by P. D. Cacek
“Dr. Ellison? It really is happening, isn’t it? I mean, not just here. I didn’t believe it when I saw the news reports, but…they’re real, aren’t they?”
Barney looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “Yes,” he said. “They’re real.”
“Anyone figure out why?”
“Not yet.”
Nurse Lydia nodded and sat down. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
Straightening his lab coat, Barney glanced down at the clipboard then touched the knot in his tie, brushed the hair back from his forehead, touched the knot in his tie a second time and said a small prayer as he stepped away from the nurses’ station. It wasn’t OCD or a ritual, although it felt like one – it was just something he did before telling an unsuspecting family member their lives would never be the same again. Seven going on eight months and explaining that even though their loved one’s soul had departed, the body was still alive and kicking and, oh yeah, the person inside is a complete stranger to you. Here’s a brochure we had printed up to give you the basics.
God.
A few had cursed him, others thought he was joking, a sick joke, one or two had thrown punches and been escorted out by security. Only a few punches ever connected but Barney never filed charges. It would have been like putting salt on an open wound.
There were still others who tried to sue and Barney had heard of a man in Scotland who stabbed the doctor who told him his dead twelve-year-old daughter’s body had awakened as a thirty-seven-year-old factory worker who’d been killed in the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire.
Barney had started carrying the clipboard with him into the initial meetings. Although he never expected trouble, the clipboard was made of bulletproof laminated Kevlar which could be used as a reasonably good shield if the need arose.
Stopping outside the door of the waiting room, Barney gave the knot another quick touch, and lifted the clipboard to waist height. It held three documents: the first was Rosario Maria Guzman’s death certificate; the second was the legal department’s exemption clause, now standard practice, designed to protect the hospital, the physician(s) and all other hospital personnel/medical transport/etc. from being held legally responsible. The third piece of paper was a form that would legally relinquish rights and/or guardianship of the patient, heretofore to be known as Millie, last name as yet unknown.
Barney took a deep breath and opened the door. The Guzman family looked up.
“I’m very sorry….”
April 2019
Chapter Three
Arvada, Colorado
What are you going to tell them?
Jessie looked at her sister – cheeks glowing pink, an escaped lock from the French knot she and the other cheerleaders wore curling around her neck, Abigail’s red-and-white gym clothes still as clean and immaculate as when she put it on after school while hers showed proof of her masterful slide into third – then leaned back against the hard wooden bench and stared at the principal’s closed door across from them.
When she didn’t answer, her sister nudged her. It’ll be okay.
Right.
Because there were still people in the halls – office staff and kids leaving detention – they used their inside voices. They couldn’t remember a time when they couldn’t talk to each other like that, although it might have started around the time when they were little and their parents were constantly telling them to “Be quiet, girls…use your inside voices.”
Abbie’s hand reached into her periphery and patted the dirt stain on her left knee. Okay. But maybe you shouldn’t have hit him with your catcher’s mask.
Jessie closed her eyes. He started it.
Started what?
I don’t want to talk about it.
Come on.
Jessie exhaled. Loudly.
Jessie.
NO!
Jessie felt her sister jump. Most of the time their inside voices were softer than their real voices, at least that’s how Abbie’s sounded in Jessie’s head, but shouting was an option. And it sounded a lot louder.
Jessie opened her eyes and looked at her sister.
I’m sorry.
Abbie stared straight ahead as if she’d never seen the principal’s door from that angle. Which she hadn’t. Abbie was the good twin, everyone said so. Jessie had been there before.
She lean-nudged her sister’s shoulder and Abbie moved farther down the bench.
Come on. I said I was sorry.
Abbie’s gaze remained fixed as ‘Kumbaya’ started playing inside Jessie’s head.
Oh, come on!
It was hard enough to have any sort of privacy if you were a twin, a million times harder if your twin could sneak inside your head, so they had to set up some rules and boundaries: 1) you couldn’t lurk, you had to let the other know you were there; 2) inside voices could not be used to cheat on a test – Jessie had tried to veto that without success; 3) if one of them didn’t want to talk they would be blocked; and 4) if one of them wanted some alone time, see #3.
They blocked each other with songs. Abbie used ‘Kumbaya’ and Jessie ‘This Old Man’…mostly because she knew Abbie hated the song and by the time she got to eleven with her own original verse –
This Old Man, he had eleven
He had eleven up in Heaven,
But he didn’t like it, praise be and Amen,
So he came back down to start again!
This Old Man, he had ONE!
– Abbie would give up. This time, however, it only took to the first kumbaya before Jessie caved.
UNCLE! UNCLE! I said I was sorry!
Her sister lifted her chin. …praying, my Lord, kumba—
“I’m sorry.”
The song stopped as Abbie turned toward her. Just tell me what he did.
He said I play like a girl!
You are a girl!
He said I play like a gay girl!
But aren’t you?
