The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  He lies next to me and whispers, “I love you.” The words resound.

  * * *

  The first thing I see is blood. He died in his sleep. I pull the comforter up over him and snuggle next to it. Against the cold damp of what was once his life, his fire. I put my arm around his body and sob until I have nothing left. Then it occurs to me…Patrick! I leap out of bed, throw open the double doors, and run to his room. I run faster and faster, until I’m out of breath, but I’m still so far away. Damn this big house! Damn everything! My toenail catches the carpet. The pain reels me back. My elbow bashes the wall, just before my head hits the floor. Eventually, the stars dwindle out of sight, and my bloody toenail comes into focus right before my eyes. It’s being held up in a stray loop of carpet. The bright pink polish makes it look horribly unnatural.

  I get up and run again, coming to a dead stop outside his door. I’m having déjà vu. There was something important I was supposed to remember…I can’t. Never mind. I turn the handle and push the door open. Between his bed and me, is a large standing pool of blood. I lean against the doorway watching crimson drip from the corner of his comforter down to the ivory Berber. Every muted drop is a hammer striking my skull. I fall to my knees then pass out.

  Days have gone by, I think, when I get up again and leave, closing his door behind me. More days pass, maybe weeks. It isn’t until my discovery of the shopping cart that I realize what it is I must do.

  A wall of white storage cabinets line the back of the garage. Jon’s toolboxes are to the left. Since it happened, I’ve had the doors open, pulling out boxes and junk in order to find the right tools. To my surprise, there was a big axe hidden behind the plastic bins of Christmas decorations. Why the hell did Jon need an axe? It doesn’t matter now. His naked body is laid out at the bottom of our driveway. My arm muscles are still quivering from dragging him down.

  Determined as ever not to be taken aback, I step into the garage and put on the welding goggles I found. They’re so old, the plastic has yellowed and the lenses are scratched, but that’s a good thing. They fog my visual clarity. The welding gloves were underneath them. They’re a bit clunky, but they go up past my elbows. I pull open the bottom drawer of Jon’s toolbox. Inside is a hacksaw on top of a bunch of other junk. I turn my head and look at his body. He’s going to be the first—because I know he would forgive me. A deep breath in, I grab the saw then head down the driveway. I’m going to cut him in half. It will be easier to put him into the shopping cart if he is in two pieces.

  I kneel down and try to ignore things like the mole on his hip I used to kiss. After a minute or two, I bring the saw down over his abdomen. Another deep breath, and then I rock the blade back and forth through him. Within seconds my hands are covered with nasty goo. Not quite blood, not quite flesh, but definitely lots of foul shit. The saw has disappeared into the gaping cavity of mush. Crawling to the side of driveway, I lean my head over a dead shrub and throw up my soul. It was all I had left. When I’m done, I get up and hobble over to my neighbor’s backyard and jump in his pool.

  I should have known better, should have thought it through. I will not make that mistake again. When I’m completely waterlogged and starting to sink, I head home to change my clothes, ignoring Jon’s body on the curb.

  His old anatomy books from medical school line the top of the bookshelves. Standing like a ballerina on my tiptoes, I reach up and pull one down. This idea should have come to me sooner, but the thought never occurred to me that there could be a wrong way to cut up a body. I take my time and study the pictures, read the pages and learn how to surgically dismember. The worst place to start was where I did—go figure. On my way back out to the garage I notice an apron hanging up in the pantry. I pull it over my head and tie it in the front.

  From the kitchen I gather my sharpest German knives. In the garage I grab a hammer, a chisel and the axe. Before getting started again I take out another one of those garbage bags and a roll of packing tape. I have to keep Jon’s body together while I hack off his arms and legs.

  The next door neighbors on the right are the last two. I began with Jon, then Patrick, and worked my way around the cul-de-sac starting with my neighbor on the left. When I’m done, I wheel them down to Bishop Almeida High School and stack the pieces into a pyre.

  The entire mound ignites into a roaring fire. I push the cart and jump out of the way. Flat on my back, looking up at the sky, I watch endless swirls of black smoke rise and curl upwards. Something’s not right. I hear more than the usual crackling and popping of a fire. It sounds like low moans. I sit up and look at the bodies. They are writhing. My God, I’m burning them alive! I run over to the mound. “Help us.” They moan. “Please!” Their screams intensify with the fire. I step closer, but the flames are too hot. They lash out and scorch the hair on my arms. Helpless, I stand back and watch their faces bubble and peel. Their loud squawks gradually lull to murmurs. Down at the bottom of the pile, a charred hand covered with open blisters stretches out. The fingers spread apart momentarily then close. The hand falls back to the ground. Jon’s wedding ring glistens in the fire light. I reach down to touch it.

  * * *

  I reach up to darkness.

  Jon lies next to me. His body’s outline glows soft shades of gray. I watch his shoulder rise and fall with the rhythmic pattern of his breathing. Tears roll across my temples, down into my hair. Three months and the nightmares remained the same—until now.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I’m not sure how I should feel about last night’s dream changes. Could be my mind subliminally acting out a form of anxiety toward the psych appointments. I don’t want to go there thinking things might be getting worse. I’m seeing a shrink now—they can only get better.

