Tales from The Lake 5

by Tales from The Lake

I tell him about the memory that plagues me, the night Jacob and I told our girls that we were divorcing.

  “I’m their mother. I’m supposed to protect them from hurt, not be the cause of it.”

  When I finish, I feel exposed, as if I’ve revealed too much. But I have to tell him my story, don’t I? How can he help me otherwise?

  Marsha’s problem was similar to mine. She lost her husband to cancer, and she was holding his hand in the hospital room when he died. She didn’t regret being there for him, but every night she dreamed of that last moment with him. When it became too much for her to bear any longer, she told a friend, and this friend told her about a man she’d heard of who could solve any problem. A man named Mr. Lim. It took Marsha some time to track him down, but she did, and when she finally met him in person, he was indeed able to help her. Somehow, he removed the memory of her husband’s death from her mind, and she’s slept fine ever since. I pray he can do the same for me.

  “What do you want me to do?” Mr. Lim asks.

  “You took away a painful memory from my friend. I’d like you to do the same for me.”

  He looks at me for a moment with those unearthly blue eyes, and then says, “I can do that.”

  The relief that fills me is so overwhelming that it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.

  “But I’ll need you to get something for me first.”

  Before I can ask what it is, Ond approaches the table carrying a tray of fresh sandwiches wrapped in yellow paper. Fourteen of them. Despite her arthritic-looking hands, she carries the tray without difficulty and sets it in front of Mr. Lim. Without looking at either of us or speaking a word, she turns and shuffles back toward the counter. Given the way he was eating before, I expect Mr. Lim to tear the paper off one of the sandwiches and cram it into his mouth. But instead, he calmly tells me what he wants me to do.

  When he’s finished, he asks if I understand. I don’t really, but I’ll do whatever it takes to be free of the voices.

  Satisfied, he picks up one of the sandwiches, unwraps it slowly, almost lovingly, and then falls upon it with an animalistic snarl.

  ***

  As I wrote earlier, I’ve lived in Ash Creek for a long time, but I grew up on a farm outside a small town called Waldron. It wasn’t a very successful farm. My dad inherited it from his father, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t like the work and had no head for business. He grew soybeans mostly, and he didn’t do a good job of it. By the time I was married and Nancy was born, he’d sold the farm, moved with my mother to a smaller house in town, and started doing odd jobs as a handyman.

  One summer when I was six, I was playing in a field that Dad never planted nor maintained. I was running through the field, laughing as I chased butterflies, when my foot snagged on something. Fiery pain shot through my ankle, and I cried out as whatever had hold of me drew taught, sending me falling to the ground face first. I put out my hands to break my fall, and the impact hurt my wrists, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony in my ankle. Crying, teeth gritted, I rolled onto my back and sat up. I bent over to examine my foot and saw my sock and shoe were both covered in blood. There was so much of it, and it was so red, that the sight of it almost made me pass out. I sat there whimpering for several moments until I worked up enough courage to examine my wound more closely.

  Rusty barbed wire was wrapped tight around my ankle, the points caught so deep in my flesh that I imagine they touched the bone. I had no idea where the wire had come from, but later Dad told me there used to be a fence around that field when he was a kid, and the length of wire that caught me must’ve been left over from that time, lying in the field all those years like the world’s most patient serpent, waiting for someone to come along so it could strike.

  I needed stitches and a tetanus shot, of course, and I walked with a crutch for a couple weeks while the wound healed. Luckily, no tendons were damaged, at least not badly, and I was back to running again before summer’s end. But not in that field. Never again.

  The pain of that rusty wire biting through my skin and muscle down to the bone was the worst I’d ever experienced in my life–including labor with both of my girls. Until the night Jacob and I gave them the news we’d both hoped never to have to tell them. Until I saw their faces. Until I heard their voices.

  ***

  It’s worse in my dreams. There the memory plays and replays with vivid colors and crisp sounds, like an expensive Hollywood production. I don’t sleep much. Hell, who am I trying to fool? I hardly sleep at all. You’d think that the memory, painful as it is, would’ve faded over the years, especially since the girls are grown and in college, Lauren at Northern Kentucky University for her undergrad, Nancy at Wichita State for her graduate degree. But the memory has only become sharper with the passage of time. My brother once told me that’s because I have a sick need to punish myself. Maybe so, but knowing that doesn’t make the memory go away.

