Authors: Elle Lothlorien
“Is this a surfing question, or just a little navel-gazing?”
I roll my eyes. “I mean, how long before you suspect that I’m
about
to enter an episode until the time I fall asleep?”
“I never kept a stopwatch handy,” he says, “but I’d say about three or four
really
fun minutes from the first black eye until you zonk out.”
“Okay, cool.”
“Or bite something.”
I glower at him before continuing to write.
“Is that enough time?” he says.
I lift my head from the paper. “For what?”
“For whatever you’re planning.”
I pretend to be surprised. “Planning? I’m not planning anything.”
He turns the chair around and rolls it towards the door. “I believe that you believe that. Whatever your backup plan is, just make sure it’s not going to get you hurt, Claire-Bo.” He smacks the button on the wall that automatically opens the door.
“‘Get hurt,’” I scoff. “What do you think I’m doing, drafting a plan to land a boat on a bomb in a kelp bed? Three minutes to get to Clemente seems like it’d be pushing it time-wise.”
He spins the chair around until it’s facing me. “Just make sure it’s not going to get you hurt, that’s all I’m asking. I think the Good Doctor and West have been through enough.”
“Hey, Davin?”
“What?”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
He doesn’t speak. “It’s not worse this time,” he says just before the silence threatens to collapse under its own weight.
“It’s not?”
He points to his ring finger. “Like I said, you love him a helluva lot more. He’s better for you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he was willing to risk everything for you. I never risked a thing, otherwise I would’ve told you about us after your first episode, when I knew you would remember. Besides…” He trails off, his lips twisted like he’s trying to fight a smile.
“Besides what?” I say when it doesn’t look like he’s going to finish what he was going to say.
“You remember the poem about the old lady who swallows the fly?”
This throws me. “Uh, yeah, I guess so. Why?”
He looks at my stomach. “You look like the part at the end where she swallows the cow. Seriously, where did all your organs go? It wasn’t like you had a lot of room in there to begin with.”
Nothing kills flirtation like being told you look like an old lady and/or a cow. I frown at him, but he’s already wheeled the chair backwards into the hallway. He gives one of the wheels a good twist, turning it ninety degrees, and rolls away.
*****
I open my eyes. The curtains have been pulled closed, and it’s pitch-dark in the room. I hear Brendan’s soft breathing coming from the recliner. He’d given up the larger fold-out couch bed to Davin so he would have room to spread out and prop up his leg on some pillows. From the thin line of hallway light coming from under the door, I can see Davin fast asleep on his back, his mouth open, arm over his eyes.
Already I can feel the dread moving in, like the moon blocking the sun during an eclipse. I look at the clock on the end table: 4:43 AM
Three minutes
, I think.
Three minutes and it’s over. Move, move now!
I slip out of bed and retrieve the folded piece of paper from under the mattress with shaking hands. My heart is pounding in my ears, my eyes bulging as I creep towards the bathroom. I know it’s all in my head, but I feel like I’m tip-toeing through a haunted house. I actually clamp my hand over my mouth before a whimper slips out.
I stop in my tracks. The sun is pushing back, pushing the shadows away. I look over my shoulder at the clock: 4:44 AM.
That’s when I make my first mistake: I turn my head to look at my husband. The eclipse is swallowed by a supernova in less than three seconds. I try to fight it, but I can’t help it; I have to touch him. By the time I make contact with his hand, I’m panting. I feel the paper start to slip from my fingers.
“Claire?”
I turn my head in the dark. Davin has lifted himself onto his elbow, and is rubbing one of his eyes and yawning.
“You okay?” he mumbles.
“No!” I hiss. “Don’t touch me!” I scuttle backwards, my left arm covering my stomach in some sort of senseless, defensive reflex.
He freezes mid-yawn. “Oh, shit.” He starts to sit up. “I’ll wake him up. It’ll be fine, Claire-Bo, just hold on.”
I look at the clock: 4:45 AM.
One minute and it’s over. Last chance.
