The Anesthesia Game

by Rea Nolan Martin

  But in this world, thinking is speaking. In response to her interior thought, he spins an aurora so vivid it makes the Northern Lights look like a 40 watt bulb.

  “Sooner or later you’ll understand,” he says.

  She points her cigarette directly at the magnetic storm and shakes her head, her body still agitated from the charge. “You’re trying to kill me, Anjah, aren’t you? You’re trying to electrocute me for smoking a few cigarettes.”

  “I’m giving you what you need to do your job,” he says, “in spite of the cigarettes.” He spins the new primary—eldra—over his field like a top.

  “Show-off,” she says. “I don’t need your fancy new crayons. I don’t even need plain old blue and red. Take it back, all of it! I haven’t painted in twenty years. The last thing I need is a new color.”

  She turns toward the door. It’s cold out here and she’s uncomfortable. And anyway, who needs this shit? But as she lays her hand against the sliding glass door, all at once—she gets it. Oh my God, she gets it! Signal! Her jaw drops; her eyes widen, and she turns her head back toward Anjah. But he’s gone. The vivid colors spin in his wake as he jettisons upward and out.

  Pandora remains on the deck for awhile, stunned. Her back turned against the glass doors now, she looks through the trees in the direction of Heavenly Peak. The cigarette between her fingers is burned to the filter. She holds it up to the falling snow until the ash sizzles, thinking—color has signal—specific and powerful. It has frequency. Frequency that can heal. But how does she apprehend it? How does she snatch a slice of high-fidelity megawatt signal from another realm and pin it to the material plane until it sticks—to make it actually work?

  This is her job. Whether she does it or not, whether she even wants to do it, is entirely up to her, she knows. What she may never know is who might be depending on this exact information. An obscure but faith-filled creature, perhaps, hoping beyond reason for a miracle—this miracle.

  Sydney.

  She shivers at the thought. Yes, maybe Sydney. Probably Sydney. Not that Pandora knows exactly which color to use, what it would do, or how to retrieve it. Or if she even has the psychic strength to try.

  Well, she’s not doing anything this minute. The aurora isn’t even visible anymore; it disappeared with Anjah. For all she knows, it was just another in a long line of hallucinations. But not really. Right now she has to return to the canvas. She needs to settle one issue at a time, once and for all. Should she keep the canvas and try to understand the optics—both on the painting and in the sky? Are they connected? Or should she just throw the damn thing in the fire and watch it burn? She’s stuck. She doesn’t know.

  She just doesn’t know.

  Back in the kitchen, she pours a glass of chardonnay to the rim and sips it down so it won’t spill in transit. She carries it through the open kitchen past her office into the back, then to the right toward the living room. At the easel, she touches the edge of the deteriorating linen cover with her free hand, lifting it just barely then dropping it. And again. And again.

  Damn it, she just cannot look, at least not now. Witnessing it again is a commitment to understand it. To do something about it. Witnessing it means she has to use her spiritual aspects to harness its meaning. Witnessing it means she has to harness the meaning and transform it. The only thing she’s in the mood to transform this very minute is her utterly irritating sobriety.

  She hears Anjah’s warning in her head. “You have less than a month. You’re wasting time.” She doesn’t particularly care about her own time, but she cares about Sydney’s. Why exactly, she couldn’t say. But maybe this canvas will give her a clue that will help the one child who needs her. The one who still lives.

  Then again maybe it won’t.

  She places her glass on the window ledge of the western wall and instead of uncovering the canvas, opens the palette of colors she’d blended all those years ago. The lovely creams, chocolates, and roses. The joyful hibiscus and commanding cobalt blue. The paints have dried from exposure, of course, but they’re recognizable. She doesn’t have to guess what they are. The tangy fragrance of linseed oil still permeates the palette. How she loves that smell! How she misses it. Reluctantly, she slides the palette back into the easel shelf and walks away.

  At the fireplace she bends low, carefully stacking wood and kindling which she lights with a long match. The fire animates the hearth, and her eyes search the flames for answers. She returns to the couch, settling deep into the corner and staring ahead. She sees the aurora in the flames—a storm of violet and magenta which, though exquisite, pales in comparison to the palette Anjah teased her with this afternoon. He knows color is her master, even now. Color has frequency; color has signal. New colors have new frequency! New signal.

