Spores

by Ike Hamill

  “What are you doing out here?” Patrice asked. “We haven’t seen anyone else in days.”

  The woman still spoke slowly, only altering her volume now that she was inside.

  “You pulled his snowsuit from the lake?” she asked, pointing a gloved finger at Leonard.

  Leonard nodded and tightened his grip on the blanket.

  “It was empty?” she asked.

  Leonard nodded at her pointing finger again.

  “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Okay.”

  She pulled off her gloves, letting them dangle from the short leashes that kept them secured to her wrists. With her fingers free, she began to dismantle all the layers that protected her head. The strap for the goggles were on over her hood. She took those off and unzipped her jacket enough to tuck them into a pocket. When she unwrapped her scarf, they saw that she was wearing a white mask underneath, the kind that surgeons wore when they were operating. She pulled that off as well.

  Andrew exhaled when they finally saw her bare face.

  “So, what are you doing out here?” Patrice asked again.

  “Research,” she said. “I’m doing research. I need a ride down to the nearest city. Can I pay one of you gentleman to take me there?”

  “City?” Leonard asked.

  “Before anyone goes anywhere,” Andrew said, “maybe you can tell us a little more about what you’re doing here. What kind of research? Why were you wearing that mask?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “I just have allergies. One of you has a truck, I imagine?”

  For a moment, they all looked at her. They had tabled their previous conversation, but it was far from resolved. The mere presence of the woman, and her strange questions, was piling on more details than Patrice could quickly assimilate. To keep all their options open, he decided that the best course of action was to act perfectly naturally, for the moment.

  “Let’s start from the top,” Patrice said. He moved towards the woman, extending his hand. “I’m Patrice, that’s Andrew, and Leonard. And you are?”

  She paused before she took his hand. Her smile broke out suddenly and unnaturally. “Marie,” she said, giving his hand a quick, robust shake. “Marie Linklater. I came up here to do some hiking and study the wildlife and I was separated from my campsite. That’s why I need a ride back to the city.”

  “Which city?” Leonard asked.

  “The nearest?” she asked. “Bangor, I suppose.”

  The room fell silent except for a pop from within the wood stove.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Andrew said. They all turned to him.

  “Andy, please,” Patrice said.

  “No, let’s get some straight answers before we go any further, okay? First, you said that you were doing research and then you just came up here hiking around and studying wildlife. Which is it?”

  “Research can be…” Patrice began.

  Andrew cut him off. “But more importantly, how did you get up here? Presumably, you didn’t drop from the sky, right? How come you’re looking for a ride to Bangor instead of your car? Are we supposed to assume that you came in by snowmobile with the guy who went through the ice? If so, you don’t appear very bereft over his disappearance.”

  After thinking for a moment, she said, “My grief is my own. Can I get a ride?”

  “Where are you from?” Leonard asked.

  “What does…” she started.

  Leonard interrupted. “You don’t talk like you’re from around here. You don’t have an accent, but you don’t exactly put words together like an American, do you? Where are you from?”

  “This is no time for a conspiracy theory, Len,” Patrice said.

  “He has a point,” Andrew said. “There’s something strange going on here, and I think that our germaphobe knows something about it.”

  “I’m not a germaphobe,” she said. “I simply need a ride. Can’t any of you simply help a person in distress without all these questions?”

  Andrew stood and moved to a window. He pushed the thin curtains aside, studying the lake and then angling himself so he could see to the south.

  “We were just talking about leaving,” Patrice said. “This actually works out even better. Leonard—you and Andrew wait here for your clothes to dry out. Jake comes back, the three of you come out with him. I’ll take Marie down to Bangor in my truck.”

  Andrew didn’t respond. He was still looking through the window.

  “Jake’s keys are on him,” Leonard said. “That’s no good. Besides, Andrew has a point. She never mentioned the snowmobile, but then she said her grief is her own? What does that mean? And when she first showed up, her first question was whether or not we had been in contact with any strangers? What does that mean?”

  Marie focused a hard glare at Leonard.

  “Sorry, lady, I’m just not buying it. I’m going to find something to put on. I know I have a t-shirt and some skivvies that aren’t too ripe,” Leonard said. He moved towards one of the bedrooms.

  Marie turned hopeful eyes to Patrice.

  “May we leave now?”

  He scratched his head and studied her. After a second, she puffed out her cheeks with an exasperated sigh.

  “Here he comes,” Andrew said from the window.

  “I will leave without you,” she said. “Can you at least point me towards the closest road?”

  “Sure, it’s…” Patrice began.

  The door opened.

  Chapter Six - Arguing

  (Andrew)

  WHEN THE DOOR OPENED, Jake stood there for a moment, framed by the rectangle of the doorway. He was holding a rifle in each hand, barrels pointed down and his legs were shoulder-width apart. Andrew rolled his eyes at Jake’s dramatic entrance. When Jake stepped into the room, Andrew reached under his jacket and pulled his t-shirt up over his mouth to use as a makeshift filter. He smelled his own fear on his sweat.

