Phillip sat on an old wooden stool a few feet from the side of the bed. He had changed out of his work clothes and wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt with cargo pants. I looked into his tired blue eyes and remembered asking him once if he wore contacts that made his eyes that blue. “I don’t wear colored contacts! My eyes are always this blue!” he snapped. He made it sound so imperative that I understood that fact. He followed his statement with such a serious stare that only when his lips began to curl did I realize he had been using a mock offended tone. Laughing, he then revealed he did in fact wear contacts, but they were clear.
For a moment, I imagined it was Everett on that stool. It wasn’t hard to do. I’d often find Everett waiting bedside for me to wake. He’d spend entire nights watching me sleep, wondering, I imagined, like Phillip, which world I was in. Even though they didn’t look all that much alike, Phillip could’ve more easily passed for Everett's brother than me. I was like a poor reproduction. A photocopy of a photocopy. Everett had deep brown hair that lightened in summer months. I had black hair, and my eyebrows were dark and thick. Everett was muscular and agile. I grew up tall but had little muscle tone. I was hopelessly clumsy, always tripping and banging into things. He had a smooth way of talking that was calm yet direct. I had to constantly remind myself to keep my mouth shut to avoid something ridiculous flying out. The contrasts were endless really.
Thinking of Everett, I was still hiding, in a way, from Phillip. It took his voice to make me focus. “Good morning.” He looked exhausted but somehow forced a measure of cheerfulness in his greeting. It was apparent he stayed up all night anticipating the moment I'd wake. He leaned forward, eager to hear what I had discovered for him. I didn't want to open my mouth. Didn’t want to admit I had failed him. Instead, I began to rationalize, to defend myself in my mind. I had no need to feel ashamed! He was the one who dragged me, literally, to wherever we were! I was the victim! Yet as much as I tried convincing myself, I didn't feel like Phillip's victim—even with my hands tied to the bed.
I kicked off the covers. The air was stale, but at least my skin could breathe. To give relief to my back, I managed to stand up on my knees. I swiveled toward the headboard. My wrists, tied to the wooden dowels, had turned a reddish purple. “You were jerking like crazy.” He shrugged. He grabbed a pocketknife off the nightstand and sliced the rope. Freed, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and let the warm breeze blow against my face and dry my hair.
“Where are we?” He moved to the door without giving an answer. “I'm not going to run, Phillip.” I looked to the view out the window. “How could I run?” I said quietly. We were in the middle of what appeared to be an endless field. Bugs hovered above the dewy ground. Queen Anne's lace and milkweed swayed in the breeze, intermixed with other weeds and tall grasses. The lilacs that must’ve grown nearby all but overpowered the faint fragrance of pine trees. “We're up north, aren't we? Still in Michigan, right?” I scooted to the end of the bed. “Whose cabin is this?”
Leaning against the door, he set his eyes on mine. I tingled with apprehension. I knew the moment I dreaded had come. He didn’t bring me there to discuss the wilderness. I was well aware of his purpose. “Did you see her?” he asked flatly.
“No.” I was stunned by his bluntness and stunned by my own blunt reply. His eyes fell to the floor, saddened. So callous I had been. I wondered sometimes why I was even given a mouth. He placed his hand over his eyes for a moment and then wiped his forehead. The natural fairness of his skin accentuated the redness of his face. The way his eyes shot daggers at me, I didn't suppose he was red from the heat. I wanted to shrink into myself. I attempted to disappear by lowering my shoulders and taking short, unnoticeable breaths.
“Then as far as you're concerned, we're nowhere.” He brought his face to mine. “Nowhere!” He charged to the window and pulled down the shade. The tattered thing leaked light through its many holes. Tiny circles and gashes of light freckled the aged floral carpeting. “We're not in Michigan! We're not in America! We're not even on this planet until—” He stopped short, finishing only with deep breaths.
