by Tara Ellis
Carefully stacked on her nightstand are the four crossword puzzle books I got for her. Removing the top one, I randomly flip through the pages. No. It’s not possible. I look at the whole thing and then pick up the next one. My fear growing, I grab the third and then the fourth. They’re all the same. Every single one of them.
Sliding down the side of her bed, I sit on the floor, the books scattered about me. One is open and I stare accusingly at the filled in spaces of the puzzle. All the spaces. Mom has never finished a puzzle before. Ever. She doesn’t even look up the answers because she thinks it’s cheating. I have always thought it was funny when she would try to do one, but she insists that it helps with brain function. She sees so much dementia and Alzheimer’s among her patients; she’ll do anything she can to not get it herself.
So how is it possible that every single puzzle is completed? Not only that, but her handwriting is perfect. It almost looks like it’s typed. So much so, that I had to wipe at the ink to make sure it smeared. Her penmanship isn’t usually as bad as a doctor’s, but it’s not what you’d call nice.
This isn’t my mom. The thought seeps in and then resounds in my mind, like it’s not my own. That I am almost able to accept it scares me. Pushing at the books, I shove them away from me, not wanting to see what’s in them.
After several minutes, I numbly gather them up and carefully place them back exactly the way they were. I’m more determined than ever to figure out what’s going on and how I can stop it. Until then, I think that being paranoid is a good survival instinct.
TWELVE
Chris shows up a short time later, just after nine. The knock at the front door makes me jump even though I’m expecting it.
The last of the frozen waffles made an adequate breakfast for Jacob and he’s eating them hungrily in the family room while watching TV. He’s approaching the whole thing like a mini vacation and is actually in a good mood. He hasn’t even asked anything about Mom, after I told him that she had gone to work and was doing better. I wish I could ignore everything too, but that isn’t possible.
Answering the door, I wonder how I look when he smiles at me and wish it had occurred to me before he got here. For the second time now, I don’t have any make-up on and my hair is simply brushed out and loose. He probably thinks I only have these one pair of sweats and old t-shirt. Although I am a bit tall for a girl, he is still several inches taller than me and I look up at him shyly. I toy with the idea of running to my room and changing, but figure that would be way too obvious.
Inviting him inside, I remember the reason why he’s here and all of a sudden my vanity seems pretty silly. I’m sure he could care less anyways.
Jacob gives us a suspicious look as we walk by, but he doesn’t say anything. I’ll tell him a convincing story later…like we’re working on something for school. I hadn’t given it any thought and I’m not good at making stuff up real quick. I make note of this lack of planning and sense that I need to get better at it real soon.
Leading Chris into my dad’s office, I take a seat at the desk, leaving the chair against the far wall for him to sit in. I have the old book and list of words out on the desk, which he’s already seen. Next to it is the paper I removed from the riffle.
“So last night I figured it out.” I say, jumping right to the point.
Chris seems surprised and leans forward eagerly in his chair. “So? What was it?”
Picking up the paper, I hand it to him and then point up at the riffle. “I took your advice and made out some lists. It stirred up some memories for me and I realized that I had seen that vulture somewhere else. After thinking about it, I finally remembered the carvings on the butt of Dads old riffle. That one.”
He follows my finger and looks at the weapon. Standing, he walks over to it and inspects the wood. “Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing to pick it up.
“No, go ahead. It’s not loaded.”
Removing it from its hooks, he handles it like someone who is familiar with guns. Keeping the muzzle pointed down at all times, he inspects the decorative etchings and then looks at the butt plate. “Hollow!” he says, understanding immediately how it all ties together.
“Yes,” I confirm, “and that paper was inside. I already deciphered it; the writing off to the side is mine.”
Replacing the riffle, he sits back down and spends some time reading the message. After several minutes he finally looks up. “He must have written this just before he was killed. That was what, over two years ago?”
His expression is neutral, but he’s gone a bit pale. The dark fear that’s been threatening to engulf me intensifies and I try to push it back down. “Yes,” I answer evenly. “He died two years ago last month. So it was sometime before that.”
“He somehow knew that this virus outbreak was going to happen, and that it would be at the same time as the Holocene meteor shower. How is that possible?”
I stare at him, unable to give an answer. I’m somewhat relieved to see that he’s just as confused by this as I am.
“…In case I’m unable to carry this out myself.” Chris reads from the paper to make sure he’s quoting it right. “Carry what out? This implies that it’s all about you finishing some sort of mission for him. That it has to do with the virus, and that the virus was pre-planned, or at least known about. It might not even be from earth if it was on the meteors.” I remain silent, letting him work through it all on his own.
“Its intent is evil. Intent? So how in the world did your dad know about a designed virus with some sort of evil purpose arriving in a meteor shower that only comes around every 5,000 years? What does any of this have to do with you? I’m guessing these secrets might have gotten him killed, and he knew that it might, which is why he had this backup plan. I don’t know Alex.” Shaking his head, he stands up and begins pacing. “This is just too much. I mean, I’ll admit that this virus has been incredibly contagious and vicious and that there’s some odd behavior going on ever since…but this?” he says, holding out the paper. “This is a whole lot weirder than any of that.”
