Twisted (9 page)

24

WITH A WAVE OF HER WAND

My mother and I watched a stranger emerge. An intruder. A thief who, little by little, was stealing my father away. It was frightening and infuriating, but most of all, it was so utterly brutal.

The day after I found Dad talking to the drain, we received a new and unsettling surprise.

My mother stepped inside the bathroom and turned on the shower, then went to the bedroom so she could change into her robe. When she returned, the floor was flooded.

“What happened?” I asked, watching her sop up the spill.

She squeezed out a waterfall into the bucket, thrust her mop at the floor as if it had caused the mess, then with a fixed smile replied, “It’s just a little water.”

I edged past her to peer inside the tub. A towel was stuffed down the drain, so far that we had to call a plumber to get it out. Apparently, my father had had a disagreement with the man taking up residency there.

After the plumber left, I showed the towel to my mother.

“I wonder how that happened,” was her reply, with a forced expression of vacant surprise.

Business as usual.

Deny, deny, deny.

It was more of the same when we started finding our family photos turned facedown in the living room. In robotic fashion, my mother would set them back up. After finding the pictures flipped over again, she’d simply start the process all over. But while she did her level best not to show it, I could see the cracks beginning to form, her facade of normalcy breaking down.

One evening while setting the dinner table, I looked inside the silverware drawer, then at my mother. “Where are the knives?”

“In the dishwasher, dear,” she replied, not bothering to spare me a glance. “Where they always are when they’re dirty and someone forgets to run the machine.”

I opened the door, looked inside, looked back at her. “Not there, either.”

She walked over and checked the washer herself. “Then they must all be upstairs where you left them. Even though I’ve asked you not to bring food to your bedroom.”

“But I don’t—”

“Because everything always piles up there.” She flashed the smile of a cynic. “Honestly, Christopher, did you actually believe they’d just get up and walk their way back here?”

Not once had I ever brought food to my room. Not that it mattered. Reality wasn’t up for discussion in our home.

Case in point: for dinner the next evening, she simply ordered out for pizza.

Problem solved.

At least in her mind.

The next day, my mother went for a different strategy, sending me into the basement to retrieve the fancy wedding silverware stored there. I flicked on the switch, looked at my father’s workshop corner, and stopped in my tracks.

Intricately woven into a mangled tower of metal were all the missing kitchen knives, points protruding in every direction and at every angle, a series of colored wires looping in and out between them. And at the very top, a large serving knife aimed directly at me.

It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen.

I edged closer and found pages and pages of notes, drawings, and diagrams—all in my father’s haphazard handwriting. Blueprints for his metal monstrosity. Barely legible maps of our house with arrows pointing to every door and window. Some kind of bizarre and frightening electrical device he’d apparently designed with steel clamps and sharp teeth.

“Take it down.”

I wheeled around and found my mother standing at the bottom of the staircase, her expression so sober that I barely recognized it.

“I
said,
take it down.” She pointed to a pail in the corner. “And when you’re done, bring the silverware upstairs to the dishwasher.”

Then she marched up the steps, hard and fast footfalls speaking what she would never dare say.

A day later, when I tried to bring up my concerns, she said, “It didn’t happen.”

“But you saw it.”

“I didn’t, and neither did you. End of story.”

And just like that, with a wave of her wand, she made reality vanish.

But this was one rabbit that wasn’t going to stay put. Mom had at last met her match. My father’s insanity was gaining frightening momentum, and it was about to blow down the walls.

Both hers and the ones around us.

25

I wake up in a chair.

Wait. What chair?

I look around.

The family room?

I rub my bleary eyes, try to find a sense of balance—or something like it.

An infomercial plays on the TV, hawking a contraption that promises to shed ten pounds in ten days. Looks more like a medieval torture device.

My sleepy fog lifts, but beneath it I find only another layer of wavering disarray. Moments ago, I was walking into my son’s room, but I’ve got no memory of what occurred after, no idea how I ended up here. Or is it actually a memory? Did the trip to my son’s room even happen?

I don’t know . . . I just don’t know . . .

My headache is raging.

I check the clock.