His tone made me sick to my stomach. “It was just one night,” I said timidly. “I can try again.” He stood silent, staring at the sparks of light on the floor. I escaped the room as fast as I could by hastily thinking about the sun. I learned once that it took eight minutes for its light to reach the earth. I thought of how in another eight minutes, the awful floral pattern would be supplied with fresh light generated millions of miles away. “Eight minutes,” I said in a whisper.
He charged toward me and clamped his hand on my shoulder. His grip was so tight, I thought he’d strike me. I looked to his feet and braced myself for him to do his damage. That’s when I noticed he was wearing sandals. I let out a short laugh as I was brought back to the time he had driven the two of us to Lanford Community College and had worn sandals. I had never seen him in sandals before. And before I had a chance to censor myself, I found myself saying, “No one wants to see your feet.” The truth was I didn't find his feet repulsive. In fact, I was never all that comfortable showing my own feet. It always made me feel a bit too exposed.
But Phillip knew better than to be offended. His lips curled downward. They did that when he found something humorous. “Sorrrry,” he apologized sarcastically, followed by one of his stuttered laughs. “Don’t worry. After today, you’ll never have to see my feet again,” he promised.
So as I stared down at his open toes, I blurted, “No one wants to see your feet.” I was so sure his lips would curl downward and I’d hear his signature laugh. Yet the look I received was void of emotion. Before I could say another word, he released his grasp on my shoulder. “Phillip—” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
I stood from the bed. Dizzy. My head pounding. I staggered to the dresser and held its edge to keep my balance. Dust clung to my wet fingertips, leaving an imprint. I held my other hand firmly to my tingling stomach, trying to quiet the distant sensation of it being torn open by black fingertips. I stared at the doorknob, wondering if it was locked, if I truly was his prisoner. I didn't attempt to turn it. I didn't want to know. I didn’t much care if I was his prisoner, I supposed. Strange, I felt entirely safe in that foreign room. I found there could be safety and relief in submitting yourself to the whims of another, letting them think for you and determine your actions. Maybe he had taken me to another planet. He was right. It no longer mattered. I sat on his stool and gazed at the tiny bed. I imagined him watching over me the entire night. How uncomfortable it must’ve been. As I looked about the rustic room, I thought of how it had come to be, how gentle Phillip had been driven to such a thing.
3
Phillip’s Request
I received his desperate call at 2:00 a.m. I knew it was 2:00 a.m. because the voice on the line said, “It's 2:00 a.m. It's been five days, and it's 2:00 a.m. on the fifth day.”
“Who is this?” I asked the question but immediately knew it was Phillip. I hadn't heard from him in over five years. Yet even in his frenzy, I identified him by his first word spoken, by his light yet masculine voice.
“I've already called the police. Please don't tell me to call the police. Why is everyone still telling me that like I haven’t already? Like I’m some dumb asshole? I left the light on. The light over the driveway. I always leave it on for when she comes back.”
I forced back a yawn. How could I listen to his delirium and still be tired? “Comes back from where? What are you talking about?”
“Jogging. She jogs at nighttime in the summer. It's better to jog at night. You're not supposed to jog in the heat of the day. The light, it’s on now. She's not home. It’s been on for five nights. And she's still not home.”
Confident Phillip was unraveling. He sounded confused. Frightened. Agitated. I figured the caliber of confusion coming from him was reserved for someone like me. Not rational Phillip. Not the young man who was disciplined enough to achieve perfect attenda
nce in high school, never missed a class in college, and received his degree in accounting in just three years. It was frightening to think that his sanity, of all people’s, could be so easily shredded. “Are you drunk?” I wondered.
“No. I'm high.” As soon as he mentioned it, I began picking up on his nervous drags. “I haven't smoked pot since college,” he revealed. “Remember when I asked if you wanted a smoke, and you said Everett wouldn't let you?”
“I remember.”
“You always did what he said. Listened to him, didn’t you? When I first met you, I thought he was your mom.” Instead of a laugh, he let out staggered puffs of air from his nostrils. “Well, I should’ve too. Listened to Everett, I mean.”
