Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  I’m tired and still reeling over my actions last night. Today is not the day I want to play hypothetical conspiracy games with Zed. I’m already thinking about swinging by the liquor store on my way home, buying margarita fixings, and spending the evening watching 10 Things I Hate About You while I wallow in my feelings.

  “You’re not even listening anymore.” Zed taps a pen on the desk.

  I yawn and try to cover it in my elbow. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. Can you repeat it?”

  “Never mind.” He dismisses me by picking up the bag with his lunch. “Just don’t accept the explanation SFT or the local government feeds everyone via the media.”

  “Got it. Trust no one and nothing.” I push myself out of the chair. “Got a new box for me today?”

  “Found some files about abductions in the late nineties. Mostly in the Tennessee and Ohio areas, but there might be something in there of interest to you.”

  My tiredness fades and is replaced with interest. “Thanks, Zed. Much better than another hole in the ground story.”

  His mouth full of turkey, he mumbles, “Eh, you never know how the two could be related.”

  Inside of the tiny closet of a room, I open the top of the banker’s box and quickly flip through the articles.

  An hour later, my back aches and my neck is stiff from being bent over the table, sorting and scanning clippings, journal pages, and photos.

  Rolling my head in a circle, I press my palms against my lower back to stretch out sore muscles.

  A masculine voice carries from Zed’s office. Turning off the hum of the scanner, I still my breathing to hear better. We never have visitors, so whoever is out there must be another member of Zed’s group. I’ve never met anyone else. My curiosity is off the charts.

  Still listening, but unable to understand what’s being said, I creep closer to the door.

  Zed’s visitor isn’t another person but an old transistor radio sitting on his desk. Tuned to the local talk radio station, a man’s voice fills the office with an update on the sinkhole.

  Disappointed, but still curious, I step into the hall.

  Zed spots me and turns a dial to lower the volume.

  “Radios are okay?” I ask, a snarky edge to my voice.

  “Passive listening. No one is tracking if I’m receiving radio waves.”

  All I can think of is the old images of men wearing tinfoil hats to protect themselves from transmissions. “What’s the media saying about the hole?”

  “Listen for yourself.” He turns the volume back up.

  A male voice is speaking about cooperating with local authorities and the EPA.

  Zed interrupts, “Feds are involved already. Don’t you think that’s interesting? Why should the government care about a hole on private land in the middle of the desert?”

  The announcer continues speaking, but it’s difficult to hear under Zed’s ramblings.

  “Shh,” I hush him.

  “Thank you,” the voice says.

  “Did you shush me?” Zed interrupts.

  “ . . . Spokesperson for the Santos Family Trust, owners of the land where the sinkhole appeared earlier this morning.”

  “I can’t believe I’m being told to be quiet in my own office,” Zed continues speaking while I flap my hands at him to shut up.

  “What did he say?” I ask, wishing radio had a rewind button like online clips.

  “Blah, blah, blah, nothing to see here. I think that summarizes everything.” Zed’s cranky now.

  “No, the Santos part.” It’s not that unusual a name, but what are the odds?

  “SFT is the Santos Family Trust. They own a ton of acreage around Roswell. Couple hundred thousand acres. Most of it’s leased out to the oil companies, cattle ranchers, or big agro.”

  Something clicks into place. “And the name of the company spokesperson?”

  Zed studies me for a moment. “The great-grandson. Boone.”

  “EVERYTHING OKAY, HUN? Something wrong with the pancakes?” The older waitress in a neat vintage, uniform dress and apron hovers over my table, one hand holding a coffee pot. Her short, gray hair is neatly curled and tidy.

  “No, they’re delicious.” The words come out all watery as more tears fall.

  “If it’s man trouble, he’s not worth it. They never are. Trust me. I’ve had five husbands and not one of them was worth the salt I lost crying.” She moves the napkin dispenser closer within reach. “Let me bring you some pie.”