“Oh, I agree with you,” I say, still in my seat watching him pace. “I would like to ignore it all and pretend like everything is okay, like my little brother out in the other room. However, as you just pointed out, Dad somehow knew this was going to happen. What that tells me is that no matter how bizarre, and unlikely this may all seem, he was right. He was right Chris. And…my mom has changed.”
Stopping in the middle of the room, he looks at me carefully. “What do you mean? Depressed, like you were telling me yesterday?”
“No. She isn’t depressed.” I tell him about her behavior last night and this morning, trying to stress how peculiar it all was. When I describe the crosswords, I know it might seem like I’m making a big issue out of something small, but I’m hoping he gets the larger picture. I hesitate about her eyes, but finally give in and tell him, taking a chance he’ll just decide that I’m crazy and leave.
When I finish talking I study his face to gauge his reaction. He’s good at guarding his emotions; I really can’t tell what he’s thinking. “You’re right,” he says with resolve, as if he’s made up his mind. He sits back down across from me.
“I am?” I was expecting more of a debate.
“We can’t ignore the fact that he knew this was going to happen, or that people who get sick are changing. If we accept that reality, than we also have to admit that something huge is happening that your dad was somehow involved in. Big enough that he was killed for it and is now trying to guide you from the grave.”
I want to hug him again, but this time I stop myself. I’m relieved that he believes me but also scared that we’re right. I need to figure out what to do next. “So now what? I don’t know what those hieroglyphs are supposed to mean.”
Chris looks back at the images and my translation. “It must mean something to you,” he says, handing it back to me, “or else your dad wouldn’t have written it.”
“I know!
That’s what I keep telling myself, but I don’t get it. I mean, am I supposed to leave here and go find a soldier and tell him everything to keep from dying? But then, what’s the duck and who’s the soldier? The army, FBI or even the police force he worked for? Maybe someone on the department knows. I’ve been thinking about everyone he used to work with and if the duck reference could mean one of them, but I’m not coming up with anything.” Tucking my hair behind my ears, I finally stand up, taking over the pacing for him.
“I don’t think it would be that broad of a reference, Alex,” he says, watching me. “I think he carefully wrote something that would only make sense to you. A personal reference. Think smaller.”
Completely frustrated, I sit back down and hold my head in my hands. “I can’t think straight anymore,” I say, my voice muffled.
Kneeling down in front of me, getting to eye level, he takes a hold of my wrists and I feel obligated to look at him. “I don’t blame you. It’s a lot to deal with. I think you need a break from this for awhile. Maybe it’ll help clear your thoughts.”
“I need to go shopping.” Is all I can say in return.
Laughing, he pulls me to my feet. “Okay, then let’s go shopping. I’ll help.”
“Oh wait!” I say, remembering the medallion around my neck. Pulling the chain over my head, I place it in his hand. “This was inside the paper. I have no idea what it is.”
He rolls it around in his hand for a minute and then looks closely at the image. “I’ve seen some things similar to this for secret societies, like the Illuminati. Pyramids are popular for that kind of stuff…but I don’t remember seeing anything quite like this. It looks really old. Maybe it was even used for making seals. You know, like in wax on sealed envelopes? That would explain why it’s so raised. It’s interesting, that’s for sure. Might tie into what kind of organization your dad was involved in.”
The thought that Dad was part of some secret group doesn’t make me feel any better. I put the necklace back on and tuck it out of site. “Maybe it’ll make sense at some point. Right now I don’t have a clue. Let’s go.”
Jake stays home for brief periods of time quite often, but I’m still hesitant to leave him behind. When I invite him, he insists that he’ll be fine and doesn’t want to go. Sure that Mom will be gone for several more hours; I give in and let him stay.
Chris wants to take his car, a small white sedan. On the way to the store, I go ahead and ask if he’s heard anything from his mom.
“No. It’s been almost a month now.” He continues to stare straight ahead and at first I think that’s all he’s going to say. “Not many people know this, but six months ago, she got a new boyfriend who was into drugs. Heroine, actually.”
Not knowing what to say to that, I watch the trees pass by out my window, sorry now that I asked.
“She met him at the real estate office she worked in. He seemed like a nice enough guy at first, but I caught on real quick. I tried to warn her, and then to get her to break it off with him, but by then it was too late. I found her shooting up one morning and when I got home that afternoon from school, she was gone. Not even a note. I don’t think she plans on coming back for awhile because she packed quite a few things. Took most of the electronics too, I figure to pawn to buy more drugs.”
Turning to look at him now, I wonder how he’s managed to keep everything together. I guess in a way, we’ve both lost our parents. Reaching out, I rest my hand on top on his. “I’m sorry Chris.”
It sounds so inadequate, but I know there isn’t anything that I can say that will make that kind of hurt any better.
Shrugging, he briefly grasps my hand and then puts it back on the wheel. “What can I do? I just hope she’s alright, wherever she is, and that she’ll find some sort of redemption.”
We ride in silence the rest of the way to the store, our moods somber. Today, the parking lot isn’t nearly as full as it was on Sunday. I spot Mr. Joneses old red Chevy pickup out front and my hopes rise a little.
