by Jeff Gelb
Finally, he felt a light switch and turned it on. He clasped a hand to his mouth to stifle his scream as he realized he was in his parents’ home, not his own. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
When had he come back home? And why?
He looked around. It was his old bedroom alright, with the double bed, the simple dresser, the bookshelves his dad had built for him when he was a teen-ager to hold Bruce’s collection of horror comic books. Right now, he felt like he was in the middle of one of those stories, where reality was bent like a funhouse mirror.
“Dad?” he tried cautiously, his voice a tremulous whisper, still not really believing he was back home at all. But when he heard the snoring down the hall, Bruce knew for certain that he was back in his childhood home. “Dad?” Louder now, more forceful, though inside he felt more like a thirteen-year-old kid than his actual forty-two years of age.
He heard an interrupted snore, a grunt, and then the sound of someone getting out of bed. In a moment, the hall light was switched on. Bruce blinked his eyes to adjust to the sudden light and then he could make out his father’s familiar frame walking toward him, concern etched in his face.
“Are you okay, Bruce?” Howard wiped sleep from his eyes and regarded his son with genuine concern and love. He set an arm on Bruce’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”
“No, Dad, wait. I mean, I’m glad to see you.” He put his arms around his father and for some reason felt himself on the edge of new tears. “I had the worst nightmare of my life. Franklin died and, well …” he stopped, caught his breath. “I’m … kind of confused, Dad,” Bruce said. “I mean, I can’t remember why I’m here.”
Was that a twitch he’d seen behind his father’s expression of concern? “We’ll discuss it in the morning, I promise.”
“No. I want to talk about it now.”
His father sighed. Under the harsh illumination of the hall light, he suddenly looked much older than his sixty-seven years. The impression Bruce got was of a very tired, stressed-out old man. It was a frightening vision, not how he saw his father, and Bruce averted his eyes rather than see him like this.
“You’re right,” Bruce said. “It can wait. I’m sorry I woke you.” He turned to head back to his room and then turned back to his father. He kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Dad. And Mom.” Bruce smiled. “I’m glad I didn’t wake her. She always could sleep through anything—even your snoring.”
His father’s smile seemed forced. Bruce went back to bed, somehow setting aside a million questions, and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
The smell of coffee acted as a natural alarm clock. Bruce opened his eyes to the sunlit view of his bedroom, and smiled. He had so many great memories of this room, from the hours spent reading comics on this very bed to the first time he’d brought a date up here while his parents were out, and made it to second base. Debbie Whitehead—where was she now?
Bruce jumped out of bed, relieved himself in the bathroom, showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He felt much better this morning, last night’s dream already fading into the quicksand where all dreams quickly retreat during daylight hours.
But what am I doing home?
He bounded downstairs in a bathrobe his Dad must have supplied. “Mom?” Bruce asked, expecting to see Muriel making coffee and eggs for both of “her boys,” as she’d always called Bruce and Howard. But he was greeted instead by his father, the morning light making little difference to his haggard appearance. He really had gone downhill since the last time Bruce had been home. But when was that?
“Coffee?”
“You bet.” He took the mug gratefully, added cream and sugar, and sat down to a stack of pancakes large enough to choke a horse. In other words, his dad’s usual portion.
“Mom up yet?”
Howard hesitated a moment. “She’s at her sister’s. Betsy had a stroke a few weeks ago and Muriel’s been looking after her. Remember?”
“As a matter of fact, no. Maybe I’m having a weird hangover or something, but honest, I really can’t remember much of anything, Dad. Is that why I came home? Because of Betsy’s stroke? To help you guys out?”
His father joined him at the table. Bruce noticed Howard’s stack of pancakes was half the size of the one he’d made for his son.
“Watching your weight, Dad? Forgive me for saying this, but it looks like you could use a pound or two right now. Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine, Bruce,” he said, putting a slightly shaking hand over his son’s. The body contact was somehow more meaningful than usual to Bruce, who clasped his other hand over his father’s for a moment. They both sat silently, enjoying the unspoken father-son bond.