  With a pat to my shoulder, she moves away. I glance down at the half eaten plate of pecan pancakes. They’re amazing, but the worst choice I could’ve made. I’m not sure pie can help at this point. I’m too miserable.

  Sun splashes off the windshields of the cars parked in front of this little diner in the mountain town of Capitan. Only I would go to a diner to escape my life. Different diner, same problems.

  A slice of blueberry pie with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side is slid in front of me.

  “Thanks, but—” I start to decline her sweet gesture.

  “On the house,” the waitress waves me off. “Trust me. It’ll help.”

  Pitifully sniffing, I dab my eyes with a fresh napkin. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” She squeezes my shoulder before moving to the next table.

  Purple juice from the warm pie mixes with the melting ice cream on the plate. Maybe one bite, I tell myself.

  I’m going to need my strength when I drive back to Roswell this afternoon.

  Boone’s not some random oil field worker who plays in a band.

  After Zed told me about Boone’s role as family spokesperson, he spilled the whole story about the Santos family. The patriarch showed up in Roswell in the early 1940s and bought several small plots in the area from struggling ranchers. A year later oil was discovered on his property south toward Artesia. Family’s fortunes grew as they amassed more and more acreage.

  Excited to share local gossip, Zed started pulling out maps and land charts, but I’d heard enough.

  I know I’m being a hypocrite about Boone’s family. He never lied to me about who he was. Just like I’ve never lied to him about why I’m in Roswell.

  We just omitted some of the important stuff.

  Leaving the Center last week, I went straight home and packed a bag. I asked Tony for some days off and Wanda found a cousin or a niece to cover my shifts.

  Then I took off, no destination in mind.

  When I hit Santa Fe, I found a little motel with a vacancy on the edge of town. I thought about driving through the night to Colorado or Arizona. Instead, I cried in the bathtub. Fully clothed and sitting in a tub without water in it seemed the right place for a sob fest.

  I turned off my phone and locked it in the glove box in my car.

  Strolling through Santa Fe’s historic downtown didn’t help ease the ache in my heart.

  Ropes of red chiles hanging everywhere made me cry.

  Corned beef hash advertised on a sandwich board outside a café sent more tears spilling down my face.

  Not even seeing the famous floating staircase that might’ve been built by a mysterious alien carpenter could cheer me up.

  Now blueberries reminds me of the pancakes Boone ate after our first official date and the first time we had sex. Made love. Because as much as I don’t want to fall in love with Boone, I’m on the rollercoaster.

  This blueberry pie is delicious, but it doesn’t change the painful fact I did the right thing in ending it with Boone.

  He’s an heir to millions.

  I’m a penniless orphan with an alien obsession.

  We’re not meant to be together.

  “Where’ve you been?” Zed closes a file folder and tucks it under a stack of papers when I enter the office. “Thought you’d left town.”

  “I missed a couple of days.” I tip my head to one side, attempting to read some of the papers on his desk upside down.

  “It’s been over a wee
k.” He leans an arm on the stack closest to me. “Not to mention all the time you took off earlier in the month.”

  “Do you have an absence policy I missed in the employee handbook? Oh wait, I’m a volunteer.”

  “Handbook? You’re kidding, right? Imagine if that got into the wrong hands.” He’s completely serious. And seriously paranoid.

  “Well, I’m here now. Brought you lunch even.” I hold up the plastic bag. “Turkey club and an extra scoop of fries.”

  Honestly, I thought the extra fries would smooth over the fact I skipped my shifts here. Apparently, Zed’s forgiveness cannot be bought with food.

  “In your messages you said you were doing some sightseeing.”

  “I wasn’t sure you got the texts.”

  “My cell phones all have texting capacity.” He crosses his arms and glares at me.

  “I’m not judging your revolving collection of flip phones from Walmart. You never responded, so I wasn’t sure if I had your current phone numbers.”

  “Is that sarcasm I detect?” He unknots the top of his white, plastic lunch bag.