“So why are you smoking then?”
“I didn't believe him,” he continued, missing my point as I missed his. “She went for a jog. And now no one knows where the hell she is. I've called all her friends. I've asked all the neighbors. She’s not at her parents’. I've driven all over this goddamned city.”
“I haven't seen her either,” I offered.
He took another drag. “Listen, Ayden, I have to find her.”
“You will,” I said automatically.
“Will you help me?” he asked. “I know you can help.”
I wanted to help Phillip. It was the least I could do after all he had done for me. He was the one who had pushed me into shallow water when I was in too deep. He was the one who had sparked the changes in my life that had finally given me a sense of normalcy. “Of course I'll help.”
“OK. I’m coming over,” he declared.
“Wait . . .” But it was too late. The line was dead. He had never been to my apartment and hadn’t asked for directions. On top of that, he probably shouldn’t have been driving in his frantic state. But it was Phillip. He’d find his way.
No longer tired, I rushed to the closet. I chose a light-brown polo shirt accented with thin black stripes across the chest and put on my best pair of jeans. I attempted to look at my apartment as if I were seeing it for the first time, as if I were Phillip. Would he be pleased by my accomplishments? That I had my own place? That I had finally become an adult with adult responsibilities? I paced with an energy that was fueled partly by nerves and partly by excitement. I aligned the candle and coasters on the end table so they perfectly met its border. I straightened the pillows on the couch. I moved the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. I cleaned the specks of toothpaste from the bathroom mirror. I dusted. I thought of vacuuming but figured I wouldn’t have time.
In only about a half hour after he hung up the phone, I heard the knock at the door. I opened it with an anxious grin. There he stood, now a successful accountant in a crew cut wearing a white dress shirt with pin-striped pants—smoking pot like a high school stoner. I felt shy, as if we were meeting for the first time. “Phillip the CPA and his doobie,” I finally blurted as a joke.
“Hey.” He flicked the short joint onto the cement and snuffed it out with his shoe. When his blue yet bloodshot eyes met mine, his lips curled upward for a moment before quickly relaxing to make a perfect line across his face. I had never known Phillip to be other than clean-shaven, but that night blond stubble grew from his chin. It was a humid August night. A drizzling mist caused his clothes to cling to his skin and his face appear to perspire. He rubbed his neck, where a tie surely had been knotted earlier. He pulled his shoulders close to his ears and shuddered as if it were cold. He looked past me and into the apartment.
I opened the door wide and stepped aside. “Come on in,” I offered. “I’ve got air-conditioning.” I rolled my eyes at myself as I shut the door behind him. He stepped past me without comment and made a direct path for the couch. He sat with his eyes to the floor. “I've lived here for about a year,” I said as I stood before him. “The rent is kind of expensive. But I think it's worth it since the washer and dryer are included. Only bad thing is I can’t have pets. Well, besides my fish. But I really want a cat. Maybe someday. Maybe a black cat. I heard people don’t like to adopt black cats because of superstition. So it would be good to give a black cat a home. Don’t you think?”
His head remained low. He looked as if he was concentrating on something far away. I could see it in the narrowing of his eyebrows, in the bunching of lines on his forehead. I eased myself into the overstuffed chair next to him. “I picked out the furniture myself. It was pretty easy. Remember my favorite color is green? Anyway, I picked out the first green set I saw. The saleslady called it ‘hunter green.’” He said nothing. Did not even allow his eyes to scan the room. “Do you want something to drink?”
“No,” he said solemnly, finally lifting his head. “Have you seen her?” It was clear he only wanted to continue the conversation he had begun on the phone.
“No. I already told you—”
“No. In your dreams,” he clarified.
“Oh.” My heart picked up its pace.
“I know you can help me because”—he inhaled deeply—“because I know now that Everett was telling the truth. He was right all along.”
