“Yes, you do.”
Cameron lowered his vision and stared at the ball in his hand. He squeezed it and enjoyed its texture and the memories it incited. Cameron handed the ball to Dennis; the ball looked much smaller in Dennis’ mammoth hand, even though the hand in which Dennis gripped the ball only had three fingers.
Dennis lifted and studied the ball. He looked at it as one greets a long lost friend. After a few moments, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat, black Sharpie. He put the top of the sharpie in his mouth and pulled off its top. With the top still in his mouth, he drew one straight line—this line transformed the “C” to a “D.”
Dennis replaced the cap on the marker and slid it back into his pocket. He kissed the newly minted “D” and tossed the ball between his right and left hand.
“Thanks, man,” Dennis said. “I really appreciate you bringing back my ball. Means the world to me.”
“Anytime,” Cameron replied. “Dennis, I regret what happened with us.”
“Me too, man. You didn’t mean for me to get hurt, and I should have talked to you about everything. Anyway, that’s all in the past. I’m just glad I could help you with this step, and now all that matters is the next step.” Dennis stepped closer to him. “You do know your next step, right?”
Cameron nodded. “I do, actually. Not sure why though.”
“You’ll understand soon.” Dennis stopped tossing the ball and lowered his hands to his sides. “Well, I gotta go, man. It was great seeing you.”
“You too.”
The two men hugged the awkward half-hug that guys do, and Cameron used his undamaged left hand to shake Dennis’ whole left hand.
“Hopefully I’ll see you again,” Cameron said.
“You will,” Dennis ensured. “And soon.”
Dennis nodded, turned, and walked away, his shadow shrinking with each step. Dennis joined with his shadow, and then he was gone.
Cameron stumbled a few feet forward to see if he could find any sign of Dennis, but it was as though Dennis disappeared into thin air. He wanted to search some more, but he knew he did not have enough time. His once-fragmented destiny was crystalizing, and he couldn’t wait to find his place.
Balancing on the stick, Cameron shuffled towards the gate, opened it, and exited the field. He looked back one last time and reveled in the field’s former glory. He turned and left the field behind him.
He shuffled over the crosswalk again, turned right, and limped past the rainbow of bungalows to his left. He approached the gray bungalow, stopped, and peered into the yard. It was as he left it—the beast was nowhere to be found. He closed his eyes, shook away his memories, and continued his journey.
He limped down the sidewalk past two additional bungalows—one crimson, and one magenta. He reached the end of the sidewalk and turned left. His pace quickened as he exited uncertainty and entered familiarity. All around him were remnants of yesteryears—a familiar crack in the sidewalk, recognizable houses, acquainted yards. Landmarks from his youth presented themselves and he experienced a forgotten feeling of comfortable discomfort.
Cameron’s shadow shriveled with each step. The lights around him dimmed and the warmth he felt from the sun chilled. About three minutes and two blocks later, it was the dead of night.
The evening was warm and moist, a typical Texas summer evening. The air was calm, and the sky was without stars. Cameron staggered two more blocks, fighting back pain with each step, and suddenly he was there.
The old streetlamp stood tall on the edge of the street, illuminating all that was within its vicinity. To Cameron’s right was the Smiths’ household—a large, two-story brick house. Mr. Smith was an investment banker and Mrs. Smith was a housewife. They had two kids before their marriage fell apart because of Mr. Smith’s inter-office infidelities.
To Cameron’s left and across the street was Randy Simpson’s residence. Randy was an elderly gentleman who kept excellent care of his yard and house. Randy had lived in that house for a million years at minimum. He was the first to call you if you were out of town and there was a package on your doorstep. Everyone liked Randy, although many speculated about his past. Randy died of a heart attack about two years after Cameron left for college.
And next to the Smiths’, caddy corner from Randy’s, rested Cameron’s childhood home. A Jeep was in front of the Bungalow, and he felt the rush of long disremembered hatred.