Wait. Moments ago?

It’s after midnight. Not only don’t I know how I got here, I also have no idea where the last several hours have gone.

Losing track of time is a problem. Drastic mood shifts are a problem. Violent and uncharacteristic outbursts . . . those aren’t so great, either. Any one of these symptoms on its own would be cause for worry, but combined—

That sleep of death, Christopher
.

I startle, spin, and look around. Then I realize I’m now standing in the center of the room. I don’t remember getting here. Another problem, but right now I’m more concerned about the voice I just heard inside my head. While it seemed so real, I know it wasn’t.

My mind is getting worse.

I lean forward, bury my face in my hands, and search for clarity in a place where there seems to be none. Adam said I was fine, but what if I’ve suffered a potentially serious brain injury? If that’s the case, I’m now at a significantly higher risk for secondary trauma, the effects of which could be even more serious. I can’t afford that. Ultimately, these symptoms could affect my ability to work, and then I’ll really be in trouble.

Now, there’s this voice I keep hearing, which could point to another possibility—one far worse.

It can’t be that. It will not be.

I refuse to surrender to my past. To my father’s past. I’ve made it this far, fought for years to recover from the damage his mental illness caused me. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him win now.

Mud.

The memory resurfaces, and all I can think about now is Devon. I’m unsure if what I saw on his blanket was actually there, but I do know one thing: I can’t afford to take chances where my son’s safety is concerned. Someone could still be in the house and trying to harm him.

I rush toward the stairs.

On the way up, my mind shoots into rewind, still trying to track the evening’s events. Then I wonder why Jenna didn’t come down to wake me.

Because you scared her, you idiot,
this new voice tells me,
and put the fear of God in your son.

I try with all my might to ignore the voice and climb the steps faster.

I’m not an idiot, but I
am
an ass, and my behavior at dinner was deplorable. I know this, not only because of the horror I saw emanating from my wife but also because, during all our years of marriage, she’s n
ever gone to bed angry at me. I’ll make it up to her, but first I need to see my son. Make sure he’s safe and take care of what I’d set out to do earlier—or what I think I did, before my mind decided to skip through time.

The instant I enter Devon’s room, my vision zooms to his covers. Though it’s dark, there’s enough moonlight through the window to see there is no mud on his blanket.

Another hallucination. Another sign of troubl
e.

Jake is lying on the floor.

Of course he is.

I send the thought packing and focus on Devon, lying in peaceful sleep. I lean over and kiss his forehead, still fearful that I may inexplicably find myself back downstairs.

Devon responds with a gentle stir and tries to narrow his focus on me.

“I love you, kiddo,” I whisper, “and I’m very sorry for getting upset earlier. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

He gives me an eyes-half-closed smile that, while shrouded in sleepy fog, tells me he’s already moved past it. That all is well. Seeing him this way leaves me tongue-tied. It’s as if the earlier incident never happened, as if he’s pulled some giant lever, putting our turbulent world into reset. This amazing child finds forgiveness so easily, is so secure in his love.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” he says, voice weakened by sleep. “It was just an accident, that’s all.”

I run my hand over his head, watch him surrender to repose.

And I smile—I can’t help it—because despite what I’ve been through tonight, despite everything, I still have him. Right at this moment, that seems like more than enough.

I take an extra few seconds to enjoy the comfort of that feeling, then head for the door.

“Daddy?”

I turn back.

“I want you to be okay now,” Devon says.

I’m not sure whether he’s talking about the accident or my outburst downstairs, and I’m afraid to ask, so I simply say, “Me too, buddy . . . Me too.”

He slips away again, the only sound now, his soft and easy breaths falling into a tranquil, sleepy rhythm.

I move toward our bedroom, the weight of information overload heavy on my mind. So much happening, so much of it I don’t understand.

I want you to be okay now.

If only it were that easy.

Just an accident.

There have been a lot of those lately.

Joining Jenna in bed, I wrap myself around her and take in her scent. The warmth of my wife’s body feels like a needed layer of comfort. She stirs, and in a whisper I say, “I’m sorry for tonight, sweetheart. I was wrong, and I’m . . . well . . . I’m just so sorry.”