  “He’s dead,” Jake said. After taking a step inside, he shoved the door shut with his heel. “Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing with his chin.

  “This is Marie. She and I are hiking out to my truck and I’m giving her a lift down to Bangor. The guys will fill you in,” Patrice answered.

  “No,” Andrew said. “You can’t. We have to talk this through, all four of us, first.”

  “He’s right,” Jake said. He rolled his shoulders back and stood up straighter. “We have a bunch of shit to cover.”

  “Guys, this isn’t a debate,” Patrice said. “Please lock up the cabin when you leave. Leonard knows where the key goes. I squeezed most of the water out of his gear, but you’ll dry it faster if you hang it by the stove. Marie, it’s a couple hours to hike out to the vehicles. Do you need anything to eat before we go?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  Andrew moved closer to Patrice.

  Patrice put his hands up, palms turned towards Andrew. “I’m not going to say a word about your thing. You guys can decide what you’re doing. But the snowmobile in the lake—that has to be reported, okay? Just figure out what you’re going to do about the other thing and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “What’s this other thing?” Marie asked.

  Patrice ignored her.

  Andrew considered what Patrice was saying and tried to think through the timeline. It would take hours for Marie and Patrice to hike, and then a while after that before Patrice got any cell service to call in a report. In that time, the rest of them could come to a decision about how to deal with the problem of the dead, probably contagious, man. It might even be enough time to talk some sense into Jake. Once Andrew explained it all, Jake might come around. He did have some compassion, and he would understand when Andrew made a case about the care of his son.

  Patrice wrapped himself back up and traded his gloves for another pair. Marie’s eyes studied Jake closely. Then, she looked to Andrew. She reached up and put her mask back over her mouth.

  “Come on, Marie. We have a bunch of miles to
cover,” Patrice said.

  Andrew was looking towards the window when Marie spoke again.

  “You said you hadn’t seen any strangers. You’re keeping something from me. I have to know the entire truth.”

  Andrew looked around, surprised to find that Marie was staring right at him.

  “What?”

  “Who did you come in contact with?” she asked.

  Andrew shook his head. The t-shirt slipped down from his chin. For the moment, he had forgotten to be afraid of whatever Jake might be carrying now.

  “Nobody,” he said. “Yes, I saw a guy, but I didn’t go near him.”

  “I did,” Jake said.

  Marie’s eyebrows went up.

  “It’s not important,” Patrice said. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” Marie said. “Now, none of us will leave.”

  MARIE

  Chapter Seven - Goodbye

  (Hospital)

  “HE SAID THAT WE can try another surgery,” Oliver said to his mother.

  Marie kept her eyes locked on her mother-in-law. If she looked at Oliver, Marie knew that she would break. Right now, her only job was to support her new husband’s delusion. He deserved to enjoy some hope, even if it was false.

  “That’s what you want to do,” Helene, his mother, said. She was standing next to his chair. She never sat down next to her son, like she thought that his cancer might be contagious but that it was only transmissible through chairs.

  “Of course,” Oliver said with a small laugh.

  Marie tried to communicate to Helene with her eyes—support him. Go along with this.

  Helene didn’t hear the silent plea.

  “You’re sure.”

  For the first time all day, Oliver’s confidence began to falter. It took him a second to regain his smile.

  His voice was heavier when he spoke again—thicker, somehow.

  “Of course I’m not sure, Mom. How could I be sure? I’m trying to do what’s best here, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  Every time he said the word, it had less meaning. “Sure,” was a mythical village that artists painted on grand canvases, and nobody would ever be able to reach.

  The door slipped open and a pleasant nurse appeared. “May I steal him for a moment?”

  She backed in, pulling a wheelchair. Oliver had another round of tests scheduled. They would all say the same thing, but he complied, getting up halfway and slipping from his seat to the wheelchair. Marie squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek before the pleasant nurse rolled him away.

  Helene waited for the door to close all the way before her claws came out.

  “That surgeon is a lunatic. What did he say to sway Ollie this time?”

  Marie shook her head and looked down. She didn’t want to have this conversation again. It was impossible to figure out what Helene expected of her. She had supported their marriage, and then constantly disparaged it. She talked of her son getting better, but seemed to want Marie to encourage Oliver to let go.

  “Marie, did he really say he wants to try another surgery? That lunatic promised us that the last one was final.”

  Marie remembered every word of the consultation. The surgeon had said, “We can try another surgery, but I wouldn’t.” To the best of Marie’s recollection, it had been the first time that the surgeon had used a first-person pronoun. He always said things like, “We have a lot of tools at our disposal,” or “Our success rate with these types of surgeries is one of the highest in the nation.” Those last three words, “…but I wouldn’t.” Those three words had sailed right past Oliver. He had gotten stuck on the first part of the statement.

  Marie looked back to her mother-in-law, still waiting for an answer.

  “He said we can.”

  Helene threw up her hands. “Well, what’s the point?”