  “No, why would I be using sarcasm right now?” I lay it on thick.

  “Are you going to be taking more vacations or can I rely on you to show up for your commitments? I’m beginning to think you’re not a true believer.” The styrofoam squeaks when he opens the box.

  Standing to the side of his desk, feeling like a scolded child who didn’t do her homework, I stare at him while he squeezes a packet of ketchup all over the top of his fries. Who does that? A monster that’s who. Everyone knows you make a puddle of sauce and dip fries into it. Sticky red ketchup clings to his fingers now.

  “I think I’m done here.” I manage to keep the disgust out of my voice.

  “There’s a half dozen boxes waiting to be scanned. Better get to it or you’ll never catch up.” He doesn’t bother making eye contact while cramming fries into his mouth.

  I wait for him to notice I haven’t responded or moved before speaking again.

  Finally, he lifts his attention from his food and stares at me. “Yes?”

  “I meant, I think I’m quitting.”

  He swallows thickly a couple of times, then takes a long sip from his cup of pop. “You can’t quit.”

  “Or whatever you want to call it when a volunteer stops volunteering. I’m doing that.”

  “Why?” He finally, mercifully wipes his messy hands on a couple of thin paper napkins. The image reminds me of a murderer cleaning blood.

  And that’s when it hits me how foolish I’ve been coming here in secret. No one knows I’m here and the general population doesn’t even know the Center exists.

  I could be kidnapped and forced to join a cult, and no one would know.

  My eyes land on the large “I Believe” UFO poster on the far wall.

  It might be too late about the cult part.

  “You signed a non-disclosure agreement and a confidentiality contract, Lucy. I’m not going to beg you to stay, but you should know you can never tell anyone about knowing me or anything about what we do here at the Center.” He sips from his straw again. “Ever.”

  I imagine Zed and his messy desk and his stacks of banker boxes set up in an office off of the snack bar at Carlsbad Caverns. Going to bet cellular waves can’t penetrate almost eight hundred feet of limestone. I can’t think of a better location for the Center. And if anyone needs a secret underground lair, it’s Zed. Throw in a hairless cat and he’d be perfect.

  “No one will believe me. And if I tell them how I spent hours and days scanning old articles from tabloids, reading random strangers’ emails and journals, they’d think I was a nut job. And maybe I am.”

  “What about finding out the truth? What about finding out what happened to your father?”

  Low blow. He knows that’s the one reason I’m even here in New Mexico.

  “I’m not sure I’ll find answers in these boxes. Maybe there aren’t answers to some mysteries. Who built the pyramids? Aliens or some brilliant, hardworking Egyptians? Perhaps the moon is just a rock and not a secret mining site for intergalactic companies. Maybe the simplest answer is the truth and Occam’s Razor is true.

  “All I know is for the first time in years, I want to live my life without constantly thinking about aliens and abductions and the man who donated half of my DNA. I’m almost thirty and what do I have to show for all the time I’ve spent on this planet? What’s wrong with wanting to have some fun? Make friends. Be normal.” My chest heaves with emotion when I finish my impromptu monologue.

  Zed removes his glasses and then rubs his eyes. “Fine. Take a break. You’re not fired. When, I mean if, you want to come back and help out, you’ll be welcome.”

  “That’s it? You’re going to cave that easily?” My jaw drops open.

  “You made a good argument. I’m not some evil overlord who will force you to work for me with threats and coercion.” He gives me a weak smile and I’m reminded he could be handsome with a little sun and a haircut.

  Zed’s not evil. Just a little, okay, a lot, obsessive.

  “I’m still going to leave now. But I’ll keep in touch. Maybe come in once in a while and check in.”

  “You can still bring me lunch.” He lowers his glasses.

  “Deal.” I take a step backward.

  “And, Lucy?” He meets my eyes. “If I find anything directly related to your father, I’ll let you know.”

  Even though we’re leaving things on a positive note, I still get the feeling I’ve been used. My own obsession turned against me to help Zed find the truth he thinks is out there.

