“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
She lunged for the folder and held it in her hand for a long moment before looking around covertly, like she was being watched by the Illuminati or something. Then, she flipped the front flap open.
I stared at her face intently, wanting to explode as her gaze tripped across the first page.
“Crick…”
“I know, right? How is it even possible?” I demanded, launching to my feet and pacing in a tight circle. “There is no logical explanation for it. Not a single one. Unless I missed my letter to Hogwarts, of course.”
I made another erratic half circle before she stilled me with one hand on my forearm.
“Cricket, honey, stop pacing. Look.” She held up the folder. “There’s nothing there.”
It took a second for her words to register, but when they did, it was like the wind had been knocked out of me. “What do you mean?” I whispered hoarsely, reaching for the folder with numb fingers. “Of course there is. A dozen pages or more. I--”
The words died on my lips as I stared down at the stark, white top sheet in stunned silence. I let it slip to the floor, followed by the next and the next.
All blank.
“Sit, sweetie. Sit down. I’m going to call Doc Bramowitz.”
Her voice was going in and out, like a ham radio with a bad signal, as, for the second time that day, the room began to spin.
This was it. I’d gone off the deep end. Whether from some kind of late in life psychotic break, menopause sending my hormones off straight to Crazy Town, or a hidden cluster of brain tumors, I’d truly lost it.
“But it seemed so real,” I whispered as I lowered myself back to the couch cushions. “Zoe, I swear to you, I was clacking away…the “e” key was sticky. I had to press it twice sometimes and I--” I broke off with a shuddering sigh.
It felt so true. All of it. But the proof was right there in front of me. How could I deny the facts?
I hadn’t written a word.
I met Zoe’s gaze as a sob broke from my throat. I could see in her eyes that she was as terrified as I was.
“I’m going to go upstairs, make that call, and get you some tea,” she murmured, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder reassuringly. “Sit tight, okay? And don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out, honey. I promise you. It’s going to be all right.”
* * *
“Thanks so much for making a house call, Yvonne. And if you could avoid mentioning this to Dot, we’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Yvonne Bramowitz, MD, nodded briskly. “I’m a stickler about patient confidentiality, but I will make extra sure not to say anything when I see your grandmother next. Cricket, just make sure that you get your blood work done and make that MRI appointment with the imaging clinic ASAP, okay? My gut instinct is telling me it’s more likely a combination of stress, hormone changes and going cold turkey off your antidepressants instead of weaning yourself off. That said, I don’t want to miss or rule out anything at this stage, either. I’ll see you in my office once your test results come in.”
I thanked her and snuggled back into my mattress as Zoe walked her out. I wish she’d gone, too, if I was being honest. It had been a humiliating, trying couple of hours, and despite Doc Bramowitz’s reassurances, I felt no better now than I had before she came. Every time I thought back to the night before, I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. It had always seemed obvious that people who experienced hallucinations or heard voices thought they were real, but it was different and unsettling as all get out to experience it firsthand. I could still sense the weight of the keys under my fingers. Hear the ding of the bell. Feel the throb in my wrists.
Heck, if I closed my eyes, I could still smell the Wite-Out I’d smeared on the pages, covering Greg’s name when I’d decided to change it.
I sat up with a start and shoved the blankets aside, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me. The sound of Zoe and Yvonne talking at the top of the stairs spurred me on as I scurried toward the manila folder that still sat on the coffee table. I had both outwardly and somewhat internally accepted the doctor’s assessment, admitting that I could have been confused or had some sort of hallucination—which I was pretty sure was the only reason she hadn’t admitted me to the hospital for a psych eval.
But deep down, I still had doubts and there was one more thing I had to see for myself.
Zoe had straightened up and put the empty sheets back inside before the doctor had arrived, and I flipped open the folder again with clammy fingers. My breath stuck in my chest as I lifted the first sheet out and held it up to the light.
Still blank.
Still white.
But there, peppering the page every few inches, were a handful of shadowed rectangles, quarter inch in length or so. I ran a trembling finger over the first few and let out a shuddery sigh.
The unmistakable, bumpy finish of Wite-Out.
I bent low and laid the sheet on the table, muttering a prayer under my breath as I scratched at the substance with my thumbnail.
“Please, God, please…”
I didn’t have my readers on and had to squint to see it at first, but there it was. The capital letter “G”, sure as shooting. G for Greg.
The sound of footfalls coming down the stairs had me shoving the sheet back into the folder in a panic. I wanted so much to show Zoe what I’d discovered, but at the same time, I was also terrified. What if it only made me look even crazier? And what did it even prove, anyway? That I’d sat in front of the typewriter and wrote the word Greg every ten lines or so in random places, then went back and whited it out?
Not exactly a hallmark of sanity.
No, for now, I had to keep this to myself. At least until I could think straight and try to figure out what it all meant.
By the time Zoe stepped back into the room, I was curled up on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me, offering her a sleepy smile.
She narrowed her eyes at me and pointed to the bedroom. “You’re supposed to be in there resting.”