  I’m careful about what I watch on TV. Commercials are the worst. You never know when kids will be in one. And I’m cautious about the movies I see in theaters. I only go to shows that start after 9:00 p.m. in the hope I won’t run into any parents taking their little ones to see the latest animated extravaganza. But for all my precautions, I still hear my girls’ voices throughout the day, so many times that I no longer bother counting.

  ***

  I’m back at Pandora’s less than an hour later. I’m carrying a white cardboard box with the logo for Pets and More printed on the side. Mr. Lim is finishing the last of what I assume to be another set of fourteen sandwiches. The mound of crumpled wrappers on the table is so large now that there isn’t room for them all, and several have fallen to the floor. I wait for him to finish his sandwich—I know it won’t take long—but I don’t look up at the TV. I don’t what to see what it’s showing. As before, Mr. Lim pays no attention to me until he’s finished. He then glances over at me, then his gaze flicks to the box and he grins. His teeth are overlarge and so white they gleam. He sweeps the wrappers off the table to make room, and I gently set the box down before him. My heart pounds, and my stomach roils with nausea.

  Mr. Lim leans over the box, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, as if he’s drawing in the scent of a fine wine. He reaches out with trembling hands and opens the box. His lips are moist and I realize he’s drooling. He peers inside, then he turns and gives me an angry glare.

  “I don’t eat anything that’s still alive,” he says, voice dripping with disgust. “I’m not a savage.” He picks up the box and shoves it toward me. I don’t want to take it, but Mr. Lim releases the box, and if I don’t grab hold of it, the box and its contents will fall to the floor. So I catch it, and there’s a panicked scuttling from inside.

  I look down at the rabbit, a black-and-white fluffball that looks back up at me with frightened eyes.

  “I . . . You can’t . . . ”

  “What I can do is give you the relief you desire,” he says. “But I don’t work for free.”

  I don’t look at Mr. Lim. Instead, I continue looking at the bunny. After the divorce, Nancy and Lauren begged me to get them a pet, but back then I lived in a small two-bedroom apartment, and I didn’t want to deal with looking after an animal on the days the girls were with their father. And by the time I found myself a new house, the girls were older and had stopped talking about pets. So they never had any growing up. One more regret to add to my list.

  I wish this wasn’t happening! I wish this was a dream!

  That’s okay, It’s okay.

  I take hold of the rabbit by the scruff of its neck and pull it out of the box. I let the box fall to the floor, put one hand around the rabbit’s neck, the other hand on its head, and I quickly turn them in opposite directions. There’s a snapping sound, and the rabbit spasms once and then falls still. I toss the dead creature onto the table, and Mr. Lim gazes at it for a moment, gorgeous blue eyes shining. Then he snatches it up and brings it to his mouth. It takes him longer to finish it o
ff than it does a Pandora’s sandwich, but that’s because he has the fur, bones, and internal organs to deal with, too—all of which he eats. When he’s done, his army jacket is splattered with crimson, and the lower half of his face is a red smear. As he starts to lick blood from his fingers, I say, “Now will you do it?”

  Between finger-licks, he glances at me and says, “It’s already done.”

  I don’t feel any different, and doubt must show on my face, for Mr. Lim sighs and says, “Why did you come to me?”

  “So you could remove one of my bad memories. The worst one.”

  “And which one is that?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but then I realize I have no idea. I remember everything about my interactions with Mr. Lim from the moment I first stepped into Pandora’s, but I can’t recall which memory I wanted him to take from me.

  I smile in wonderment.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s gone! Thank you, thank you so—”

  He waves away my thanks. Ond approaches with a tray of fresh sandwiches, and Mr. Lim turns his attention to whatever new atrocities are playing out on the TV screen. I take this as my cue to go, only too happy to take my leave of Mr. Lim and this strange place.