“So Dad, what can you tell me? I mean, I love being here, but I have obligations to work, and my family, and …”
“Bruce, I’ve asked Dr. Broughton to join us this morning—he’ll be here in about an hour. Maybe he can help answer your questions.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Dr. Broughton? Isn’t that the shrink who put Mom on Prozac a few years ago? What does he have to do with this?” Suddenly, Bruce brought his hand down hard on the table. The pancakes jumped. “Dammit, Dad, what is going on? Why am I here?”
He saw his father’s face register what could only be called fear, and it chilled his spine. Now he too was getting scared. “Is it … is it Hope? Or Franklin?” He grabbed at his father’s flannel pajama shirt. “Tell me they’re okay. Tell me the dream was just a nightmare. Please, Dad, tell me!”
His father was silent.
Bruce’s eyes drifted to the wall clock. “It’s only 6:15 in California. I swear I’ll wake them up and get to the bottom of this if you don’t tell me what’s going on right now.”
His father shook his head. “The doctor asked that we wait for his arrival. We’ve been waiting for this day, and he said he wanted to be here.”
“What do you mean, you’ve been waiting?” Bruce arose, slamming the chair against the back wall, and picked up the portable phone next to the dish washer. He angrily punched in the number of his home in California. “Well, I’m not waiting for Dr. Broughton, or you, or anyone else.” He heard the connection being made and then the phone ringing on the other end of the receiver.
“Hello?” It was a male voice. Bruce felt his bowels quiver. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Who the hell is this?” An angry male voice, one Bruce couldn’t place.
“I’m looking for Hope Goldstone.”
“You got the wrong number buddy, and it’s six-fifteen in the morning.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m calling long distance.” He recounted the number he’d just dialed.
“That’s me, and there ain’t no Hope Goldstone here. Now let me get some sleep, will ya?” He hung up.
“What the hell is going on?” He felt reality slipping away from him. “Dad, please!”
His father looked at his son and bit his lip, then nodded. “All right, I’m going to say something you’re not going to like and you may not comprehend. It’s going to make you angry and upset and hopefully by that time the doctor will be here to help you—to help us.”
Bruce sat down opposite his father. Setting aside his hardly-touched pancake stack, Howard took his son’s hands in his own. Both of them were shaking, and in other circumstances, they both might have laughed, but now, there were tears in both their eyes as Howard began. “You see, Bruce, you got a wrong number in California because you never lived in California.”
“What? Are you fucking nuts? I’ve lived there for twenty years now …”
“Please, don’t interrupt. You told me to explain everything. Now give me the chance.” He took a deep breath and continued. “The truth is, you’ve never moved out of our house.”
“That’s impossible,” Bruce yelled, disengaging his hands from his father’s. “I work at R & R, my son goes to school in Manhattan Beach, my wife works in Hollywood …” he st
opped midsentence because his father was shaking his head.
“You never married. There is no Hope, and there is no Franklin. They’re just figments of your imagination.”
“No!” Bruce stood up again, ran back to the phone, angrily punching in the phone number for R & R. The phone rang 15 times before he hung up. “Fuck. It’s still too early. No one’s there yet. I’ll call back.” He turned back to his father. “Why are you doing this to me, Dad? Why are you lying?”
“I’m not. I told you we should have waited.”
Bruce shook his head. “Goddammit, I can tell you what songs we listened to while my wife was in labor, I can tell you how my son’s hair smells after a shower. I can tell you how much money I made in the last five years. I can tell you what comic books I bought last week and where I bought them.
“I have twenty years of California memories inside my head; they can’t all be dreams and … wishful thinking. They can’t.” He stalked around the kitchen, his mind reeling.