“No.” My voice cracked. “Everett never told the truth.” I tried to keep my breathing steady as the years I thought I had been so successful at burying began to instantly brew toward the surface. What was Phillip doing to me? “It was you who told me the truth. Not Everett. I listened to you. I even went to that psychiatrist because of you. And finally, it all made sense. Finally, because of you, there was logic to it all.”
“Logic? Some things cannot be explained logically.” He began to talk with more concentration, making sure his voice was heard through the curtain of marijuana. “Look, I’m not saying Everett was the best brother in the world. God knows he wasn’t. God knows he forced you into dangerous situations. I know what harm he caused. I know how bad he messed you up. All I’m saying is, he was right about one thing: you have a skill that no one else on this earth could possibly possess.”
I protested by emphatically shaking my head. I was horrified by what he was asking of me—and by his not entirely convincing change in theory about the past. He wanted me to use a gift he was suddenly so sure I possessed, a gift that he himself had helped convince me wasn’t real.
He persisted. “Even if you don’t believe me, don’t you think it’s worth a revisit? It’s worth a try at least, isn’t it?” His chin sank to his chest.
It was clear to me at that moment that Phillip was simply lying to himself. He was desperate, grasping for what he believed was his last hope. Naturally, I felt sorrow for him. He had literally lost her. Yet at the same time, thoughts of the Phillip I had known from years before flooded my mind. I wouldn’t have questioned that Phillip. I had trusted him always, even before Everett told me I should’ve. I trusted him like I had once trusted Everett. How could I have protested anything he had to say? That’s what made it all the more confusing—and frightening. “I don't even remember her,” I said. “I don't even remember what she looks like. Why don't we go to the police station in the morning and—”
“I told you not to talk to me about the police! It's been five days, and they haven't found her. They don’t even have a lead. Do you think I want to wait until they find her dead? Dumped in some ditch? By the time they find her, it’ll be too late.”
“I don't even remember her name.”
“Ginger.” He said her name as if the sound of those two syllables put together momentarily healed him. Ginger. I did remember her. I remembered her chestnut hair that framed her face in loose curls. I remembered her olive skin and the fluffy white sweater she wore that fall years ago. I remembered beautiful Ginger. How Phillip loved her brown eyes.
He leaned in closer. “Aren't you tired?” he asked.
“Tired! After what you’ve just told me? How could I possibly be tired? I’m more awake now than ever.”
He checked his watch. “But it’s so late.”
“What am I supposed to say? You helped me see the world for what it is.” I looked about my apartme
nt. “This is reality. This life I have now is reality.” I reached over and grabbed the edge of the couch. “Don’t take it away from me. You exposed Everett. You killed his myth. Please, don't bring it back to life.”
He reached in his pocket and produced a photograph of Ginger. He held it before my face. There she was. While not in the white sweater I often visualized her wearing, it was Ginger, her brown eyes staring back at me. “What I am experiencing now is not reality. Her being gone is as far from reality as my mind can leap. Logic no longer applies. Logic is for police who do nothing but question me of her whereabouts, wasting time while she is somewhere frightened. Hurt. God knows what. So I say it’s time for bed.”
“Yes,” I answered to her photograph with barely a whisper. I was nowhere near tired, however. And as I stood, I was the one who began to shudder as if it were cold. Phillip had spoken, and I had no choice but to do as he requested. I slowly shuffled into the bedroom, my legs weak, as Phillip followed. I undressed slowly, methodically folding my jeans and polo shirt. As I eased under the covers, Phillip knelt beside the bed and handed me the picture of Ginger. I held it in front of me for a moment before placing it facedown on my chest.
“Help me,” he requested hauntingly.
Phillip watched over me, a transformed Phillip, one who had lost his reason and was begging me to do the same. I closed my eyes, attempting to force myself to sleep, attempting to concentrate on Ginger. Yet instead, I found myself struggling with thoughts—of Everett. I saw his face. Clearly, as if he were looking directly at mine. I was confused by his smile. My childhood instinct told me to be comforted by it. But my adult reason made me cautious, afraid.
Where the Cats Will Not Follow Page 2