Cameron hobbled towards the Jeep and the bungalow. When he arrived, he stopped for a second to rest his weary nerves. He knew the end was near, and he wanted to be fully prepared for it.
Cameron turned to his right and saw his father, Jim, on the green rocking chair. Jim was carefully rocking, as if he intended each rock. From the distance, Cameron could tell Jim held something in his hand, but Cameron could not tell what it was.
His nerves calmed, Cameron shambled towards the house. A few steps later, he stood in front of his father, and he saw that Jim held a gun.
“Well hello, son,” Jim said, looking Cameron up and down. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day.”
Cameron looked down at his bloodied shirt. “You could say that.”
Jim smiled. “It’s about that time. You sure you’re ready?”
Cameron closed his eyes and thought about the definition of the word “ready.” He was prepared and he had accepted his plight. But he also knew that it would be impossible to be “ready” for what awaited him.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Cameron said pensively.
“Good,” Jim said as he stood. On his feet, Jim gestured at the chair. Cameron took Jim’s instruction and hobbled towards the green rocking chair.
Cameron balanced his weight on the stick, turned, and sat in the green chair. He swayed back and forth, and with each rock a new memory flooded his mind. Memories of his mother, memories of Dennis, memories of Carrie. Thoughts of his youth, thoughts of his present, thoughts of his uncertain future.
The ring! Cameron thought in a panic. He patted his right pocket with his whole hand, and to his immense relief felt the contours of the ring.
Lost in his in thoughts, he barely noticed when Jim took Cameron’s left hand and placed a gun in his palm. He wrapped Cameron’s fingers around the trigger and let go, leaving Cameron alone to appreciate the gun’s cold harshness. Although it had served its purpose so many years ago, Cameron retained his hatred of the thing.
Jim’s voice shattered the silence. “It’s time, son.”
Cameron looked at the face of his father, which shone with a radiance of acceptance and knowledge. Cameron hardly recognized his father, and wished that the man who stood before him was the one he had grown up with.
Cameron slowly nodded. He closed his eyelids, and noticed that his left eyelid came down flatter than his right. He took a second to appreciate the feeling of the breeze meeting the exposed parts of his body. What was to happen next was a mystery, and he was scared to death.
Cameron raised the pistol and pointed it at his father. “Remember the last time I raised this gun to you?”
His father nodded.
“What was it, like, four years after she killed herself? Five? It’s all a blur now. I didn’t have the balls to the pull the trigger then, even though the stupid thing wasn’t loaded. But things have changed.”
“That so?” his father asked.
“Yeah. That’s so. That’s sure as fuck so. Do you know what it’s like, always worrying if I’m going to end up being like you? An angry dad and husband? I pushed so many people away. I pushed Carrie away, for Christ’s sake. I thought I wasn’t good enough for her, because of you. I ended up in bed with some whore because of it. Because of you. Do you know what that’s like? Keeping a secret like that from someone you love more than anything? I would have proposed a year ago if I didn’t have to worry about all this.”
“Well then,” Jim said as he stepped forward. “Show me you got the balls now. Do what you wanted t
o do then.”
For a moment, Cameron considered granting his request. Instead, he said, “Nah, that’s what you want.” He then turned the gun towards his head, thought of Carrie’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Then silence. The hand that held the gun shook with anger. Cameron pulled the trigger again, and again there was only the click. He pulled the trigger over and over to no avail.
Jim placed a comforting hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, son? This is how it was.”
“I know that,” Cameron yelled as he tossed the gun into the row of bushes in front of the bungalow. “I was hoping this time it would be different.”
“Why?”
“Because you should have loaded the gun, just like I should have that night! You deserved it, for all the suffering you put us through! You deserved to have a loaded gun in your hand when you pulled the trigger.”
Jim bent down and looked Cameron in the eye. “Do you honestly mean that?”