“Bruce, you had a nervous breakdown a month ago. We’ve been taking you to Dr. Broughton, and he warned us something like last night would happen. The nightmares, the fantasies …”
“No.” It was unbelievably terrifying. His own father was telling him that most of his memories were lies, the tricks of a diseased mind. It was beyond comprehension. He looked at his father, eyes seething with hatred. “I want to see Mom. I want to hear what she has to say. You’re lying to me. I don’t know why, but Mom won’t lie. I’m calling Betsy’s house.” He stood up.
“Don’t bother—Mom’s on her way home. I called her last night, after you went back to bed. She’ll be here by the time the doctor arrives.”
Bruce felt his world slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. He couldn’t stop the tears, which came in a flood. Oh my God—no Hope, no Franklin, no life. Had he really spent the last twenty years of his life here, at home, a failure who finally cracked from the weight of his own unfulfilled dreams? It was too heavy a burden to live with. He wanted to die.
His father’s hands touched his shoulders and he twitched them away. “Get away. I want Mom. She’ll tell the truth.”
He walked away from his father, out of the kitchen, barely registering that he was in his childhood home again. He went to the front window of the den, decorated in early American as it always had been. Through watery eyes, he gazed out the window, hoping to see a palm tree, or better still, his son’s skateboard in the front yard, or Hope’s Mercury Capri coming into the driveway.
A car was approaching—it was his mother’s Ford Escort. He strained to see her behind the wheel but his vision was too blurry. Furiously, he wiped at his eyes, but the car was already entering the garage.
Bruce ran to the house’s side door and opened it as his mother’s familiar shape emerged from her car. Behind him, he heard his father approaching. Crying uncontrollably now, Bruce ran to his mother. “Mom!” he cried as he emBruced her, smelling her perfume. It was a familiar fragrance, but not his mother’s. It was her sister Betsy’s favorite perfume.
Bruce stood back to give his mother a kiss and felt his world shatter as he stared into Betsy’s eyes.
“Mom?” He asked. Betsy tried to hug him but he pulled away from her. “You’re not my mother,” he screamed angrily. “My mother is … my mother is …
“Dead. My mother is dead. Oh my God, Mom is dead.” And he fainted.
And dreamed.
He was standing next to his father at his mother’s bedside. Her face was frighteningly thin, her eyes closed, her breath shallow. Howard used a wash cloth to wipe the sweat from her fevered brow. Tears flowed freely from his face as he did his task slowly, lovingly.
Bruce kneeled at his mother’s side and whispered, “It’s okay, Mom, I’ll be fine, and I promise to take care of Dad for you. We’ll be okay. It’s okay for you to let go, to drop your body.” He squeezed her hand but felt no reassuring returned pressure. He wondered whether her spirit had already left her comatose body. In case it had not, he continued to encourage her.
“Head for the light, Mom. I know you can see it. Head for the light, and freedom, and peace. And God.”
And almost instantaneously, her hand twitched in his as her body let go of its lifeforce and she died.
Bruce awoke to see Dr. Broughton’s face above his own. “How are you?” the doctor asked softly.
Bruce sat up, looked around him. Hope and Franklin came from behind the doctor, rushing forward to hug and kiss Bruce. He grabbed them both and cried into their hair as he remembered:
* * *
His mother had endured open heart surgery following a heart attack two years ago, and the blood she was given during the operation had turned out to be tainted with the AIDS virus. It had taken two painful years for her to succumb. In that time, Bruce had all but moved back to his parents’ home to take care of her and her husband, Howard. Bruce reclaimed his old room and did his telephone-oriented sales job from their home. The last thing he remembered was her deathbed scene … until last night’s dream.
He disengaged slowly from his family’s emBruce and faced the doctor. Broughton nodded and said, “I understand—you want answers, you deserve them, and thank God, I believe you are ready for them. When your mother died, you were certain her death was somehow your fault. You suffered a nervous breakdown. It happens more often than you’d think, but in your case, it resulted in such a strong mental denial of your mother’s death that you lost your grip on reality.”