  As I push open the entrance door, a mother and her two young daughters enter. The faces of all three are mottled with what looks like port wine stains, except theirs are swollen and gently pulsating. I try not to stare as they pass me, then I continue outside and walk toward my Prius. I don’t hear any voices in my head, and I don’t know I should be relieved by that.

  ***

  I’m a phlebotomist, and I took the day off work so I could meet with Mr. Lim. It’s still early enough that I could go to the hospital and put in a few hours, but I feel so good, so much lighter, that I decide to take the rest of the day to celebrate. I don’t know exactly what burden Mr. Lim relieved me of, but given that I’m so happy I’m almost giddy, I know it has to be a huge one, and no longer being tormented by memory like that is definitely worth celebrating. I feel so great that I don’t question how Mr. Lim performed this miracle or even what he is precisely, or where exactly Pandora’s is in relation to what I’ve always thought of as the real world. In truth, I don’t really care about those details, and I suspect that if I had answers to my questions, I wouldn’t like them.

  I’m debating whether to get a relaxing massage at my gym or a strong margarita at my favorite Mexican restaurant when my phone starts buzzing. I left my purse on the floor of my passenger seat both times I went into Pandora’s, but I moved it back onto the passenger seat before I left the parking lot. I reach inside, remove the phone and accept the call without looking to see who it is. Like most people, I usually screen my calls to avoid salespeople or political poll-takers, but right now I’m too happy to care who it is.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom!”

  I frown. “Who is this?”

  Silence on the other end for several seconds.

  “Mom, it’s me. Nancy.”

  I’m not sure why this woman is calling me Mom, but I search my memory, trying to recall if I know a Nancy. There’s a nurse named Nancy that I’ve worked with a few times when I’ve been on nights, but this isn’t her. She’s in her late sixties, and this woman is young, in her twenties, maybe. Besides, why would that Nancy call me Mom?

  “Sorry, you must have the wrong number.” I pull the phone away from my ear, intending to disconnect, but before I can the woman—Nancy—speaks hurriedly.

  “Is this some kind of joke, Mom? Please tell me it is, because if it’s not, you’re scaring me.”

  I should disconnect anyway. If there’s anyone joking here, it’s her. But I don’t. Instead, I put the phone back to my ear.

  “I’m sorry but not only don’t I know a Nancy, I don’t recognize your voice.”

  The pause is longer this time, and I think she’s ended the call, but then she says, “Do you remember the hospital where you work?”

  I’m not sure what disturbs me more: that she knows where I work or the forced calm in her voice, which does a poor job of masking the fear underneath.

  “Yes.”

  “Go there. Right now. Tell them you’re having trouble remembering things. I’ll book a flight and be in Ohio as soon as I can. I’ll call Laura and—” She breaks off. “Do you remember Laura?”

  My silence is answer enough.

  “I’ll call her, and I’m sure she’ll come, too. She’s close enough to drive, and she’ll get there first. Don’t worry, Mom. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I love you.”

  She sounds on the verge of tears as she disconnects. I hold the phone to my ear a moment longer before returning it to my purse. This incident is as strange as anything I experienced in Pandora’s, and while I have no idea who Nancy or Lauren are, there was something about Nancy’s parting words, something about the way she repeated okay that chilled me. Whoever these girls are, they must be part of the memory Mr. Lim removed from my mind. I wanted that memory gone, needed it desperately. My continuing sanity depended on it. So maybe I shouldn’t think about this too closely, shouldn’t try to recover that which I worked so hard to be free of.

  To hell with the massage and the margarita, and to hell with the hospital. I needed to go home. Now.

  I pressed down on the gas and prayed I wouldn’t catch the attention of any cops on the way.

  ***

  A couple hours later, I’m sitting in Pandora’s parking lot again. It isn’t as full as it was earlier, but the vehicles here now are just as weird as the ones before. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find the restaurant again, that once my wish was granted, the place would go back to wherever it came from, never to return. But I found it again, and on the first try. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes, gripping the steering wheel and looking straight ahead. Once I got home, I checked my phone and found contacts for both a Nancy and a Lauren. No last names, though. I checked my text messages and found conversations with both women. The latest exchanges were about their upcoming Spring breaks. Their schools didn’t do their Spring breaks during the same week. Lauren’s was first, and Nancy’s was the week after. The three of us wanted to take a cruise, but we were having trouble figuring out the logistics of the trip.

