In the House of Mirrors

by Tim Meyer

  My chest did something funny and the lights in the room dimmed.

  “What the fuck?” she screamed, as if I were the one caught getting my body rocked by a three-hundred pound gorilla.

  I took one step forward and realized there wasn't any strength left in my legs. I stumbled forward and headed for the carpet. I found a world of darkness before my body hit the floor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I say my heart stopped beating, I literally mean my heart stopped beating. I would have died, had it not been for Buster Gritton and his two large fists. Apparently (and I have no proof of this, only from what my cheating girlfriend told me) Buster jumped off of the bed as soon as I went down. Lynne was screaming, telling him to do something. He checked my pulse. There wasn't any, or if there was, he couldn't find it. Lynne dialed 911, screaming at the dispatcher to get their “asses down here,” or I was going to die. Little did they know, I did die. Or at least I think I did. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, only darkness, and no, my life did not flash before my eyes like some Hollywood montage.

  There was just darkness.

  Buster Gritton knew as much about the medical field as I know about quantum physics—jack shit. Buster had his fair share of injuries, in fact he missed most of last season with a torn pectoral, but he never learned anything from the trainers. He knew nothing about the heart and how to get it beating again, other than what he'd seen on television dramas. Seeing as my apartment didn't have a defibrillator in it, Buster went with the next best thing—his fists. Lucky for me, Buster was good at hitting things.

  Buster threw his ape-like fists against my chest, one after the other. Methodically, as if he knew what he was doing. He would aim for the center of my chest, while Lynne yelled at him to stop, in fear that he was going to crack a bone or something. He punched me several times before my heart started beating again.

  I awoke in a hospital bed several hours later, with bruises on my chest darker than the midnight sky, welts the size of grapefruits. But hey, at least I woke up.

  2

  Lynne told me I sat upright after the sixth or seventh blow. After that, I went out again. “It was freaky,” she said. I have no recollection of this. The last thing I remember was watching my girlfriend—whom I planned on spending the rest of my life with—being bent over a bed we shared for the better part of four years. She found my pulse after my resurrection. It was faint, but she found it. Shortly after, the paramedics arrived, giving me aspirin and a drug called Metatoporol used to regulate my heartbeat.

  “I guess you should thank, Buster,” Lynne actually had the balls to say to me, while I lay in a hospital bed, waiting for the doctors to inform me of my condition. Yes, thank him. I could just see what the thank-you card would say; Dear Buster Gritton, Thanks for sticking your dick in my future wife, and thanks for beating me back to life! Your biggest fan, Ritchie Naughton. It had a lovely ring to it.

  “Tell me that's the first time you cheated on me,” I said.

  She hung her head.

  “How many times?” I sighed.

  “A couple.”

  “Jesus Christ. How long?”

  “A few months.” She looked me in the eyes. Her own eyes welled. “Ritchie, I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Oh no? Well, you've done a real bang-up job. No pun intended,” I growled. We sat in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity. “How could you? I loved you, Lynne. I was the only one who cared about you. You even said so yourself.” It was true. Drug addicts often find ways to alienate themselves. Friends, even family, tend to abandon them. She was excommunicated from the Bradley family years ago. Her own mother wouldn't even speak to her anymore. I'm not exactly sure what Lynne did to warrant such a thing, because she'd change the subject anytime I brought it up.

  “I guess... I just got bored.” She shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “I just got bored of the same routines every day, that's all. We do the same things every night. Every weekend is the same fucking thing over and over again. I haven't been out with the girls in I don't know how long.” It had been six months since she had a girls-night out. I never told her she shouldn't attend one. I only suggested that it was a poor idea. Going to clubs and hanging out with certain individuals would only lead her back into the same patterns as before, and her likelihood of relapsing would be higher. “I just feel trapped. Bogged down. I miss being single. Being able to do what I want.”

  “Then why cheat?” I asked. “Why not break up with me, like a normal person.”

  “Because I still love you, baby,” she said, in that charming southern accent. “I couldn't break your heart.”

  I neglected to point out the irony. “So you were just waiting for me to catch you, is that it?”

  “I was going to end things eventually. I just needed more time. I knew it was going to be hard telling you the truth.” I wasn't sure she was ever going to tell me, but I told her I believed her. “And I had to be sure.”

  “About what?”

  “That you weren't the one for me.” She cried, maybe only the third time I've ever seen her do so. “And I'm sorry... you're... just not.”

  “Fine.” Even if she had begged to be forgiven, I wouldn't have. It was over. I knew that the second I walked in on them.

  “I'll always be thankful for what you did. You helped me stay clean. Haven't used, haven't even had a drink in almost two years.” She sniffled. “It's because of you I'm alive. And I'll never forget it.”

  “Good-bye, Lynne. Give that big oaf a hug for me.”

  Lynne Bradley stormed out of the room crying. I never heard from her again.