  She tucks her legs underneath her and allows the flames to carry her thoughts. The colors in Anjah’s aurora were brilliant, she thinks. Dense and malleable, nearly liquid. The particles were charged. Her roaming thoughts seek connection anywhere in the field. Color is light with different wavelengths, she thinks. Colors are waves. She sips her wine.

  It all gets back to waves.

  Mitsy

  “No offense, Mrs. Michaels, but if you keep screaming like that I won’t be able to drive. It’s late, and my nerves are a little fried.”

  Mitsy burrows into her seat, her right foot poised to hit her virtual brake if she needs to. Every time Dane passes a car, never mind a semi-trailer, she has a panic attack. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I haven’t been out of the house in awhile.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “And I don’t even know the last time anyone drove me anywhere.”

  He glances at her sympathetically.

  “Don’t do that,” she says.

  “Don’t…?”

  “Don’t look at me!” she snaps. “You’re supposed to be looking at the road!”

  “No one’s on the road right now,” he says evenly. “Just us.”

  “Well, maybe now. But at any moment…”

  A sedan whizzes by on the right.

  “See!” she screeches. “See what I mean?” She checks her seatbelt, pulling it taut.

  The index finger of his right hand taps the wheel. “Maybe we should turn around,” he says.

  “No!” Mitsy switches to her deeper, more commanding voice. If they turn around she’s pretty sure she’ll never leave the house again. They’ve been gone almost two hours. She can’t afford to squander that kind of progress. She hesitates, gathering her humility like sharp little tacks. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I can be a pain. Just ask Sydney.”

  “Yeah,” he says, chuckling. “I know.”

  “What?” she says. “What’s that supposed to mean? I thought she hadn’t mentioned me to you. Isn’t that what you said?” She folds her arms tightly.

  “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

  “Well, did she or didn’t she?”

  He tips his head to the left, stroking his scruffy chin. “She um…she mentioned you once or twice,” he says, shrugging. “But nothing significant. Just the usual mother stuff.”

  “The usual mother stuff?” she says. “Like ‘she never comes out of her room all day’? That kind of stuff?” Mitsy doesn’t know what’s gotten into her; all this confrontation isn’t like her. She feels completely out of control in a new way. Like a wild hibernating bear must feel waking up in a zoo.

  “Sure,” he says, “I mean, look…Syd and I didn’t really talk about other people. We talked about…life. And not even talk so much as email and text. But I’d feel pretty shitty if I betrayed her confidence.” He shifts positions. “I’m in enough trouble with her already.”

  He has a nice profile, Mitsy thinks. His pile of dark curly hair practically reaches the top of the car, and he has a strong jaw. His black eyes are a little disturbing in the dark, though—hard to see. She understands why Sydney is attracted to him, even though he has no pedigree whatsoever. Not to mention a foreign look that c
an’t be trusted. He’s nobody she would pick for her daughter.

  “It’s not that you’re a pain,” he says, glancing at her again. “It’s just that I’m not sure this is a good idea in the first place. Not you, but me. Chasing her down, I mean. She left for a reason. She’s, you know…pissed.” He turns toward her, shrugging.

  “The road?” she says, pointing. She’s trying to tone it down, but it’s not easy. After all, what is she doing? No one even knows where she is. Or cares, she thinks. No one even cares.

  “She’s really pissed,” he repeats with emphasis.

  Mitsy leans forward and turns the heat up to 75. She should have worn her heavy jacket. She’s lost too much weight too quickly, and she has a terrible chill. “You weren’t the reason Sydney left,” she says, “unless you had your little disagreement yesterday.”

  “No,” he says, “it was today. Just before she took off, I guess.”

  Mitsy raises her chin nobly. “She was angry at me first then. I’m the one who’s ruining her life.”

  He frowns. “Nah,” he says. “She’s pissed at the disease.”

  “The…”

  “The disease,” he interrupts. “Don’t tell me what it is. She doesn’t want me to know. She doesn’t want to give it any power. I agree with her.”