  I have no memory of these texts.

  There are saved voicemails from both girls, too. I didn’t recognize either of their voices. There are pictures on my phone, most of which are of one or two young women who I assume are Nancy and Lauren. I’m in some of those pictures, but I have no memory of them being taken. I checked my social media accounts and found more pictures of them, along with their comments on my posts. I checked out their profiles, went through their pictures, saw bits and pieces of two lives I know nothing about. I saw both girls are connected to Jacob on social media, and they share his last name—Haynes. That was my last name, too. I didn’t change it after the divorce. It seemed like too much of a hassle, and Jacob and I don’t have hard feelings toward each other. Well, not too many. I haven’t spoken with him in years, not since he remarried, but I’m tempted to call him now and ask him about Nancy and Lauren, if they really are who I fear they are. I have others I could call, too. My own mother. My brother. But there’s no point. I understand what happened—if not exactly why—and I know what I need to do.

  I get out of my car and head into the restaurant once more.

  ***

  Ond is still standing behind the counter, and the place still smells like a chemical factory. The dining area isn’t as full as it was earlier, but the people that are here are strange, just like—

  Mr. Lim is sitting at the same table, a new mound of crumpled wrappers in front of him and scattered piles of them on the floor around his feet. He has only one sandwich left, but he seems to be in no hurry to eat it. Maybe he’s finally full? He holds onto the sandwich with both hands, almost as if cradling it. His jacket is still stained with rabbit blood, thick and wet. He’s watching a woman use a b
utcher knife to cut off a man’s balls on the TV. I’m so relieved he’s here. I was afraid he might have left while I was gone. I then wonder if he ever leaves, or if he’s always sitting here, devouring one sandwich after another, watching an endless parade of televised murder and mutilation, doing favors for people willing to pay his price.

  I head over to the table on the edge of panic. I don’t have any memories of Nancy and Lauren, but now I believe I should have, and I’m horrified at what I must have lost, what I must have willingly given up. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I don’t care. I just want my memories back. But before I can speak, Mr. Lim turns to me with a smile that’s almost but not quite mocking.

  “No one realizes that when you remove one memory, all the others associated with it have to go, too. It’s like a house of cards. Take one from the bottom and the entire structure collapses. You’d be surprised how many of my clients come back after they understand this, but I must say, you may have set the record for the fastest return visit.”

  “So you can give them back—the memories?”

  “Of course, I can!” He sounds offended at first, but then he smiles again, slowly this time. Slyly. “But like I told you earlier, I don’t work for free.”

  He unwraps the sandwich, crumples the paper, and tosses it to the floor. He lifts the sandwich up for my inspection and removes the top bun to reveal a bloody hunk of raw meat sitting there. A very particular cut of meat.

  “It’s hard to find a steady supply,” he says. “Especially when you have an appetite like mine.”

  I remember how during my first visit, when I told him Marsha had said something to me about him, he questioned my use of the word. Now I know why. Marsha can type just fine, but she can’t say anything. She went through this same ritual, as I imagine most of Mr. Lim’s customers do—if they want back what they so foolishly gave away.

  He replaces the top bun and gobbles the sandwich down. Afterward, he wipes away a splotch of crimson from his lips which I now know for certain isn’t ketchup, and then points to the counter. Ond holds a butcher knife that looks very much like the one wielded by the ball-cutter on the TV. I think of how scared Nancy sounded on the phone even though she fought so hard to sound calm. I think of Lauren, who even now is driving back to Ohio from Kentucky, worried sick that her mother had a stroke or is suffering from early-onset dementia. I’ll see her soon, Nancy too, and when I do, I may not be able to say I love you, but I will hug them, hug them hard. I think they’ll get the message. Most importantly, I’ll remember them. Remember everything, good times and bad.