  Jon comes into the bedroom with a cup of coffee. He has a look on his face. I think he’s surprised to see me still lying in bed. Sleeping in is not something I normally do. I’m usually up, dressed, and ready to go by the time he comes back with my morning coffee. He walks over, sets the cup on my nightstand, then sits down on the edge of the mattress.

  “How’d you sleep?” he says.

  “Good. How about you?”

  “Not bad. Hey, I think the muscle relaxer before bed is a good idea.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  “You didn’t have a nightmare, and you said you slept well.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “See.” He smiles, leans over, and kisses my forehead. “Have a good day. I’ll see you later.” He gets up and walks away, then stops at the doorway. “Oh, almost forgot. Can you get our clothes from the dry cleaners?”

  “Why? Got a hot date tonight?”

  “I hope so. Red Rock Hospital’s cocktail mixer…I want to wear my blue pinstripe.”

  “Crap, I totally forgot.”

  “We have to go.”

  “I know.”

  “So don’t forget the dry cleaners. I want to look hot for my date.” He winks then leaves.

  Great, I have to be sick this morning but good enough to attend a cocktail party this evening. If I don’t let Cally know, she will stalk me all day to find out why I missed yoga. It’s still early, I’ll text her. Texting is a revolutionary invention for crappy liars like me.

  One hand wrapped around a coffee cup, while the other fumbles with the cell phone—I’m such a multitasker these days. “Stomach cramps. Skipping yoga.”

  I get out of bed then get dressed. Cally texts back. “Heal. I’ll call later.”

  I better have a damn good excuse by the time she calls.

  When I get downstairs, Patrick is eating cereal from one of my huge pasta bowls.

  “No gym today?”

  “Not today. My stomach hurts.”

  “Oh.” He picks the bowl up and slurps the milk.

  “Do you have to do that so loud? It’s really disgusting.”

  “In some countries, it lets the cook know you liked the meal.”

  “Here, it signifies that you’re a pig.
”

  He snorts into his bowl then laughs.

  “That’s enough, piggy. Let’s go.”

  I grab my purse and keys then head out to the garage. After starting the car—while I’m waiting for the garage to open—a sudden urge comes over me. I get out and walk over to the storage cabinets.

  “Mom, what’re you doing? We’re gonna be late.”

  “Just give me a sec.”

  I open the middle section of cabinets where the holiday stuff is stored. Neatly stacked red and green plastic bins tower up to the ceiling. I reach my hands in and slide them all forward. Low and behold, there’s an axe handle propped up against the back wall. I turn the bins to see the red and silver blade.

  Transfixed, I forget Patrick waiting in the car and yell at the top of my lungs. “Why is this axe here?” The shouting, the axe, and the top-heavy bins—I lose my grip and stumble. Then bin after bin slides off the next, crashing to the cement garage floor. Some of the lids pop open, releasing holiday ceramics and glass ornaments. The collectibles shatter across Jon’s empty parking space. All I can do is stand and stare at the axe.

  “Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

  His profanity snaps me back. “Watch your mouth, Patrick Troy. He’ll get over it…eventually.”

  I’m able to steady the last few bins and slide them back into the cabinet. I tiptoe through the broken shards, then get into the car again and pull down the driveway.

  “Dad uses it to cut the Christmas trees down at one of those do-it-yourself farms.”

  “What?”

  “The axe. You asked why it was there. Aren’t you listening?”

  “Yeah. I’m listening. What about the axe?”

  “Geez, Mom. Really? Dad got that axe when I was like, ten. He hid it so you wouldn’t freak. Guess that didn’t work out.” Patrick chuckles to himself but loud enough for me to hear.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll clean it up later. It’s not a big deal.”

  “How’d you know it was there anyway?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Drop off couldn’t happen soon enough, and today, I need some drive-thru coffee. When I get home, I open Jon’s garage, then get to work cleaning up the mess. It’s not too bad, but one of the ornaments Patrick made me in Kindergarten broke. I put the pieces in a cup then stick it back into the bin. I’ll have time to glue it together over Christmas break. It was stupid of me to react the way I did in front of Patrick. The mom stigma is bad enough. Psycho mom would push him away forever.

  The garage is spotless, cleaner than it was before. Amazing, the energy in a cup of coffee. All that work and I’m still raring to see Dr. Light. I wonder what he’ll say about the new nightmare ending. It must mean something. All this time trying to figure out what my dreams are telling me but really more worried what they’re saying about me. The recent episodes of déjà vu, they must mean something, too. It seems impossible for a normal person to become all kinds of crazy at once. There’s no history of mental illness in my family. If Dr. Light can’t help, I’m not sure what’s next.

  On the way to his office, I mull over what it is I want to discuss. If I can get everything out into the open, he will be better equipped to help. Then, as if I hadn’t been driving at all, I’m suddenly parked in front of Dr. Light’s dismal building. Maybe I drive better when I’m not focused. I didn’t even have to use the car’s navigation system this time.

