The Other Mr. Bax (10 page)

J
oyce woke to a dim room.
Just two mornings before, and the five thousand mornings prior to that, Roland had been there alongside her. She’d never before considered an alternative. She stared at the empty pillow to her right and realized that if he were there now he’d be gazing back at her, perhaps awakened by her attention.

She pulled the pillow to her face, closed her eyes, inhaled, and recalled the moments before she’d left the hospital—his arms around her, the feel of his hand resting on her spine, the warmth spreading from his fingertips, her ear pressed to his chest, the thumping of his heart. But then the muted clink of dishes and the sound of water rushing through the plumbing broke the spell.

She scooted to the edge of the bed, his side. A pair of sheepskin slippers were there on the floor, along with a wadded pair of socks and a T-shirt—typical Roland; he’d often leave discarded clothes lying about. From time to time, sometimes days after the fact, he’d gather them up and toss them into the hamper in the closet. It didn’t really bother her, not so much, though there may have been an occasion or two when she’d said something.

“They’re not dirty enough for the hamper,” he’d argue.

She rolled over onto her back, her head on his pillow, her eyes roaming the ceiling. A hint of gurgling of the coffeemaker in the kitchen found its way down the hall. The clock on the nightstand showed 9:34.

“Shit.”

She sprang from bed, threw on a robe and headed for the kitchen. Brenda sat at the table, thumbing through a catalog, her fingernails tapping the side of a mug, steam rising from its milky-beige contents. Her eyes shifted from the magazine to Joyce.

“Good morning.”

“I completely forgot about work.” Joyce lifted the phone from its cradle and gazed blankly at it. “What do I tell them?”

“Diarrhea?”

“Uh… I’ll just say I need a few days off… for personal reasons.” She tapped in a phone number.

Without so much as a trace of humor in her eyes, Brenda said, “Is there anything more personal than diarrhea?”

“Extension 306, please.” Joyce stood there waiting, her eyes on her sister, whose attention had returned to the magazine. “Barbara? Yes— No, at home. Something’s come up here. I uh— No, no, I just need a few days off… Thursday. Can you patch me through to Bob? Thanks, Barbara.” She reached up over her shoulder, slipped her fingers down inside her collar, and scratched. “Bob? Hey, I need to take a few days off. Can you cover for me? A brief review?” Joyce nodded. “Yeah, that sounds fine. Thanks. I’ll be in Thursday… and give you a hand if you need it. Thanks, Bob.”

“Diarrhea,” she said, replacing the phone.

“It works for me when I need it.”

“Yeah, but you seem more like the diarrhea type.”

“Sensitive, you mean?”

“I need a shower.” Joyce glanced at the coffee maker.

“I could make an omelet,” Brenda said.

“I don’t know if we have enough eggs.” Joyce pulled open the refrigerator door, removed an egg carton. “A small omelet and…” She peered into the fridge. “Not much here. English muffins?”

A little while later, her hair damp and tousled, she returned to the kitchen. Brenda sprinkled grated cheese over a bubbling egg-mixture in a skillet. Joyce poured herself a cup of coffee. The muffins popped up from the toaster. She buttered them while Brenda went on about some restaurant she and her husband recently ate at in Vancouver. Joyce shared one of her travel fantasies. Brenda skipped to, “Remember Tom Terrific and his mighty dog Manfred?”—old cartoons, then onto yet other mundane topics.

“You want to go into town, explore some shops and cafés, maybe catch a movie later?” Joyce said. “We can do a little grocery shopping while we’re out.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Actually,” she said, lining up the remaining crumbs on her plate with a table knife, “I’m not attached to that, or anything, really. I’m fine with just kicking around here.”

Brenda eyed her sister as though trying to identify a mood. “Truth is, I’ve just had my shopping fix.” (*)

Joyce lifted her coffee mug to her lips—the last cool, bitter sip. She gazed toward the window at her left. Uniformly-spaced, white, puffy clouds appeared motionless against the blue sky. The desert was mottled with their shadows—patches of shade creeping across the landscape. Joyce watched as a shadow crept up the side of Mineral Butte, her mind back at the hospital, her goodbye to Roland.

Brenda turned and looked out the same window. “Want to get out… go for a hike after breakfast?”

The shadow began to fold over the roof of the butte.

“Joyce?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to go for a hike?”

Joyce glanced at her sister, then down at her plate. “Hmm, yeah, I guess.”

Brenda allowed the moment to expand in silence before saying more. “You miss him.”

Joyce’s eyes were cool with moisture as her gaze shifted to the knife in her hand. She turned it over, and then again, and nodded. “Yeah.” Glancing up into her sister’s eyes, she found her own pain reflected back. She reached for Brenda’s hand. Brenda rose, then Joyce—her chair tipping back, banging against the floor as she nearly stumbled into her sister’s arms. An image of Roland in his hospital room entered her mind—that moment before she’d left him, the lost look in his eyes.