Moving into my arms, covering my hand with hers, she looks up at me. Through the dim light, I see forgiveness in her half-awake smile. I bury my head in her shoulder, feel her body flex and relax into the contour of my arm. I become one with her.

And there you have it. Why each day, without fail, and with astounding strength, I find more reasons to love my wife in ways no words could come close to describing.

I kiss her lips, and she reciprocates, and in this moment, we are again good. No, we’re better than good.

We are amazing.

26

Just a few feet into the hospital parking lot, something yanks at my nerves. At first, I’m unable to peg it, then I pull into my space and feel a peculiar sense of absence.

I look out my window at more empty parking spots than I’ve ever seen before.

Odd.

At least for this time of day, it is. Thinking I’ve perhaps arrived a bit earlier than usual, I check my watch, but I’m actually a few minutes late.
I peruse the lot once more, then get out of my car and hurry toward the building.

Inside, I head directly for Adam’s office.

“Got a minute?” I say, my steps unsteady as I enter.

He looks up at me from the screen and abruptly closes a red folder on his desk. “Sure, pull up a seat.”

Eyeing the folder, I lower myself to the chair and try to think for a moment before speaking.

“I need your help,” I say.

“Done. What’s up?”

I drop my gaze, fuss with my hands, then look up at him. “I wasn’t going to involve you in this, but you’re the only person I can trust.”

Adam’s lids flutter with one part apprehension, one part concern. He leans forward and gives me his full attention.

“What we talked about yesterday—my edginess over the accident—it’s all true, but there’s a little more to this. I’ve got some concerns about my head injury. There have been other symptoms. I didn’t mention them yesterday, because they seemed to be going away, then last night . . .”

Adam pulls back a few inches to study me. “What symptoms? And how serious?”

I tell him about my sudden and furious outburst at dinner. I confess the reason for changing my hair, how my perception seems inexplicably distorted. I explain how my thoughts at times are confused. That I’m scared. But I play down the hallucinations, the distracting sounds, and flashes of light. The loss of time and the voice in my head. I don’t like hiding the truth from Adam. I trust him like a brother, but this isn’t just about protecting myself. While I know he’d keep things in the strictest of confidence, I don’t want him to shoulder that kind of pressure. If my condition is indeed serious or permanent, I’ll be the one who lets the higher-ups know about it. I don’t want to throw him into a situation where he feels conflicted because of our friendship.

Adam holds silent, but concern washes across his features, maybe a few other things I can’t quite gauge. Tiny grooves form around his mouth when he says, “We need to get you an MRI.”

I nod. “That’s what I’m thinking. I was going to ask Steve Miller over in radiology, but I figured it wouldn’t be the best idea.”

“Steve’s not here anymore,” Adam says, shaking his head.

“Where’d he go?”

“He quit.”

“Just like that? Guy’s been here for over twenty years.”

“I got the info secondhand, but rumor has it there was some kind of out-of-town family crisis that needed to be taken care of.”

“So he left permanently?”

“There’s probably more to it. Anyway, I can send you to see Rob Jennings,” he says, resolve lending firmness to his voice. “Rob’s a good friend, runs an offsite neuro practice. I’ll put a call in to him right away.”

“That would be great, but if it’s okay with you, I’d prefer keeping this . . . you know . . .”

“Only between us,” he finishes for me. “Absolutely.”

“Just for right now. It may very well be nothing serious, but I’m obligated to make sure.”

“Understood.” His smile is solid and comforting, as if he knows exactly what I need to hear right now.

“I really appreciate you doing this.”

“We’re friends, and for what it’s worth, I’m still pretty confident this won’t be anything significant.”

I don’t answer because I know his intentions are good and because I still feel horrible about deceiving him.

“I’ll let you know the second I hear from Rob,” Adam says. “Okay?”

I attempt a smile, then turn to leave.

Be careful. He knows.

Knows what?

You’ll see . . .

That voice returns. The one I’m coming to know, the commanding and evil whisper that never has anything good to say.

The one I’m learning to despise and fear.