Cameron leaned back and searched his soul. After a few contemplative moments, he realized that no, he did not mean what he said. And in that chair, he realized that his biggest regret was not that he didn’t load the gun, but rather that he had refused to forgive his father. That he harbored hatred for so long.
Cameron looked into Jim’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad. I truly am. I wish I would have spent more time with you. I wish I could have called you more. I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to you.”
Jim’s smile was large and true. “Trust me, son. We’ll have plenty of time for all that.”
They embraced, and Cameron let go. As they wept, Cameron felt a stern, painless tug at his soul. He breathed easier and with more sustained breaths. His shoulders slumped and his heart slowed. He felt the hatred and regret slip away.
Jim pulled away and looked his boy in the eyes. While blinking away tears, Jim said, “You ready for your last step?
Cameron’s eyes widened. “Really? Just one more?”
With a smile, Jim replied, “Well, just one more for now.” Jim stood and walked over to the bushes; after retrieving the gun, Jim returned to Cameron and extended his arm. “Here, take this,” Jim said as he nodded towards the gun.
Confused, Cameron asked, “Why? It’s not loaded. What good is it gonna do me?”
Jim smiled. “Trust me, it’s loaded.”
Cameron took the gun hesitantly and surveyed it in his hands. He clicked the release switch and the cylinder fell to the left; every chamber of the cylinder contained a bullet. After reviewing the gun from all angles, he noticed that the safety was on—he shook his head, clicked the cylinder back into place, and switched off the safety.
“You sure you’re ready, son?”
Cameron considered his father’s word for a moment before responding. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been ready for anything more.”
Jim smiled and asked, “You know what’s next, right?”
Cameron nodded and turned towards the bungalow’s front door. It was as Cameron remembered, with chipped paint and a crack in the glass caused by an errant baseball throw.
He gripped the gun in his hands, closed his eyes, and steadied his breathing. He looked at Jim with his one remaining functional eye; Jim stared back with admiration and pride.
Cameron had only one remaining question. “Will I ever see her again, Dad?”
The tears in Jim’s eyes gleamed from the light of the streetlamps. “I can’t answer that for you. You’re just going to have to find out for yourself.”
Cameron looked down at his feet and whispered, “I hate all of this.”
“I know, but it’ll be done soon. I love you, son.”
“I love you, too.”
Cameron bent down, picked up his craps stick, cautiously hobbled towards the front door, and gripped the handle. The handle was cold—he caressed it for a moment, enjoying the chill, turned, and pushed the door open.
Darkness engulfed him; a chill shook his every bone. He tried to look back at his father, but the black had washed Jim away. All that remained was Cameron, the door, and whatever awaited him through its frame.
Cameron fended off the cold with thoughts of Carrie. Once ready, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
X.
When Carrie awoke, the hunger in her belly was gone, but her circumstances had also completely changed.
She was still in the high school cafeteria, though the stench of the slop no longer lingered in the air. There was a terrible ache in her stomach, and as she looked down, she realized her stomach was large and bulbous. She also noticed that she was no longer wearing the same clothes—instead, a white hospital gown covered her body.
The aching progressed and her stomach swelled. She knew she needed to find help soon, and she understood where she needed to go to find that help.
Mustering all the energy she could, she lifted herself from the floor, and tried to push herself to her feet; she was too heavy and weak to do so, so she extended her arm and crawled towards the nearby steps. One by one, she ascended the stairs out of the Pit, stopping after each step to catch her breath. She barely had enough energy to raise herself to where her belly did not drag on the ground.
When she reached the top of the steps, she took a moment to look behind her. When she did, she saw that, like Gretchen, she was leaving a trail of blood; her trail was not from her wrists, but rather from between her legs.
Disoriented for a moment, she collected herself and pressed on. Inch by inch, she made her way out of the cafeteria and into the main hallway of the high school. She crawled about fifty more feet before she was there.
The door was where she expected, but it looked different. In her youth, she remembered the door having a large sign that read “NURSE’S ROOM.” But the door she saw now had no such sign; instead, the door was barren aside from the number “21.”