“I know. And as soon as I have a bite to eat, I promise it’s back to bed for me.” She nodded reluctantly, but worry still marred her face. “I’m so sorry to scare you like that, cuz. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but we’ve got the doc on the case and it’s going to be all right.”
She dug a hand into her purse and pulled out a white paper bag. “It’s a chicken pesto sandwich. Eat it, then straight to bed. I can handle the bakery alone tomorrow morning, Monday’s are always slow anyway. Take it easy, relax, make your MRI appointment, get your blood work done, and try not to get stressed out.”
I took the sandwich from her, popping off a salute. “Aye aye, Captain.” My face hurt from forcing a shaky smile and I couldn’t wait until she left.
“Call me if you need anything at all, okay? If I don’t hear from you tonight, I’ll call to check on you in the morning.”
“K, love you.”
She mumbled something in response that sounded suspiciously like “love you too”, which was almost as scary as seeing that news story. Zoe was a big show-er of love, but I could count the times she’d said the words to me.
One.
It was twenty-five years ago.
Greg had gone to the wrong hospital to witness the birth of our son, got stuck in rush hour traffic when he realized his mistake, and Zoe had stood in as my birth coach. I’d been pushing for two hours with little to show for it, had vomited, pooped myself, and blown all the blood vessels in both of my eyes for the effort. Then, I just ran out of gas before the deed was done.
“I can’t. I can’t do it,” I’d whimpered, nearly delirious with pain and exhaustion.
Zoe had grabbed my hand and bellowed right in my face, “You don’t have a choice. Now push, damn you!”
The exact words I’d needed to hear at exactly the right time. It was hours later, with my baby swaddled in my arms, in the dark of night, that I’d looked over t
o find Zoe, eyes closed, sprawled out on the recliner a few feet away.
“Thank you. I love you, cousin,” I’d whispered, thinking she was asleep. Knowing she hated that mushy stuff.
“Love you, too, dum dum,” she’d mumbled back.
Now, as I watched her gather up her stuff and make her way toward the door, I could tell she was still upset. She was a fixer, Zoe was. And this time, there was no easy fix in sight.
But as bad as I felt for worrying her, I nearly crumbled with relief when the door closed behind her. Despite the fact that I was vibrating with energy, I sat there for a few minutes in case she forgot something and came back.
I didn’t have any answers yet, but I would soon enough. I might not like what I learned, but at least I’d know. And knowledge was power.
With trepidation in my heart and a knot in my gut, I picked up a blank sheet of paper and slipped it into the typewriter.
Time to get to work.
Chapter 5
I tried to listen to Zoe, and relax the next day, as I waited to see if my labor had borne any fruit. But once I’d gotten up after a fitful sleep, and then made the appointments for my scan and blood work for later in the week, I was way too anxious for relaxing. Especially with Mee-maw home all day.
I’d made the decision not to tell her what was going on, in part because, as I’d told Doc Bramowitz, I didn’t want to worry her. But also because, if I told her, she’d never leave me alone about it. As practical and no-nonsense as my grandmother was on a thousand different levels, she was also a card-carrying conspiracy theorist. She firmly believed in the existence of Sasquatch, thought that Jackie O was behind the death of Marilyn Monroe, and was convinced that paying by phone or making an online purchase would result in instantaneous and certain identity theft.
If I told her what happened, there was a fair to middling chance she would assume I’d been subjected to some sort of military-run, mind-control experiment, which would result in her starting up a ruckus that would have the FBI adding to her file.
Yep. Mee-maw had an FBI file. How did I know? Because the Freedom of Information Act allowed her to request a copy of it. She kept it in a safe in her bedroom, but would happily drag it out for anyone who wanted a gander. There was nothing earth-shattering there. Just some notes and flags about protests she’d taken part in back in the nineteen-sixties, and copies of letters she’d sent to various government officials demanding the release of the aliens they were housing in Area 51.
Point being, for now, it was best if this whole mess stayed between me, my cousin, and my doctor. I’d wound up sticking to the upset stomach story, but I could only keep Mee-maw at bay for so long. She was still sharp as a tack and I could tell at breakfast her Spidey senses were tingling as she remarked on how many pancakes I’d eaten. She knew something was up. I’d stayed downstairs for the rest of the morning, glued to the TV in case my latest story had come to pass, but so far, no special reports. And, last I’d checked a few minutes before, my latest story was still right there in black and white, very much intact.
If I sat down here much longer, with nothing to do but wait, I was going to lose my mind.
I hit the shower and changed into jeans and a Pat Benatar t-shirt before jogging up the stairs.
“I’m feeling better and going to head out to run some errands. Text if you want me to pick anything up for dinner,” I called from the foyer into the kitchen, barely slowing my pace.
I had my hand on the knob and was two steps from freedom when Mee-maw came barreling toward me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her steel-gray eyes pinned me in place like a butterfly in a display case.
“If something were wrong…really wrong with you, you’d tell me. Right, Cricket?”
Mee-maw’s nostrils flared as she studied my face so intently, sweat popped out on my upper lip, and I had to resist the urge to lick it away.
“Y-yes. Of course,” I stammered.