  It’s hazy outside today, and the sun isn’t glaring off the marble floors. Stooping over just a bit, I take a better look. I’ve never seen this type of marble before. I wonder what it is. There aren’t any seams either, no grout lines. It’s impossible. No builder in his right mind would do marble slab floors. I walk around in circles looking for something—anything. Not only are they the cleanest floors I have ever seen, they are the most perfect. Even hand painting is out of the question. Michelangelo himself couldn’t paint a floor like this without leaving some kind of evidence. On the surface, there appears to be a texture that looks like aged, tissue paper skin. Underneath, visible layers of rust-colored veins branch throughout. Glittery gold veins run in conjunction with the rust ones. The sparkles make them appear to be flowing. It’s quite fascinating, beautiful.

  One of the larger veins leads directly to Dr. Light’s office. Just outside the door, I pause and wait for another attack with the painful sound and bloody nose, like I had the other day. Nothing happens, so I pull the lever down and enter.

  He is standing in the doorway.

  “Dr. Light,” I gasp. “You scared me.” I put my hand over my chest.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I heard you in the hallway.”

  “Wow, you have good ears. I was outside, but…”

  “Why did you do that?” he says.

  “Do what?”

  “Put your hand there,” he points to my chest.

  “Oh, that. To check my heart—make sure it was still beating.”

  “Interesting,” he says.

  “You’ve never seen anyone do that before?”

  “No.”

  “Now, that’s interesting.”

  “We should begin.” Dr. Light turns and walks toward his office.

  Strange, but I can’t let him throw off my agenda. As soon as he opens the door I step in, walk straight to the couch, then lie down. He closes the door, grabs a notepad from his desk, then takes a seat beside me.

  “You seem anxious this morning. How was your night?” he says.

  “Not so good.”

  “What happened?”

  “The end of the nightmare changed.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “The nightmare has always ended with me setting everyone on fire. But last night, they all came back to life. They were burning alive and screaming for help. It was awful. Do you think it could be a side effect of the muscle relaxer?”

  “No. Did you do the relaxation exercises I prescribed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you visualize a part of your nightmare and change the outcome?”

  “Yes. I did everything you told me to.”

  He scribbles on his notepad, but I don’t think he’s taking notes. I turn my head and look at him. He raises his eyes like he knows I want to examine his face. His skin is pale, nearly diaphanous, reminding me of the marble floors. It’s smooth, too, unblemished. His eyes are so dark, they’re one solid color. The pupils melt into the irises. This makes them look enormous, unnatural. They are set far apart and have an elliptical shape, or maybe they just look that way because his head is so big.

  The more I stare, the more it makes my skin crawl. He smiles as if he’s finished examining me the way I examined him.

  “What frightens you the most about your nightmares?”

  “That I’m alone.”

  “There’s another exercise I’d like you to try called dream scripting.”

  I raise a brow.

  “It’s exactly how it sounds,” he says. “We’re going to try and eliminate your biggest fear by visually scripting something into your nightmare that might change it up again. Give you more control. Even though you were frightened by the change that took place last night, it was still a change, and that’s something we can focus on. The slightest modification can lead to bigger and better ones as therapy progresses. Close your eyes, relax. Take a deep breath then release it slowly.” His voice is melodious, soothing. “You fear being alone, so think of something or someone you can add into a scene. Keep it simple, a pet perhaps or a neutral acquaintance.”

  For some inexplicable, odd reason, Dr. Light is the first person that comes to mind. “Okay.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, choose a scene that terrifies you most.”

  That’s easy. I nod my head.

  “Somewhere in this scene you’re going to add the change. Describe what happens.”

  “I jump out of bed, run to my son’s room and find him dead.”

  “Start over, and slow it down.
”

  “I jump out of bed and throw open my bedroom doors.”

  “Good. Now stop right there. When you throw open your bedroom doors, what do you see?”

  “The long hallway.”

  “Before you take another step, add your selection here. Visualize the person or thing in front of you, blocking the path to your son’s room.”

  I do it. I open the doors and see Dr. Light standing there at the doorway, just like he was today. Waiting for me, wanting to help. I try to push him aside, but he puts his arms around me.

  “Are you able to do it?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “This just might work.” He’s a little strange I guess, but everything he is saying sounds right, and it’s not my place to judge considering what I’m about to tell him regarding myself.

  “I think it will, but there’s something else I’d like you to consider.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re the perfect candidate for hypnotherapy.”

  “Hypnosis? I don’t know…”

  “It’s quite safe and would help open your mind. I’m very good at it.”

  “You would do it? Hmm…let me think about it, but while we’re on the subject of other things. There’s more going on I’d like to tell you about.”

  “Please.”

  “Do you believe in déjà vu?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Well lately, I’ve been having these realistic instances occur in the middle of the day. Not too long ago, I was taking a nap, and I dreamt I was a child in a foreign country sometime in the past. When I woke up, I could still hear children laughing. I followed their laughter upstairs and was sure I heard it clearly through the office door, but when I opened it, no one was there. Then the other day, I was at lunch with a friend, and it happened again, except this time, I was wide awake. Everything around me had changed to a setting from Victorian England.”