  It’s not him, it’s me.

  I’m changing and discovering new parts of myself, or rediscovering old parts.

  As I walk down the stairs, momentarily feeling free, I sense a strange suction of relief leaving my body like water disappearing off a beach right before a tsunami hits. In my case, a wall of grief slams into me when I open the door to the alley.

  I’m giving up on my dad. If I stop searching, I’m accepting he’s never coming back, gone forever.

  Like my mom and my grandparents.

  I’ve held out a sliver of cynical hope I could find him and not be alone.

  My knees almost buckle with the power of sorrow that slams into my chest, punching a hole through my ribs before squeezing my heart. Breathing becomes a challenge and dark shadows grow at the edge of my vision.

  I’ve never had a panic attack, but I’m either having my first one or dying.

  The latter seems most plausible.

  I can’t die in the back alley behind a UFO museum that also houses a secret research center.

  The headlines would be too absurd.

  Struggling to draw in enough air to keep from passing out, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other to get to my car. I can pass out in my car. I won’t face-plant or hit my head if I do.

  Step. Inhale.

  Step. Exhale.

  Step. Inhale.

  Step. Exhale.

  Almost to the sidewalk. I curse Zed for making me park a block away. I don’t even have my phone to call someone. Who would I call? Shari? She’d come get me. Boone? He’s probably down in the oil fields. By the time he’d get here, I’d be a headline in the local paper. Or maybe no one would notice my crumpled, barely sentient or lifeless form in the alley. At least not for hours. No one comes back here.

  I make it to the sidewalk and inhale a deeper breath. My right hand rests over my heart and I press it harder against the wild thumping.

  Tears skitter down my cheeks and drip off my jaw onto my arm. Focused on breathing and not dying, I didn’t realize when I started crying.

  With my head ducked, I weave between clumps of tourists. My sunglasses are on the seat next to my phone in the car. I swipe below my eyes, only half caring I must look like a crazy person.

  Another few yards and my car comes into view. I can make it. Hold it together, Lucy. A few more steps and I’m standin
g by the driver’s side, bobbling the keys out of thy pocket. It takes me two tries to click the right button on the fob. I accidentally hit the panic button, setting off the horn and lights. How ironic.

  A few heads turn toward the disruption before I can turn it off. If only there was a button to stop real panic.

  Finally inside, I slump down in my seat, letting the tears flow freely. A loud sob rips out of my mouth and I heave forward in pain. Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I let the wave of grief suck me into its undertow.

  I’m alone.

  My mother is dead.

  My father is gone.

  Neither are ever coming back.

  Parked cars are the perfect place to have an emotional breakdown. Like sturdy, nearly soundproof containers for emotions. Despite having large glass windows, people rarely bother looking inside of them as they walk down the street. I make this observation while resting my cheek on the steering wheel. The worst of my sob fest has left me exhausted and in dreamlike sleepy place. However, I’m numb and unmotivated to start the car to drive home. This is my life now and I’m okay with sitting here forever.

  Staring out the passenger side window, I watch people stroll down the sidewalk. Families with small children, sullen teenagers in alien T-shirts, men in cowboy hats, women in clusters, old people shuffling alone—an oddball parade passes by my window. None of them would ever notice if I disappeared. Their lives will continue on as happy or sad as they are.

  I need to go home.

  Soon.

  Turning the key, I scan through radio stations until I find something I don’t hate. I’m still scrolling when a car pulls alongside me and honks. A man makes a gesture for leaving. I wave him away while mouthing, “no.”

  I guess my car bubble isn’t as invisible as I’d thought.

  My phone plays the sci-fi music I set for text alerts.

  I flip it over and see a text from Shari. *This day sucks!!! Want to meet at Pete’s in 30?*

  Another text pops in the window as I read the first.

  *Just us. In case you were worried about seeing Boone*

  *Promise*

  *Please???*