As soon as we enter the store I can see him at the front, elevated counter using the register. There are several people waiting to be helped though, so I decide to talk with him when we’re done shopping.
Wishing now that I had taken the time to write out a list, we make our way up and down the aisles, tossing things in that look good as we go by. I know that I’m forgetting stuff, but probably won’t figure out what until I get back home.
After more than half an hour and a nearly full cart, we find a place in line and wait our turn. There are only a couple of people ahead of us so it isn’t long before I’m standing in front of Mr. Jones.
Happy to see him, I give him a big smile, but before I can talk he curtly asks me if there’ll be anything else I need. My feelings a little hurt; I tell him I need four pounds of ground beef.
Watching him work, I find that coldness seeping out from my center that I have come to associate with fear. Well into his 70s, he’s normally a bit slow at the tedious task of tying up a pack of meat, his arthritic hands a bother. His speech has become less clear the past few years too and Mom had told me that dementia was starting to set in, which explained his talking more slowly and being a little absent minded.
Today however, his hands move quickly and smoothly like those of a teenager. When he barks out some orders to another store employee at the same time, he is clear and more coherent than I’ve ever seen him.
“How is Mrs. Jones?” I ask, not seeing her anywhere and hoping that perhaps she is still herself.
“She died Sunday night.” He says it with such a complete lack of emotion that I actually take a step backwards and collide with Chris. Here is a man that absolutely adored his wife, literally cherished the ground she walked on and he is telling me about her death like it was a squirrel that got ran over. I stare at him with my mouth open, eyes wide.
His hands stop as he obviously registers my surprise, but doesn’t acknowledge it. Slowly, he starts wrapping the butcher paper again. “So Alex. How have you been feeling?” he asks, head tilted slightly to the side and without looking at me.
Desperately fighting the urge to run from the store, I realize I may have made a big mistake. Chris’s hands are on my arms, where they stayed after stopping me from my backward shuffle. They tighten ever so slightly, indicating his awareness of the danger too.
“Actually, Jacob and I are both sick now.” I try to say it convincingly and absently grab a package of cough drops from the front counter rack, adding them to the pile of groceries.
Ignoring my answer, he silently finishes the meat order and rings everything up. Chris bags it all for me, just as eager as I am to get out of here.
As Mr. Jones hands me back the check card, he holds on for a moment longer than he should, tugging a little. Looking up at him, our eyes meet. Like Moms, his are slightly dilated and I feel like a rat caught in a trap.
Assaulting me with that same, lifeless smile he lets go of the card. “Hopefully you’ll be feeling okay soon,” he says, watching me carefully.
As we calmly walk out of the store, several customers turn to stare at us simultaneously. Afraid to look back, we almost run out the exit, knowing without a doubt that we’re still being watched.
THIRTEEN
I wake up late Tuesday night to Baxter barking. Falling out of bed, I stub my toe on the chair that I forgot was wedged under the doorknob. By the time I have it opened I’m wide awake, hopping in pain, and convinced someone is in the hallway waiting to kill me.
Instead, I find Mom standing near her bedroom door, eyes slightly luminescent in the dim light. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or not.
I’m caught in her stare like a deer in the headlights and Baxter comes over to cower by my feet. Ignoring us, she simply walks into her room and closes the door without saying a word. No explanation of why she’s home from work so late, no hello…nothing.
Stroking his head with much more confidence than I feel, I calm him down to the point where he’s
okay to leave the hallway and go back to Jakes room. However, I don’t sleep much the rest of the night.
At ten the next morning Chris sends me a text saying he needs to talk with me ASAP. Mom left a note on the table in the kitchen saying that she would be going back to work at two today, so I tell Chris to come over at 2:30.
Mom hasn’t gotten up yet, and neither has Jake. Going quietly into his room, I close the door and sit on the edge of his bed. He’s watching Sponge Bob and I get caught up in the story before I can stop myself. When the commercials come on, he mutes it and looks at me expectantly.
“Jake, I need to talk with you about something, but it’s going to sound a little strange,” I say to him softly in a guarded tone. He seems perplexed, but I have his attention and so I continue. “You know that almost everyone has been getting sick and that you and I are part of a small number left that didn’t get the flu.” He nods his head slowly, not sure where I’m going with this. “I can’t explain why, but I need you to pretend like you’re sick now too. Both of us need to, even with Mom.”
I look at him, waiting for a reaction. To my surprise, he agrees with me. “I know,” he says evenly. “Something is wrong with…them. They aren’t the same anymore. I think we were all supposed to change, but we didn’t and so now we’re...like, wrong. So yeah, we need to make them think we’re like them.”
I study his face, trying to figure out how he got so smart. “What made you think that?” I finally ask him.
“Well, because of Mom. And…don’t get mad, but when you were gone yesterday shopping I went over to Brent’s.” I bite my tongue, holding back a lecture so he’ll continue with his story. “He was different too. So were his parents. They looked at me funny, like they didn’t know me or didn’t like me or something. Brent didn’t even want to talk with me or hang out or anything Alex. It was like it wasn’t even him. They asked me twice if I was sick…If I was okay. I lied.”