“He wanted to walk me to the car.” Her voice was unsteady. “I don’t know why I said no. I wanted to say yes, but I said no. Why’d I do that?” Before her sister could respond, she added, “I think I’ve lost him, Brenda.” Joyce pushed away, grabbed a napkin from the table, and blew her nose.

“Joyce, don’t you think it’s…”

Joyce set her chair upright, then turned to her sister.

“Give it time,” Brenda said.

“Wait for him to get over the girlfriend who dumped him?” Joyce murmured. She stepped around to the other side of the table, to the food-prep island, and placed her hands flat on its surface.

“He was here.”

She stared down at her hands, her fingers spread apart. “He didn’t go to New York; he couldn’t have. The man I saw in New York—he’d never been in this house. That’s what he told me, and I don’t believe he’s lying.”

“But”—Brenda’s eyes darted about as she struggled to follow her sister’s logic—“you’re not suggesting a twin… are you?”

“He remembered me from grade school.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t either. He doesn’t remember meeting me in Saint Petersburg.” She shook her head. “He remembers me from grade school… but only from grade school.”

“Maybe he was kidnapped… and brainwashed or something.”

“Oh, like someone banged him on the head, and planted the fake ID on him.” Joyce rolled her eyes. “Such a snotty thing to do, don’t you think?”

“I’m serious.”

“No.”

“The time factor.” Brenda began gathering the dirty dishes from the table.

“That, and the ridiculous factor,” Joyce said.

“Is it any more ridiculous than your theories?”

“Why would someone pull a stunt like that?” Joyce said, lowering the door of the dishwasher.

“I don’t know. It happens though.”

Joyce watched as her sister arranged the dishes in the rack.

“I’m trying,” Brenda said.

Joyce’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“I know this is hard.”

“This… God, if only I knew what
this
is. It’s as though he vanished from the kitchen, disappeared, completely vanished, and then some mixed up, delusional copy of a him appeared out of thin air on the other side of the world.” Joyce closed the dishwasher door. “I know, I know, it’s hypocritical.”

“People
do
disappear,” Brenda said, “though I don’t believe they actually vanish, like gone, ‘beam me up Scotty’ gone.”

“What if this is happening to other people and we just don’t know about it? Surely it’s not just me.”

“Huh?”

“Well, no, but… the consequences.”

“What?”

“I mean, disappearing and then reappearing with altered memories.  What would that look like?”

“Okay…” Brenda pressed her lips together and nodded. “You need a change of scenery.”

Joyce’s eyes roamed as she searched her mind for a fresh angle. “The internet. There could be something there, you know. Similar cases, maybe.”

“How about we go for a walk first,” Brenda said. “Give our mojos a chance to recharge.”

Joyce let out a huff. “My mojo is so friggin’… depleted.”

The air was warm, the sky, dotted with popcorn shapes as the two passed beneath the pine tree in the backyard. Joyce, a few steps ahead of her sister, stopped and turned at a repetition of crunching, catching Brenda’s irregular footsteps. “You got something against pinecones?”

From the base of the butte, the path wound up and around to its far side. The two women picked their way up a rocky path formed by the debris that had crumbled over time from the walls above. Nearing the top, they hiked along a narrow shelf, butting into a solid wall of rock—ten feet, straight up to the roof. Years before, Roland had hauled up an aluminum rung ladder, which they now climbed, and anchored it to the wall. About twenty feet from the top of the ladder was a bench—two stacks of rocks, spanned by a thick plank of cedar, which Joyce and Roland had spent a good part of a Saturday lugging up. The two sisters parked themselves on the bench and gazed out over the expansive reservation. Joyce twisted around, peering back over her shoulder. “We’d sometimes camp up here. Over there”—she pointed—“under the stars.”

Brenda tilted her head back as though she might see the stars Joyce was referring to. After a moment, she returned to the landscape to the south. The air was calm, and the sun was high in the south. The terrain appeared much the same in all directions, all the way to the foot of the distant mountains.

“Three days… It seems like yesterday,” Joyce said. “We went off that way”—she pointed southeast, toward two cone shaped hills—“Twin Peaks”—then swung her arm to the west, and squinted. “Wish I’d brought binoculars. You see that dark patch? Way out there.”

Brenda searched the area in which Joyce had pointed. “Uh… I see a lot of dark patches.”

“The big one. It’s a saguaro cactus. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a ceremonial circle near its base.”

“A what?”

“An Indian thing. Roland and I discovered it on our way back to the house. The cactus… I’m pretty sure that’s it. See it?”

Brenda brought a hand up to her forehead to block the sun. “How far?”

“A mile? Maybe two.”

“Wanna go have another look?” Brenda said.

Following the footsteps she and Roland had left a few days before, Joyce and her sister hiked along the bottom of a ravine.

“This is all reservation land, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How big is it, do you know?”

“Big. Like half the size of Rhode Island,” Joyce said.

“But Rhode Island is tiny.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, it is. Look at the maps. It’s so small, they have to print its name out in the ocean.”