by Dan Hawley
Jason realized he was on the floor, curled up beside the wall. No pillow, no blanket; completely naked except for his boxers. Jason lay huddled up in the fetal position, trying to figure out how and why he came to be in this precarious position.
“For someone who says they hate that noise, you sure seem to want to listen to it a lot,” Sam said as she straightened up.
Jason looked around, half bewildered, then sat up, resting his back against the wall. He could feel the hum’s vibration prick his skin as he became suddenly aware of the thumping ache that tortured his right side.
“I do hate that fucking noise,” Jason snapped. “It’s driving me mental.”
“Obviously,” Samantha replied.
“I didn’t want to wake you, but I have an appointment, so I have to go. I’ll pick up a few things from the grocery store too. Do you want anything?”
Jason just shook his head slightly. He looked a mess. His hair had grown out and was shaggy and unkempt—it had been a while since he visited a barber. Were they even open? Damned lockdown. Damned pandemic.
His achy muscles had fallen victim to slight atrophy from complacency and smothered by a layer of fat that had become increasingly thicker since the lockdown began. The gyms had closed at the beginning of the pandemic. The thought of sweaty, muscle-bound sardines all piled on top of each other, panting, grunting, and coughing must have made the decision easy for the government. Jason had tried to continue his fitness regime at home with videos from the internet, but had lost interest quickly.
Stress and lack of sleep made him lethargic and moody, and the last thing he wanted to do was get all sweaty and out of breath. The stress and lack of sleep showed easily on his face. Plump, dark bags hung from under his eyes as he stared at nothing. “Ok, I’ll be back later. Maybe a shower will help you feel better? You have time before work.”
Samantha turned and left the bedroom, leaving Jason sitting against the wall in a daze, unmoving.
CHAPTER 13
Chester smiled and waved as Samantha passed his office in the lobby. His door was open.
“How are ya holding up, dear?” he said from behind his tidy desk. Samantha stopped in the doorway. She usually cringed when strangers called her by a pet name—it just seemed so fake—but a name like dear, coming from a man like Chester, just felt normal—good even. He had a favorite uncle vibe to him that Samantha had liked right away, and she enjoyed his presence.
“Good,” she said, half lying, but who answers that question truthfully? How are you? Good. That’s how it was supposed to go.
The big man stood and walked closer, but not too close; there was a pandemic and social distancing to consider. He stopped about four feet away; his mask bobbing as he talked.
“And Jason?” He eyed her reaction to the name closely.
“He’s good too…a little stressed and a bit stir-crazy, I think,” she said with a polite smile that Chester couldn’t see under her surgical mask. Cautiously satisfied with her answer, Chester’s posture relaxed a bit.
“He seemed a bit stressed when I spoke with him the other day. Hopefully, this thing blows over soon, and we can get back to normal. You know what helps me?”
Chester raised one emphatic bushy, grey eyebrow.
Samantha raised both of hers. “What’s that?”
“I do a little bit of meditating in the morning.”
He raised his hands as if to fend off a physical attack. “I know, I know. I’m not the Dalai Llama or anything. I haven’t attained enlightenment or gotten ‘woke’, as my niece would say, but it does help a lot.”
Samantha knew he was the favorite uncle and suddenly remembered the time.
“I will suggest it to him; we both could probably benefit from it. He laughs when I ask him to do yoga with me. Oh well. I have to run, though, Chester. Thank you for the suggestion and concern; we are fine, really.”
Samantha bowed slightly, and Chester returned the gesture in kind. A slight nod or bow had become the new handshake in this touchless world.
Her appointment wasn’t far from the apartment; just a few blocks. She took her time, walking casually in the sunlight. Usually, it was so wet and miserable that everyone hurried everywhere to avoid the weather. Today though, there was a calmness to the people in the streets. There was an easiness to the conversations Sam overheard as she passed by. There were more vehicles now than at the beginning of lockdown. The government had started allowing more places to open due to pressure from small businesses and their patrons. You couldn’t go to the movies yet, but you could get a haircut.
Jason could use a visit to the barber, she thought. He could use a lot of things; some exercise, some family and friend time, a chill pill. She hoped that this sleep doctor would provide insight into what was going on with Jason and maybe help—even just take some of the pressure off, because if not, she feared something was going to pop.
Samantha’s thoughts dwelled on Jason and his troubles until she reached her destination. She entered the lobby and waited for the elevator. When it came, she entered with one other person. Two people were the maximum allowed now, for safety. The elevator took them up quickly. The man, dressed in an old brown suit, stood as far away from Samantha as possible. Any further and he’d be halfway up the wall. The most challenging adjustment Sam had to make was getting used to the way people looked at each other now. With fear. The tall, balding man with a shit-brown suit and black-rimmed glasses was looking at tiny little Sam as if she was going to beat him up and take his lunch money.
But that’s the way it was now.
Fear dripped from people, some more than others, but it was there on all people. You could almost smell it.