  3

  Hours passed before a doctor or nurse came into check on me. It was nearing nightfall. I'd already watched reruns of Jerry Springer and Maury, and I no longer cared who the father was. Minutes before the doctor entered to explain what had happened, I thought long and hard about where I'd been, and where I was going. I kept trying to think of reasons why I needed to stay in Georgia, but I couldn't. I had a job. But I could have a job anywhere. I was sure of that, despite the poor economy, the lack of well-paying jobs, and whatever else the media had harped on over the past decade. I had friends in Atlanta. Most of them, however, were shared with Lynne. They were replaceable. I had an apartment with two months left on the lease. I had at least that long to decide what to do.

  “Time for your pills,” a nurse said grimly, as she entered the room. She looked like she was in extra innings.

  After she left, the doctor came in a few minutes later. He stood at the foot of my bed, his clipboard tucked against his chest.

  “My name is Dr. Robertson,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I smiled, not knowing what else to do. “So, doc, how long do I have left?” It was a bad joke, one I'm sure he heard ten-billion times before. “I was just—”

  “Trying to be funny, I get it.” His stone face made me feel uncomfortable. “I'm glad to see you still have your sense of humor through this whole ordeal.”

  “What happened?” I asked him. “Did I have a heart attack?”

  He didn't answer me directly, a tactic I noticed most doctors have perfected. “You have a heart arrhythmia. Basically, the stress of seeing—what you saw—triggered it. Your heart began to beat too fast, and then it stopped. Thankfully, Mr. Gritton was there to beat you back to life.”

  Yes, thankfully, I thought.

  “It's going to be very important you take your daily medicine. Skipping a dosage could be deadly. You might not always have an angel watching over you.”

  “Wait, I'm going to have this thing forever?”

  He nodded. Then he tilted his head, peering at me over his spectacles. “This was probably something you've always had, just haven't noticed it until now.”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Robertson wrote me the prescription I'd have to take everyday for the rest of my life, wished me luck, and vanished from my sight, never to be seen again.

&nbs
p; 4

  I was released the following morning. Mark Chaney was gracious enough to pick me up around nine-thirty. It was Sunday, a big day in Atlanta for football. I had sideline seats, but I would not be attending. It was the first home game I missed in almost two years. But all that took a backseat to my current thoughts about the future, and where I was headed.

  Mark asked me all sorts of questions during the ride home. I answered everything the best I could, with more detail than he probably wanted. I described what I walked in on with vivid detail.

  “She was such a nice girl,” he said. “Never saw that coming.”

  “That makes two of us,” I told him.

  “You should press charges. On Gritton, I mean.”

  “For what? Saving my life?”

  “That was assault, man,” he snickered.

  I actually smiled. It faded quickly when Mark pulled his car into the visitor's spot, across the street from my apartment.

  “You think she's in there?” he asked, killing the engine. “You want me to go in with you?”

  “You wouldn't mind?” Internally, I was relieved he offered. I would've hated to ask, but there was no way I was walking in there alone. The thought of seeing her again made me queasy.

  I checked the clock, it was a quarter to eleven. She's probably at the stadium, I thought. Cheerleaders had to be there a few hours prior to game time.

  Mark went in first. I waited on the steps while he combed the apartment. He appeared in the doorway a minute later, a grave expression had taken his face.

  “The coast is clear,” he said. “And I do mean clear.”

  Her stuff was gone. Not just packed up, but actually gone. I guess it wouldn't have taken long considering more than half the stuff in the apartment was mine. She probably had help from the Falcon's offensive line. Probably paid them in handjobs.

  As I walked through the hallways, I noticed she had taken the liberty in taking down every one of our pictures. I'm not sure if she took them with her, or threw them in the Dumpster out back. I never cared to check. Thankfully, she left the television, which was there before her anyway. She did take a few essentials; some food was missing, the microwave I bought, and some furniture. I was actually surprised to see she had stolen the kitchen table. I guess I was to eat dinner in bed (which she always despised). Her jewelry and makeup stations were gone, her closet an empty cavity. The bedroom looked vacant without her laundry strewn about. The bed, a small flat-screen, and my nightstand was all that remained.

  My wallet was missing from the nightstand, where I had left it the day before. I felt my pocket and realized it was there. Lynne must have brought it to the hospital.

  “I'm sorry, man,” Mark said.

  I let ten seconds pass after his sincere comment, then I said, “Mark, I'm quitting the paper. Consider this my two-week notice.”

  5

  “Don't you want to think about this?” Mark asked me, as we stood in the kitchen waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to brew. “I mean, you're a hell of a writer, Ritchie. I'd hate to lose you.”

  “I thought about it, Mark,” I said. “I spent the last twenty-four hours in a hospital bed thinking about it. I can't live here anymore. There's nothing left for me. I'm going home.”

  “To New Jersey?”

  I shrugged. “Why the hell not?”

  “Benefits for one. You won't have any once you quit the paper. I can assure those pills you need to take won't be cheap.” Mark was the voice of reason I needed. Unfortunately, his good reason came too late. My mind had already been set on returning to Jersey. I was done with Georgia, and Georgia was done with me. “It's just not smart. At least not right now. I mean, I know something shitty happened to you. You caught your girl with another guy, so what? You're going to just pack everything up and go? Quit your job? Start new somewhere? Come on, Ritchie. You have friends here. You built a life here. Think it over. You need some time off—fine. Take a leave of absence. Take as long as you want. Consider it done. But don't make a rash decision you're going to regret.”