Jessie ran a hand through her short pixie cut and grimaced. Her hair felt greasy with sweat from the catcher’s mask. She wiped her hand off on the leg of her track shorts.
She’d known since…forever that she was different than her sister. Her sister was a girl but Jessie didn’t feel like a girl. Never had. Jessie felt like a boy under her skin, but when she told her parents they laughed and said she was a TOM boy and that it was perfectly normal and that she’d grow out of it. For a while that was okay. She could play ball and climb trees and wear jeans and T-shirts but then, one day, she got her period and it wasn’t okay.
Her body was changing; she was becoming a woman…which was the exact opposite of what Jessie wanted to be. She hadn’t outgrown anything.
It wasn’t until she read a very thin chapter in her middle school Health and Human Development textbook and saw the terms transsexual and gender identity that she understood who and what she was: a boy in a girl’s body.
She just hadn’t told anyone…well, anyone important except her sister.
I’m trans, Abbie, not gay.
Isn’t that the same—
Jessie glared at her.
I guess not. I’m sorry he said that.
Jessie turned back to the door. Thanks.
Do you think everyone thinks I am too?
What?
Do you think everyone thinks I’m trans…like you?
Jessie almost laughed. And would have if they weren’t sitting where they were. No.
But we’re twins and people think twins are exactly the same. So if you’re gay—
Trans.
Whatever! They’ll think I am too.
No, they don’t. Besides, everyone knows you’re a slut.
Her sister’s gasp was lost as the door opened. Mrs. Betancourt’s right eyebrow arched when she stepped into the hall and saw them.<
br />
“Abigail? What are you doing here?”
“Um…moral support. I saw the…whole thing.”
Their principal nodded. “You’re a good sister and it’s just as well you’re here. I was going to send for you after speaking with Jessica. I think it best if you both leave practice early today, don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.” They’d answered in perfect unison, something they did without even thinking about it. People thought it was adorable. Mrs. Betancourt smiled.
“Well, why don’t you and I have a chat, Jessica, and then I’ll call your mother to come pick you both up. How’s that? Jessica, will you come in, please?”
Jessie walked into the office and sat down in the chair facing the huge desk as Mrs. Betancourt took a pamphlet from the hanging rack next to the door and carried it back into the hall.
“While I talk to your sister, Abigail, you might find this helpful.”
What is it? Jessie asked when Mrs. Betancourt closed the door and began walking back to the desk.
LGBT and Gender Identity Series: Talking to Your Parents.
Not even ‘This Old Man’ could drown out her sister’s silent scream that followed.
* * *
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania
“Go away!”
The knocking came again, louder than before.
“I’m busy.”
Knock, knock, knock. “But Curtis, I just want to—”
He threw the calculus book at the door and the knocking stopped. He waited, wanting to make sure the mother had left before returning his full attention to the computer because she could sometimes be sneaky and just stand there knowing it would distract him and keep him from his work.
He didn’t bother wondering why she’d interrupted him; she was always interrupting for stupid reasons like eating or taking a shower or, as she called it, ‘being with your family’. Stupid, useless things that didn’t matter because nothing was more important than the work he was doing.
And the mother knew that, she was just too stupid to understand.
His work was always important, but today it was really important.
Today he was going to prove the great Albert Einstein was wrong.
E did not equal mc2, it equaled nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. And he was going to prove it.
Because he was a genius, the only real genius in the world.
That was the only thing the mother got right.
Satisfied that the interruption was truly gone, Curtis turned back to his computer and reread the last line of his premise. The premise was the most important part of his research dissertation because it would be the first thing the registration committee at Cambridge University would read before accepting it and him into a master’s program.
Albert Einstein couldn’t do simple math. I can do simple math. I can do every kind of math. Therefore I am better than Albert Einstein in math. According to Google, Albert Einstein’s IQ was never measured, although it is believed to be one hundred and sixty, which was the highest estimated number when he was alive, but since no one knows for sure it is an invalid hypothesis. My IQ is one hundred and sixty-four (please see attached file marked GENIUS IQ) which proves I am a certified genius. Albert Einstein wasn’t a genius. I am a genius. Therefore I am better than Albert Einstein.
Curtis nodded and flexed his fingers.
As the above paragraph clearly proves, Albert Einstein was not a genius but I am a genius. Therefore if he was not a genius, like I am, his assumption that E=mc2 can only be wrong. E=mc2 cannot possibly be right because he was not a genius, which means E=mc2 is only a made-up equation. It doesn’t mean anything if you replace the two with a zero, which is what I’ve done to prove that Albert Einstein was wrong. In my equation E=mc0 I prove nothing exists and Albert Einstein was only guessing because he was not a genius like I am.
He smiled. It was perfect. Cambridge would be lucky to have him.
* * *
Arvada, Colorado
“How’s it going?”
Jess looked down at his empty coffee cup, the fourth since lunch, and sighed.
“That good, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely fantastic.”