The elevator slowed and halted on the eighth floor. The door opened with a digital ding. Samantha exited and read the black sign behind glass on the opposite wall. Another digital chime and the elevator door closed behind her. 806—Dr. Greene, with an arrow pointing to the right. Samantha turned and headed in the direction of the office.
Room 806 opened up into a small waiting room. There was one other person there, sitting on a plastic chair in the corner, staring at her phone.
The waiting room had obviously been stripped of its former, typical furnishings. Cloth-lined, padded chairs had been swapped out for non-porous, blue plastic set three feet apart. There were no side tables; no magazines to leaf through while you waited. Gone were the wooden block toys and pop-up books for children or the young at heart. The room looked bleak—painted institutional yellow and empty. The receptionist was seated behind plexiglass to the left.
Sam walked over to the window and instinctually pumped sanitizer into her hand and massaged it in. The sharp smell of alcohol touched her nose.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Greene,” Sam said through the small holes in the glass.
“Insurance card?”
The receptionist was a young man with short, brown hair and a small face that his mask covered up to his eyeballs. Samantha slipped the card under the glass and waited for the nurse to poke about on the keyboard. He looked up at Sam while typing, then back down to finish his work. He slid the card back to her and asked her to have a seat.
“We’ll call you when the doctor is ready.”
“Thank you.”
Samantha turned and picked a seat that wasn’t close to the other waiting room occupant but wasn’t the farthest one away either.
After only a few short minutes, the door to the offices opened, and the nurse got up with charts in hand. “Betty?”
The woman sitting in the corner gathered her phone and purse and headed to the open door. “Room one, please,” the nurse said as Betty disappeared into the hall.
“And Samantha.”
Samantha stood up, phone in hand, and walked to the door.
“Room two, please.”
Samantha walked into the hallway, found her room, and sat down in the small plastic chair beside the bed. She didn’t want to get on the bed unless she had to.
She looked around the medical room. On the wall hung the machine for taking blood pressure and the thing they stick in your ear. On the counter were jars filled with white cotton balls and wooden tongue depressors. A small laptop sat on a short desk with the password screen open. The bed was clean and sterile; white paper extended across its surface. A sudden knock startled Samantha.
The door opened. Dr. Greene entered wearing her white lab coat, a stethoscope around her neck, holding Samantha’s freshly printed chart. “Samantha?”
Sam nodded.
“Ok, let’s find out if you’re pregnant.”
CHAPTER 14
It was late morning by the time Samantha arrived home. After the doctor’s appointment, she had run some errands and picked up a few things from the grocery store. Samantha had walked slowly and almost aimlessly between destinations in the fresh, warm day. She had soaked up the sunshine and relished the freedom from the depressing confines of the apartment. There had been no real rush anyway, other than that it was almost lunchtime and she needed to get back to fix something to eat for herself and Jason. Jason, who may or may not be off his rocker when she got there. So she had delayed for as long as she could.
The apartment door closed with a click, and Samantha kicked off her short black boots. She walked to the kitchen to put the bags down on the floor beside the island. As she did, she saw that the office door was closed. Sam paused for a moment after setting the bags down and listened. Nothing. All quiet from inside the office. He’s probably napping, she thought. Perhaps for the best, she conceded.
Sam pictured Jason folded over his desk with the keyboard keys mashing into his scruffy face. She pictured herself opening the door. He would wake, looking at her groggily with hash marks implanted into his forehead and below his tired eyes. Sam shook the silly image from her mind, grabbed the wipes, and went to work wiping and putting away the items from the bags.
She ruefully wondered if they would ever go back to the old ways of living. Touching surfaces left, right, and center and not worrying about deadly microscopic death dealers. Would she someday bring things into their home without being compelled to promptly apply all her focus and attention to cleaning the potentially germ-laden intruders?
Probably not, she resigned. Those times felt so long ago, like another lifetime; someone else’s memories.
Samantha thought Jason would wake up from the sounds of pans banging and utensils scraping in the kitchen. She thought the smell of salmon that now seared and hissed in the pan would beckon him like a sailor to the siren’s call.
Not today.
Samantha grabbed the seared meat with metal tongs and placed a piece on both plates. She spooned out the potatoes—fried crisp on the outside but light and fluffy on the inside. Sam cut a grapefruit and set one half on each plate. She finished the dishes with powdered sugar, sprinkled gently over the grapefruit’s juicy, pink flesh.
A little sweet for the sour.
She set the plates down at the usual spots on the island and paused.
“Lunch is ready!” she called. She waited for a moment. “Jay?”
Samantha walked over to the door with a sigh and opened it slowly. She called his name once more, just a decibel above a whisper.
Inside, Jason was sitting stiffly at his desk. He was staring straight ahead with a blank expression, cleaning his gun. Samantha stood quietly in the doorway, frozen in place.
The office was dark but not completely black, as the small desk lamp gave off an orange glow that mixed eerily with the computer monitor’s pale white light. The strange orange light hit Jason’s features in an odd way that made him look different. Sam barely recognized him. His face showed no expression, and his body showed no movement except for his arms and hands.