I turn and race for the bathroom. Once I’m inside I shut the door and lock it, pressing my back to it as my lungs gulp in air. Surges of heat and sexual craving feel like they’re moving from my center and exploding from my breath as I exhale. Even the texture of the paper in my hand feels sensual.
The note
. I struggle to the sink and prop it up behind the faucets.
There’s a soft rap on the door. “Claire?” says Davin. “Claire, tell me you’re okay or I’m waking him up.” The door handle rattles as he tries to get in.
“I’m fine!” I hiss, more a warning than a reassurance. Then I think of Davin’s hand on the handle, and in a flash I’m drowning in unwelcome fantasies of how it would feel if I open the door and let him touch me. I grip the porcelain and whip my head back and forth. “No, no, no, no, no!”
“That’s it,” Davin says. He moves away from the door and says, “Doc, man, wake up. I think it’s time for the main event.”
“No!” I make it into the shower, pulling the flimsy curtain across the rod, as if that will protect me or them from what’s happening. I turn the shower on–full cold–and move under the spray. Gasping in shock, I hold my arms out from my sides, my shoulder hunched over as the cold water hits me. I force myself to turn in a circle until I’m soaked and shivering.
A fist pounds on the door. “Claire? Claire, unlock the door!” says Brendan. “Wib, pull that cord by the bed, the emergency cord, the red one!”
I try to answer him, but suddenly everything feels very heavy, like weights have been tied to my legs, arms, fingers, toes, eyelids, even my lips. I press myself into the corner and slide down the wall, letting my head fall sideways. I sit there, eyes half-lidded, shivering under the spray.
The door bursts open, the curtain swept aside with such force it’s almost ripped from the rod. Brendan twists the handle, shutting off the water. He drops to the floor and pushes the wet hair from my face. “It’s okay, babe, everything’s going to be fine.” He calls over his shoulder, “Get me some towels and something dry from her suitcase.”
I force my eyes open, just a sliver. Through the door I see the clock: “4:46 AM.”
“Made it,” I murmur, the words sounding like mush.
Brendan kisses me on my numb lips. “Okay now, Claire?”
I close my eyes. “I’m so tired.”
“I know you are.”
The darkness moves between us then, covering me completely in shadow.
Epilogue
I notice the sound of crickets first. I lay still in the dark, eyes closed, trying to reconcile the feel of a mattress under my back with the aural and entomological evidence that I’m out camping in the wilderness somewhere.
I roll onto my side, reaching out to turn on the light. Instead of the cool ceramic of the lamp, or the fabric of the lampshade, my hand waves around in dead, empty air. I swing my legs out and put my feet on the floor, shambling forward towards the bathroom, my eyes half-closed.
Which is how I end up walking directly into a wall, stopping my forward momentum with my face. “Agh!” I groan, covering my spurting nose with one hand, feeling around for the floor with the other.
I pinch my nose to stop the nosebleed and look around to get my bearings. That’s when I see the sharp lines of daylight around the windows, and realize that it’s only dark in here because there are blackout shutters covering the windows. I stand up and pull open the first one I come to, blinking furiously against the white light of afternoon. Across Andy Gordon’s perfectly manicured lawn I see the arbor where Brendan and I got married, and beyond to the stone overlook and the ocean.
I turn around, confused.
Why am I in the Big House?
The clock on the nightstand is one of those gizmos that makes different noises like waves, rain, thunder. I push a button and turn the crickets off.
An open door connects the bedroom to a sitting room. I look in there, but it’s empty save a flat screen TV and two armchairs.
I grab a tissue from a box on the nightstand and blow the blood from my nose. That’s when I notice my cell phone is missing from where I always leave it, no matter where I sleep. Next to the bed is a pair of black sandals. I push my feet into them, my mind racing to remember something, anything. I look down and find that I’m wearing my own clothes: a gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. I pat the pockets of the sweatpants and hear the crunch of paper. I pull it out and unfold it, surprised to see that it’s my writing:
Brendan & Davin: I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t want to hurt anyone this time, especially not the baby. Please don’t let me forget her. See all three of you on the flip side. Love, Claire
I let the paper slide from my hands and look around the room, still confused. Then I freeze.