  A ton of answers sprang to Marie’s lips. She held them back. Part of Marie, the part that made her the most sad, knew that this relationship had an expiration date. She had only known Helene for a few months, and after another few months, she would likely never speak with her again. This whole thing would become a blip in Marie’s life. Angry and shameful tears flooded Marie’s eyes and then spilled down her face.

  “Don’t cry, dear,” Helene said. She fetched a box of tissue from the table and held it out towards Marie. Those tiny boxes, in every room on their floor of the hospital, seemed to hold about four tissues each. With the volume of tears shed in those rooms, Marie wondered why they didn’t have big, industrial-size boxes.

  Marie plucked a tissue. Sure enough, it was the last one. Helene tossed the box in the trash.

  “Don’t cry. It’s bad for Oliver to see that.”

  Marie nodded. After she cauterized her tears, dabbing at them and sealing her tear ducts with more anger, she tucked the tissue into her sleeve.

  * * * * * * *

  (Waiting)

  Mercifully, Helene had left. She said that waiting around in the hospital made her energy go to bad places, and that wasn’t going to do anyone any good. Marie was alone with her thoughts and maybe five other families who were alone with theirs. She put her coat on the seat to her right and her book on the seat to her left. With these objects, she made a little bubble for herself.

  In a way, Helene was right—waiting around wasn’t going to do anyone any good. But Marie didn’t trust herself to do anything else.

  Months before, when the future had still been uncertain and Marie had felt nothing but optimism, Oliver had been unfailingly sweet to her.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” he had said. “Let’s part now as friends and we’ll meet again, God willing, in a year. We’ll know that it was meant to be.”

  “It’s meant to be because we make it that way,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to wait until you’re perfectly healthy, and then I’ll dump you. I like my victims to be fully functional so they can truly experience the pain that comes from losing me.”

  He had laughed at that.

  There was nothing that he could have said to chase her away at that point. Marie wasn’t naive, she knew that she was standing by Oliver because she was selfish. Her life had begun to settle into a dull rhythm. Having a new boyfriend struck by a life-threatening disease was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in a year. She wasn’t about to walk away just when he had the chance of pulling through.

  Marie turned up her headphones to drown out the volume of the TV. People in hospital waiting rooms always seemed to want to watch police videos and emergency responses. They found programs that mirrored the chaos that had afflicted their own lives. Marie hated all those flashing images and the cacophonous sounds that accompanied them.

  She retreated into her music.

  Her eyes landed on the modest ring on her finger. At home, in a safe, she had a flashy diamond mounted on a band that was big enough to go around her thumb. The ring had belonged to her grandmother—willed to her along with a chunk of money. A small fraction of that money had paid for Oliver’s second operation when the insurance company dragged their feet on whether to cover it.

  Marie liked the ring that Oliver had gotten her, even though the gold plating was already starting to rub off.

  When he died, she wouldn’t wear the ring after his funeral. She tried to push the thought out of her head, but it kept popping back in. They had made a vow that would end with death. When the nurse came out to fetch her, Marie was watching the TV.

  The surgeon had reverted back to collective pronouns.

  “We did what we set out to do. The rest is up to him and fate.”

  Marie couldn’t stop herself from frowning at that. As far as she knew, surgeons didn’t believe in fate. They were the ultimate “free will” advocates, intervening whenever they saw fit and expecting nothing but the best from it. His invocation of fate meant that he was washing his hands of Oliver’s success going forward. He was leaving Oliver out on his own.

  “He’s a little loopy, but awake,” t
he surgeon said.

  The doctor showed her in, rolled a chair to the bedside, and then left her alone.

  Oliver looked dead until he opened his eyes.

  “I’m surprised you’re awake,” she said.

  “They never put me out.”

  His voice was slurred. The left side of his face looked heavy.

  “I had to signal them when they touched an important part of my brain. I thought they were all important. Where’s Mom?”

  “I texted her. She’ll be here soon, I’m sure.”

  Oliver blinked and his eyes moved slowly over her. For that moment, she was the patient. His eyes were a penetrating scan, looking right into her, seeing everything. When he smiled, only the right half of his face looked genuine. The left half was judging her.

  “You took off the ring. That’s good,” he said.

  Marie looked down and realized that he was right. She hadn’t even remembered doing it.

  “Sorry,” she said. She found it in her front pocket and put it back on.

  “No. Please,” he said. “I want you to move on. Let my mom deal with my apartment. You’ve made the last months so much easier for me. I would hate to bring you any pain. I don’t want to weigh you down.”

  “Oliver,” she started to say.

  “You can move on. I forgive you,” he said.

  Before she could stop herself, she rose halfway out of her chair. Her face hardened with shock.

  “You forgive me?”

  He stopped her rising anger with another lopsided smile.

  “I thought I could get a rise out of you one more time.”

  “You’re a bastard,” she said, but even his half-smile was infectious. Her eyes landed on the left side of his face—the judgmental side. The right half was joking with her. She wondered what the left was thinking.