Francine sat cold and imposing on the desk in front of him. He was holding her barrel with his left hand and gently running his cloth over her stock with his right. Samantha looked for the box of shells but didn’t see them on the desk. She felt a small pang of relief that calmed her, but only a little. Jason did not acknowledge Samantha’s entry, nor did he indicate he was aware of her presence at all. He just sat, staring ahead, running his cloth in circles over Francine’s smooth wooden body. Many thoughts passed through Samantha’s mind. Was he angry and ignoring her? Was he sleepwalking again? Sleep-cleaning his gun, for Christ’s sake?
Was he going crazy? Was she?
Sam stood paralyzed by the strange sight and her racing mind, until finally the thought of quietly backing out of the room and closing the door came to her.
That’s what she did.
She stepped back once, then twice. She grasped the cool, brass handle of the door and swung it shut with a single, quiet click. Scared and confused, she stared at the door she had just closed.
She was frozen, stuck there, not knowing what to do. What else could she do? She went to the fridge and opened it. Her hand reached out to grab the bottle of rose, but suddenly stopped. Her eyes ogled the seductive curves of the bottle longingly as her arm floated in the cold light of the refrigerator.
“Damnit,” she said and closed the door.
* * *
“Did I miss lunch?” Jason said as he appeared from the office room. He looked disappointed. “About an hour ago,” Samantha replied from the couch. She had her laptop open on the coffee table. “Damn,” he said. “Was that it?”
Jason looked over at the cold plate of food on the island.
“Sorry, babe, I guess I fell asleep. I’ll throw it in the microwave.”
“You guess you fell asleep?” Samantha asked accusingly. “You don’t know?”
Jason’s face took on a puzzled expression as he removed the grapefruit and deposited the plate in the microwave mounted above the stove.
“Well, I dunno,” he started. “After you left, I picked my sorry ass off the floor and had a quick shower. I felt pretty good and started working, getting lots done, and then…” he trailed off.
Samantha waited impatiently.
“And then?” she urged, annoyed that she had to prod him along.
“Then I dunno. Here I am.”
He shot a meek smile at Sam, and he could tell she was not impressed.
“Sooo…you don’t remember cleaning your gun?” “What!?” Jason gasped. “Don’t screw with me, Sam; I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not screwing around, Jay. I made lunch, and normally you come out when you hear me in the kitchen or the smell or whatever, but today you didn’t. I called your name and knocked on the door, but you didn’t answer, so I went in. You were sitting there like a zombie just cleaning your gun. I thought you were ignoring me or something from our fight or whatever this morning.”
Samantha’s words trembled as she spoke, realizing the gravity of the situation.
“You don’t remember at all?”
“Goddamn sleep-cleaning my shotgun? What the fuck Sam? What am I gonna do?”
Jason’s words came out rough and halted, and his voiced squeaked a little at the end.
Samantha got up, and they walked towards each other and hugged. She grabbed him hard and pressed her face into his chest. Jason winced from the pain in his shoulder, his thoughts preoccupied with the realization that he might be going crazy after all. “When’s your sleep doctor appointment?”
Jason’s shirt muffled Samantha’s words.
“In a few days,” he replied.
“Jason?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER 15
Friday came like Christmas, slow and full of hope and anticipation. The sleep appointment was slated for late afternoon, and Jason could think of little else. Except, perhaps, that he was going to be a dad soon. He desperately needed Dr. Luu’s help. How could he be a father and look after Samantha and the baby if he was batshit?
Jason was sitting in the apartment’s office, the door open today, staring blankly at his computer monitor. He had work to do but couldn’t focus. And he had been get
ting behind lately. Jason had had a video meeting the previous day with his fearless leader, William, and it had not gone well. Jason had fallen behind, and the work he had submitted was mediocre at best.
“I know the situation isn’t ideal,” William had said. “But I’m counting on your big brain to deliver what I know it can deliver.”
Jason had just sat there, trying not to look tired and distracted.
“Sorry William, I’ll get it together, I promise.”
“If you need anything, Jason, please reach out.” Video meetings; the new normal.
After William had disconnected from the call, Jason had unbuttoned the top two buttons of his black dress shirt and discarded it in the corner of the room. The wifebeater underneath was much more comfortable.
He wore that same, slightly smelly tank top today, the Friday morning of the appointment. It was like the last glimmer of hope; the last bastion of sanity in a dark, befuddled world. Jason didn’t know what he would do if Dr. Luu couldn’t help him.
Perish the thought.
Dr. Luu HAD to help him. After all, Jason couldn’t be the first person who moved shit around in their sleep, listened to the walls, and sleepwalked in the middle of the day, right? At the very least, the good doctor would likely prescribe some little blue or green pill to treat the symptoms.
Jesus, thought Jason, what if I need an actual therapist? Or what if I’m so fucked up that even that therapist can’t do anything for me?
I’m gonna be a terrible dad.
Jason’s thoughts were interrupted as Samantha darkened the doorway.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replied.
The couple just watched each other for a few moments. The laptop fan kicked on, and the sound mingled abrasively with the hum behind the walls. It was like two choir singers who couldn’t quite harmonize. It set Jason’s teeth on edge.