She held my gaze and nodded, too slowly for my liking. “All right, then. If you say so, I believe you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and headed back into the kitchen, leaving me feeling lower than gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.
Then and there, I made a pact with myself. If I didn’t get to the bottom of this soon, I’d spill the beans—no matter how scary, confusing, or unclear those beans were. She was rawhide tough on the outside, but losing my mother had nearly killed her. Losing my grandfather just a few years later had been almost as bad. I couldn’t have her worried about losing me, too.
I bustled out of the house and into the afternoon sun, sucking in a breath of air as I mentally planned my day. I hadn’t been lying about everything, I did have some errands to run. First stop? The library.
I’d tried to do some research from home to see if anyone had experienced something like I had, but the sketchy wi-fi in the basement had made it an exercise in frustration. Who knew? Maybe there was some lady in Schenectady who had written a story, only to find it had come true the next day and wanted to talk about it. The internet had made it a small world, indeed.
I hopped in my car and made the short ride to the town library while listening to the local radio station. No news, aside from a mention about the great white warnings posted at the beach. By the time I pulled into the parking lot five minutes later, I was tight with apprehension. No news was supposed to be good news. In this case, though, I couldn’t help but feel a stab of disappointment and fear.
If I’d imagined it all, then what came next? Was it a one-time thing or would I slide deeper and deeper into my delusions?
A lump formed in my throat as I shoved the car door open.
“Don’t go there, woman. Focus on figuring out what’s going on before you go borrowing trouble.”
For the next few hours, I dove headlong into research, pausing every twenty minutes or so to check the local news website. Things I learned during that time:
Lots of medical conditions could potentially cause hallucinations, from epilepsy and dementia to Parkinson’s disease and schizophrenia. Also, brain tumors.
Loss of volume in the temporal lobe can affect the limbic system, which can throw a whole bunch of wrenches in the way a person views reality.
Loads of people have laid claim to “automatic” or “spirit” writing, a form of divination using pen and paper or quill and ink, but nobody ever claimed to do it with a typewriter, and science had proved it to be quackery rooted in self-delusion.
In 2013, BeyhiveBeverly72 wished that her sister’s abusive boyfriend got eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs, and the next day he got bit on the ankle by a beagle named Bubbles and wound up needing seven stitches.
The town library closed at five PM sharp on Mondays, even if you were in the middle of reading something super important.
Trudy, the town librarian, is dead serious about her job.
By the time I left at five after five, I was feeling more apprehensive than ever, and not a little let down. I don’t know what I’d expected. Maybe a clear diagnosis. I knew what I’d hoped for, though. One person—just one—who relayed an experience just like mine and then went on to say how their lives turned out hunky dory.
Instead, I’d acquired a good half a dozen new symptoms and was no closer to an answer to my questions than when I’d started.
I stepped through the glass door—held open by an unamused Trudy—noting the now-dreary sky with an internal sigh. The clouds were swollen with rain as I jogged down the stone steps, head humming.
Nothing had gone my way today, really. Starting from the moment I'd crawled out of bed. Maybe it was silly, but I'd been so sure that, once I got to typing the night before, I'd wake up to find that the new story I'd written had come to pass. So far, all I had to show for my hours of effort—it had taken forever for that strange, hot spark of inspiration to strike—was a three thousand-word tale about a giraffe named Dolly escaping the local zoo. And, while I’d been caught up in the writing furor again, almost typing in a hea
ted daze, I'd made sure when it was over that no one had died in this new story. In fact, in the end, Dolly was brought back to her habitat where the zoo keepers showered her with her favorite fruits.
There'd be no more shark maulings or bloody ocean deaths on my watch, dang it.
But the last I'd checked a short while before, the pages stuffed in my purse were still chock full of my silly little story. No disappearing ink. No sudden, breaking news report on the radio. No nothing that gave me any hope that my condition might be something other than a medical crisis involving my brain.
On a whim, I hung a left at the light, heading toward Main Street. The only thing that could possibly make me feel better right now was a quart of wonton soup and some chicken fried rice, and Golden Lantern had the best take-out Chinese in town.
I'd just parallel parked when my phone rang. I dug through my purse to grab it as I turned off the ignition.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Hallowell?"
I hadn't officially changed my last name back to Hawthorne yet, and hearing it said out loud reminded me that I wanted to.
"This is she."
"This is Nadine from Bayfield Imaging Group. You were scheduled for an MRI for later this week?"
"Yes?"
I gripped the phone tighter at her use of the word “were” instead of “are”, already tensing in anticipation of bad news.
"We contacted Trust Farms Insurance Group and they said you were removed from the policy three months ago. It would be two thousand dollars out of pocket today for the requested screening."
"There has to be a mistake or something..." I mumbled softly before trailing off. Because there was no mistake. Greg had struck again. As part of our divorce settlement, he'd agreed to give me a year to get my own medical insurance before removing me from the policy. Apparently, he'd rolled the dice, wagering on my typically strong constitution to keep me out of the doctor's office for the next few months, and had pulled the trigger early to save a few bucks.
Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One Page 4