No, Carrie thought, it can’t be.
Undeterred, she gathered all of her remaining energy to lift herself high enough so she could reach the door handle; she turned and pushed, and bright light flooded her eyes.
When she regained her vision, she crawled into the white room. In the middle, she saw a bed. She took a moment to gather her strength and crawled to the bed. When she arrived, she grabbed the side of the bed and lifted herself up. Pain shot through every muscle as she rose from the floor, but through the agony she was able raise herself high enough to tumble onto the bed.
She lay in a bed with coarse sheets in a room with a feel of oppressive sterility. Next to Carrie was a worn and tatted green chair. And Carrie could hear the beep. High-pitched, unchanging, and crushing, the continuous beep seemed omnipresent.
Like the locker room, Carrie knew this room well. It was Room 21.
Her heart beat sluggishly. Her breathing and movements were in slow motion. She was naked under a hospital gown with her lower half exposed. She was on her back with bent legs. And as she rested on her back, Carrie was full witness to the curvature of her protruding belly.
“Please try not to worry, my child.” She felt an earnest palm touch her forehead; she shifted her sight and saw that the old man was standing next to her bed.
“What the hell is going on?” Carrie cried and tried to struggle, but fatigue overwhelmed her.
“Carrie, there’s no need to fight. The time for that has passed. This is the last step in your journey, and I promise, there will be no pain. But I do need you to concentrate.”
“Concentrate on what?”
The old man smiled. “Concentrate on pushing.”
The full scope of reality came crashing down upon Carrie as she felt movement within her belly. “Oh my God…” Carrie’s voice cracked and trailed off.
“It’s all going to be okay, Carrie, I promise. You are almost there.”
The old man removed his hand from her head and walked to the front of the bed. Carrie’s mind swirled. She laid her head back and tried
to drift off and back into unconsciousness, but the old man’s voice interrupted her attempts at letting go.
“It’s time, Carrie,” the old man said kindly.
Carrie was not in pain, but she was in discomfort. Naked and alone, unguarded and vulnerable. The movement among her innards was unfamiliar, but not unwanted.
Soon, she felt a rush of devotion. Though the feeling was new, she sensed that it had always been within her waiting to be unleashed. In that strange bed, with that strange old man, next to the strange green chair, near the strange beep, and under such strange circumstances, she had never felt more at home.
“Push, Carrie!” The old man’s voice was commanding and tender.
She complied, and the baby descended. It pressed her hips unnaturally outwards.
She pushed again, and again. She gripped the sheets with the pure energy that radiated from her every pore.
Her excitement hit its peak as the baby followed.
“You’re doing great. Just a couple more pushes and you’re both there!”
Carrie sensed a dull elongation and a ring of fire burned gently below. Then, her body fell back into its common order.
Carrie heard the scream. The scream’s high-pitched tenor meshed with the constant thumping of the beep and the two separate sounds coalesced and formed a rhythmic beat that accentuated her past choices and new experiences. And it was the most beautiful sound Carrie had ever heard.
Sounds of cutting disrupted the tempo. “Carrie,” the old man said, his voice approaching her body. “Would you like to meet your son?”
In her overwhelmed state, she could not vocalize a response. She just nodded her head enough to show she had wanted nothing more.
The old man’s body approached Carrie’s, and he placed a baby in her arms. The baby was shriveled, red with maroon spots, and he bore a striking resemblance to E.T. And he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
The cry subsided and the peace matured. The mother and son stared at one another, each studying the other with wonderment and adoration. Neither moved, even as the tears stung Carrie’s eyes. She marveled at the boy’s eyes, which were a beautiful shade of light blue. It was shade of blue that she remembered well but had not seen in many years. The boy stretched out his tiny and shrunken hand as if to greet Carrie, and she greeted him back by kissing his hand and forehead as she pulled him close.
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