a little longer.
I still was wearing my pack so there wasn’t anything to salvage out of the wreckage. Before completely abandoning the vehicle, I examined the crushed body of the creature. It was sandwiched between the hood and the light pole. Its fingers moved reflexively in the last throes of death.
When it was completely still, I moved a little closer.
Call it morbid human curiosity, but I wanted to poke its flesh. Maybe it felt like dolphin skin, but it looked like it was covered in weird, stubby hairs. I’d been to the local aquarium on a school field trip once- dolphins were wet and leathery and slick like silk all at once.
My finger moved inch by inch and finally landed nail deep in sickly flesh. It was a bit plastic and plush- like those orthopedic kitchen mats that are supposed to help with fatigue. The rubbery hairs brushed against my knuckles. In the dim light, I watched the skin slowly rise back into place and fill in the indent my finger caused. I wanted to touch it again.
Then the body twitched violently and I ran like hell.
I didn’t look back for miles. I’d always been a good runner. Dad thought I could get a track scholarship someday if I kept on training. My chest heaved painfully and my side ached with the effort it took to breathe. Long distance was not going to be my way into college. Did college even matter now?
I ran and ran, sticking to the well-lit roads in my neighborhood. I stopped in front of Milton’s Pharmacy. My mom frequented Milton’s for cough syrup when the ABC store cut her off.
It was after 6 pm and the doors were locked. Mr. Milton lived above his store in a small two bed flat. I ran into the side alley and banged on the outdoor entrance to his apartment. He didn’t answer. I heard noises in the near distance and panicked.