Suddenly dizzy, Bruce needed to sit down. He fell onto a couch, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing against him, as well as the reclaimed memory that what Broughton was saying was indeed true.
“Medications and counseling did not help. You turned more and more inward, till you refused to eat or take care of yourself. You renounced your life since leaving home twenty years ago, claiming it never happened, perhaps feeling you could have somehow saved your mother had you never left her. Maybe you felt you could bring your mother back to life by killing the life you had created for yourself.
“You wouldn’t see or talk to Hope or Franklin, wouldn’t even acknowledge their existence. You built a fantasy that your mom was just away, caring for her sister—who is fine, by the way.”
Betsy squeezed Bruce’s shoulder in support. The doctor continued, “usually, in cases this severe, patients are sent to a hospital where they can be cared for, and given electroshock therapy to jog their memories. It was seen as a last resort way for you to face your mother’s death and get on with your own life. But your father felt it was too risky, and wouldn’t allow it.”
Bruce turned to his father, who was wiping tears from his eyes. Bruce motioned for him to join him on the couch, where he could hold his hands. Neither person’s hands were shaking anymore.
Broughton continued, “He forced me instead to think in non-traditional ways. After much discussion, we decided to try an experiment based on some reading I’d been doing. Basically, we hoped that by making a lie of your real life, your mind would disengage from the false one it had created and shock you back into reality.
“After your nightmare this morning, your father called to tell me about your dream, which I took as a sign that your mind’s defenses were cracking. That’s when we decided to try the plan. A friend of your wife’s has been house-sitting while your family was back here, and he agreed to play-act when you called. I had a similar contingency plan if you had called work. And Betsy agreed to the impersonation of your mother. Beyond that?” He shrugged. “We hoped and prayed it wouldn’t go beyond that.”
The room was silent for a minute, while the weight of the information slowly sank into Bruce. Finally, his father asked, “Do you forgive me?”
Bruce hugged Howard and they sobbed into each others’ shoulders, a long, cleansing cry. Finally, Bruce choked, “I love you Dad. And thank you, thank you all, for your courage, for your love.”
He turned to his wife and son. Hope smiled sweetly and said, �
�welcome home again.”
Sewercide
Rex Miller
There was always sound, even in this silent place, echoes that drifted down into hell from far above, the sewer thrum, distant machine hum, a vague gaseous hiss; these faraway sounds only a suggestion of humanity’s existence. She waited, terrorized beyond the edge of sanity, a huddled, naked form chained to something she could not see.
She could see a few yards around her, looming rock canyon walls and enormous masses of black shadow that flickered like ghost images in the dancing flames of the small fire beside her. What she could see and hear was the world for her now. Nothing else mattered.
Here in the deep blackness of hell she lived—or died—at the whims of the king of Hades. Here she was fed and watered, tethered to the great chain, performed her bodily functions without embarrassment now, slept … waited to be used. The waiting was of course the worst, and it was what brought the madness. Not the deeds themselves—the waiting!
She sensed him and shivered under the rough blanket. Her sense of smell was now gone—the stench never left her nose and it was overpowering beyond anything humans ever experience. For the first days and nights she was constantly ill from the stink, but eventually her olfactory senses became numb and she was able to keep food down. Now she smelt nothing. Not even the foulness of her own defecation and the rotting odors of her prison. Nor could she see him moving silently, gliding through the deep shadows, and he was stealth itself in spite of his gigantic size so there was no noise. She sensed his presence.
She tried to free her mind from what was coming for her, to block it somehow, to remember her identity, her family, who she was, that others would be searching for her. Her name was Lori. Her husband—God! so unreal now—his name was Tom and he was a million miles away—up there up above her somewhere, beyond the borders of her reality. Two children. Gena and Tommy. Tears welled up and overflowed, streaking the grease and filth of her face. She sniffed and spat into the darkness and he came into the illumination of the fire, materializing out of the inkiness, the king of hell!