“Especially not the baby,” I whisper. Horrified, I look down at my clothes again, my
regular
, non-maternity clothes. I lift up my shirt and stare at the six inch horizontal scar just above my bikini line. I run my finger along it. This triggers a strange, zapping sensation like tiny electric shocks. Otherwise, it’s completely healed. No staples or stitches or scabbing or oozing.
Completely healed.
A moan escapes me, and I run for the door. It takes me a few tugs before I realize that it’s locked. From the other side of the door. With a deadbolt. My side has a code box on it, but I don’t know the code.
I lift my hand to pound on the door when I see the neon pink paper taped to it. Four sets of handwritten scrawl cover it: Brendan’s, West’s, Davin’s and mine:
Brendan’s:
Claire, she is
fine
, perfectly healthy. You did great, babe. I love you and I can’t wait to see you again. -Brendan
West’s:
So…you’re
awake
awake? You’re my favorite sister, you know. Let me know if you need a calculator and a protractor for calculating the date. -Bro
Davin’s:
Claire-Bo, calm down, turn around, and dial 5050 on the phone. They’ll tell you what to do. You’re going to be amazed. -Wib
Mine:
Stop trying to pick up the pieces and just wait for the puzzle. She’s beautiful and you love her even if you don’t remember. -C
I scramble for the phone. My shaking fingers miss the five, forcing me to hang up and dial again. I slow down, pushing the buttons deliberately.
“Hi, Claire,” says a cheerful female voice that I don’t recognize. “If you’ll just give me a couple–”
“What day is it?” I shout. “Where is she?”
“I know you’re anxious,” says the voice. “Just give me ten seconds to set this up, and all your questions will be answered.”
I hear clicking sounds from her end of the line, like she’s pushing computer keys.
“Where’s Brendan?” I’m dangerously close to tears now, and talking to a stranger isn’t helping. “Where’s Davin? Where’s my brother?”
“Two seconds, and then I’ll page them all while you watch.”
“‘Watch?’ Watch what?”
“Go ahead and hang up now and walk to the room just off the bedroom, okay?”
I drop the phone and run to the sitting room. By the time I get there, the TV screen is glowing a bright blue. The blue vanishes, replaced by solid black. Oddly, the logo of Andy Gordon’s production company, Best Boy Productions, pops up. I’ve never understood what the white birds on the power lines had to do with the company name, and I’ve never cared less than I do right now.
The logo disappears, replaced by the words “March 29
th
.” A tinkling lullaby accompanies a shot of me, asleep, in the hospital bed, Brendan crashed out on the sofa by the window. This fades out, and “March 30
th
” fades in. This time, I sleep while a nurse takes my vitals. Cue “March 31
st
” where–oh, look!–I sleep some more while West reads a book on the armchair in the corner. I wonder how many weeks I was out of it this time, mostly because I’m not sure I can stand watching thousands of hours of footage of me zonked out in a hospital room.
Fortunately, that disappears and Davin appears on the screen. “Yeah, I know that’s boring. So we’ve skipped over all that. If you want the director’s cut for everything we left out, talk to Andy.” He grins. “Welcome back, gidget.”
The production is pretty slick, and I see both Andy’s and Davin’s personal touches in it everywhere. The ridiculous lullaby music disappears, replaced by Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You.” The words “April 1
st
” appear on a black screen. Then the video cuts to me, being wheeled on a gurney down a hallway, Brendan holding my hand and walking alongside. He already has scrubs on, like he’s getting ready to do the surgery himself.
I look groggy, but semi-alert. There’s not much more that can be hoped for when I’m awake during an episode, especially without the drug cocktail.
The stretcher is rolled into an operating room, and I’m transferred to a table. Bill Brady appears, cap and mask already on. He shakes Brendan’s hand and greets me while putting on what looks like a clear, plastic welding helmet. I eye him sleepily, and then mumble something to Brendan, who looks at Bill as he walks away and grins.
See?
I think.
Welding helment. God, I’m so predictable
.
I’d probably make the same jokes in a coma.