  I didn't tell him I already regretted it.

  “There'll be jobs. Benefits too. My sister called me at the hospital, Mark. Her and her hubby are clearing out the basement as we speak. I can stay there as long as I want, until I find a decent job and start making money. I'll be okay, man.”

  “I hope you're right, buddy. Goddamn, I hope you're right.”

  He'd never know how wrong I was.

  6

  I only stayed a week longer. I called my landlord and told him I'd be moving on. He reminded me that I had two months rent left. I told him there would be a check on the counter for the last two months, and gave him my sister's address where he could send the security deposit. He said that was fine and we traded our final pleasantries. He told me he was sorry about what happened and I wasn't surprised that he had found out about it. I thanked him, and hung up.

  I threw the television from the bedroom in the trunk, and piled whatever clothes I could fit on top. I grabbed whatever essentials I had left (toothbrush, deodorant, hair gel, etc) and tossed them on the back seat. A few friends from the office stopped by to have a beer and help pack a few more items, such as my two guitars (one acoustic, one electric). In return for their services, I bought a thirty pack and allowed them to bid on my sixty-inch plasma. Tom Riddick won and cut me a check for seven-hundred dollars on the spot. It was money I was going to need, considering how ridiculous the price of my medication was without insurance. I let the rest of them split whatever furniture Lynne failed to steal.

  We said our good-byes, shook each others' hands.

  And like everyone else I had come to know in Georgia, I never saw them again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Anne was in the driveway when I pulled in, arms open and ready to embrace me. Hugging my big sister felt good, warm, and loving. I unexpectedly felt ashamed for waiting so long to visit. My sister and I were never close growing up, which was understandable considering there were seven years between us. We had different friends throughout our school years, and we were into completely different things. She was into makeup and boys, two things I was definitely not. She married at twenty-two and had a kid soon after. I was an uncle at the age of seventeen.

  “Welcome home,” she said. “Glad to have you back, Ritchie.”

  It had been so long since I stepped foot in The Riv, but it felt like I had never left. I guess New Jersey wasn't done with me after all.

  Robert and the kids helped bring in my luggage. After my stuff migrated to the basement, we ate dinner. The kids showed me what they were learning in school, what extra-curricular activities they were into, or planned on participating in when the weather warmed. Franky wanted to play football, despite his mother's outspoken abhorrence for the violent game. They liked to talk a lot, everything from what their math teacher told them, to their favorite television characters. This was probably a gene carried down from their grandmother.

  When supper concluded, the kids went their separate ways and the Uncle-Ritchie-Comes-To-Town show was over. I stayed and had a couple beers with Robert, while my sister sipped from her glass of wine. Age had not been kind to Robert. In his mid-thirties, he was almost completely bald. He'd grown a belly since the last time I saw him. A bushy beard covered the lower half of his face, and I was surprised to find out that his well-paying job didn't make him shave it. He wore glasses because—from what I remember Anne telling me—he refused to buy contacts. My sister was very much the hippie I remembered her as. She wore colorful dresses with flowers on them. The two of them had “Save the Planet” magnets all over the refrigerator. I wondered if the two of them still smoked pot. Before they had kids, that's all they really did. Now they had jobs with decent salaries. Still, it wouldn't surprise me if they sat on the porch and spark up a few doobies after the kids went to sleep. Old habits die hard. Take it from the guy who spent countless hours at group meetings.

  The three of us drank and went over a few thing
s, ground rules, although we didn't exactly call them that. They were concerned that—with me being single now—that I might invite promiscuous women over the house and indulge in some late-night escapades that may not be suitable for children of all ages. I assured them that wouldn't be the case. It'd be a while before I opened my heart (or my zipper) to any woman. And even if there was a woman that I found myself romantically interested in, I certainly wasn't going to bring her to my big sister's basement.

  Secondly, they were big on me not paying rent. I didn't understand it, but I didn't argue considering I didn't even have a job yet. I told them I'd help out around the house, do as many chores as I could, and even make dinner a few nights a week. I'd even babysit.

  “That would be wonderful,” they said in unison.

  2

  The first night spent in the basement brought on a nightmare. It was the kind of nightmare where I didn't know I was dreaming until I awoke. I was sleeping on the couch my sister and her husband supplied me when I heard someone knock on the front door. I sat upright like Dracula from his coffin. The room was blurry and moving in ripples. I felt drugged. The knocking persisted. I called out to the empty house, seeing if anyone could get the door so I didn't have to leave the basement. No one answered, and the dreadful feeling of being alone in the dark settled in.

  I climbed up the stairs, slowly, as if I were a decrepit old man. They led me to the hallway, and the front door sat to my left about twenty feet away. The knocking echoed once more. Louder this time. As if the door had been between my ears. I yelled at the impatient guest to knock it off, that everyone in the house was sleeping, even though my dream-self knew I was alone. Twice more fists raged upon the front door.