He could feel Monica’s eyes against his back as he walked over to the Keurig and popped in a one hundred per cent Colombian pod. While Jess always suffered a touch of writer’s block each time he sat down to write a sermon, it had never been this bad. Every possible premise he’d come up with might have worked as a short – very short – homily, but none of them inspired him.
Jess had even resorted to opening the Bible to a random page, closing his eyes and pointing. He’d done it three times when he hit Matthew 7:7 and realized God was playing with him: Ask, and it will be given to you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened to you.
“Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?”
“That’s your sermon?”
Jess turned around, leaning back against the counter and smiling at his wife as the coffee machine did its thing.
“Think it’ll work?”
“Hmmm, maybe not.”
Picking up a long-handled spoon, she lifted the lid from a pot and gave the steaming contents a stir. The kitchen instantly filled with the aroma of her famous twelve-hour spaghetti sauce.
Jess’s stomach grumbled.
“Oh, I have an idea,” she said.
“I’m all ears.”
She turned, cupping her hand under the sauce-laden spoon and blowing across the dollop of crimson sauce as she walked toward him. “Taste. Does it need anything?”
He tasted and closed his eyes in bliss. All it needed was to be slathered over angel-hair pasta, dusted with Pecorino Romano and shoveled into his belly.
“Mmm.”
“Why don’t you talk about the Travelers?”
If there’d been more than a taste on the spoon he would have choked on it. Jess opened his eyes. “What?”
“You know, the Travelers, those poor lost souls everyone’s talking ab—”
“I know what you mean. No.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She’d asked it the same way she would have if he’d ordered fish instead of steak at the Texas Roadhouse.
Jess swallowed both the urge to repeat the question back at her and the layer of sauce coating his tongue. “That isn’t possible. A sermon is meant to be uplifting and positive and the things you mentioned are unnatural.”
His wife carried the spoon to the sink and turned on the water. “They’re people, Jess.”
“They’re blasphemies.”
“They’re lost souls and isn’t that sort of thing in your line of work, Mr. Preacher Man?” She turned off the faucet. “I met one.”
Jess had to turn and grab the counter to keep from…doing something. “What? Where?”
“Well, okay, I didn’t actually meet one but I saw one. In the market. I mean, I think it was a Traveler. A woman, about my age. The man with her was pointing out all the different kinds of soups and she was just…she was just…. I guess she could have been a foreigner, but the way she looked when he gave her a can of chicken noodle soup….”
Jess pushed away from the counter and crossed the room. “What market?”
“Jess, she might not have been a—”
“What market was it, Monica?” His voice had gone so cold for a moment he didn’t even recognize it.
“Jess—”
He was looming over her, hands ready to grab her arms and hold on until she told him, when her cell phone rang. She smiled up at him and stepped to one side, pulling her phone from the side pocket of her cardigan.
“Excuse me,” she mouthed as she swiped her phone. “Hello? Oh, hi…. What? Oh. Okay, not a problem. ’Bye.”
Jess expected her to come back and finish
their discussion – he had a few things he wanted to say to her – but she continued walking. He heard the jingle of keys a moment later.
“Going to pick up the girls,” she called as the front door opened. Jess checked his watch. Both cheer squad and softball practice still had at least another hour.
“Monica?”
“Explain when I get back. Turn the sauce down to simmer and keep an eye on it, okay? Don’t put the noodles in until we get back, they cook fast. Okay? Thanks. ’Bye.”
The door slammed shut.
Jess stood staring at the spot where he’d last seen her for longer than he probably should have, before walking over to the stove and turning the knob corresponding to the burner under the pot to low/simmer. He rewarded himself with a fresh cuppa Joe. Cup in hand and the heady scent of Italian herbs circling about his head, Jess headed to the office. He had a sermon to write…maybe something about wolves in sheep’s clothing.
It should have been an easy enough topic to work with, given the brief – but would be longer – dialog he’d just had with his wife, but he was still thinking about it and staring at the blank screen of his laptop twenty minutes later when his cell phone rang.
“Good evening, this is Reverend Pathway. How can I help you?”
The masculine voice on the other end cleared its throat. “Reverend Jess Pathway?”
“Yes.”
“I’m very sorry, Reverend, but your wife’s been in an accident.”
Jess pushed back from his desk and stood up. “Is she all right? Where is she? What happened?”
“A driver ran a red light and hit your wife’s car on the driver’s side. Fire and rescue arrived and were able to extricate your wife from the vehicle and stabilize her before transporting her to St. Joseph’s Hospital.”
Jess was already moving toward the coatrack by the front door when his body stopped moving.
“Only my wife? What about my daughters, are they okay?”
“Your wife was alone in the vehicle, sir.”
“Then they’re still at school. I have to pick them up.” Jess knew he was babbling as he left the house and couldn’t remember if he’d locked the door or even closed it as he yanked open the car door and got in. “What hospital did you say?”