  “You do?” says Mitsy, surprised. “I do too! My psychic told me not to ever ever even think the name.” She moves her hands in wide circles. “Just visualize light all around her. I do it every day. A hundred times a day!”

  “That’s awesome,” he says. “You’re a good mom.”

  She gasps. If only it were true! But it would be impolite to correct him, so she lets it go. An SUV filled with college-aged girls slowly passes on the right, grabbing her focus. All of them healthy, laughing, glowing. Big heads of thick, long hair.

  “The power of words,” he says.

  This surprises her also. Just that he knows the power of words without a mystic mentor even telling him. Mitsy wouldn’t have known that at his age. Or really, any age. Not without being told.

  “She’s an indigo babe,” he says, grinning. “I knew it right away.”

  Mitsy’s eyes widen. “An indigo babe?”

  “Yeah, you know, an advanced creature of the fourth way.”

  “The fourth way?”

  “Well, just…Gurdjieff? The philosopher? Inner freedom and all that?”

  Mitsy’s had enough of people talking gibberish to her. Even though she could certainly use some inner freedom herself, she has no intention of learning anything tonight. She needs to settle down, is what she needs. Get comfortable. “Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” she says, clicking the button to her oldies station.

  “Sure. Whatever you like.”

  A few minutes later he raises his voice over Aretha Franklin’s ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T!’ saying, “Not a big Gurdjieff fan, eh Mrs. M?”

  She heaves an exasperated sigh. He looked like the strong silent type. If she thought he was a talker she would never have asked him to drive her all the way to Virginia.

  “What about Nietzsche?” he says. “A very cool dude. Now there was a thinker.”

  If she doesn’t engage, maybe he’ll stop.

  Snowflakes have been hitting the windshield sporadically, then steadily, and now all at once. “Turn on the wipers,” she says.

  He futzes around trying to find them.

  “Over here; right there!” she says in a shrill voice.

  “Got it,” he says. “Hey now, relax. I swear I won’t kill us.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill us?” she shrieks. “I barely know you!”

  He turns, scowling. “I’m not going to kill us,” he says tightly.

  “For God’s sake!” she says, “Pay attention to the road!” She flicks off the music. “Concentrate. It’s dangerous out there!”

  A few minutes later he says, “I don’t see us getting too far like this.”

  “Sorry,” she mutters. “I’ve lost my manners again.”

  “No, I mean…yes…that. But also…” he waves his hand at the windshield, “…this!” The snow is picking up speed; all at once sleet pounds the hood.

  “We’re not stopping,” she says. “I have to see Sydney. If you want to get out, go ahead. I’ll drive there myself.”

  He just keeps driving silently, so…mission accomplished. Clearly her earlier complaints had the intended impact, since he’s now driving under the speed limit with both hands on the wheel in what is an increasingly steady snow with intermittent sleet. As far as she’s concerned, the silence makes it bearable. At least the boy can focus, and she can concentrate on her meditations to decrease her nearly insurmountable anxiety. She chants OM as quietly as she can from the back of her throat. She’s afraid to go into full meditation mode, since she doesn’t want to fall asleep, or even into a trance. She doesn’t trust his driving without her constant vigilance.

  Hours later, somewhere in south Jersey, the snow turns into a full-on blizzard. Skid marks surround them and several sedans are sidelined from spin-outs. Huge trucks barrel onward, scaring the hell out of anyone with a nervous system. Mitsy clenches the sides of the seat, unsure of her next move. She wants to get to Virginia to reclaim the daughter that won’t answer her phone. Pandora is also a phone defector, but Mitsy knows Pandora will surface again. After all, Mitsy is a paying client, and Pandora seems to care a great deal about her. Or Sydney, maybe, but either way. Thank God there’s no emergency though, because no one who can help her is on deck.

  Lights blink ahead of them, and a giant spotlight shows a pattern of orange cones directing them to the exit.

  “What’s this?” she says.

  Police lights flash on top of the state trooper vehicles, warning them to slow down. As they get closer, they’re channeled into a single lane.

  “What in the world is going on!” Mitsy says.

  “Looks like they’re closing the highway,” says Dane.

  Sure enough, down the line all vehicles are being directed to the exit by troopers in fluorescent jackets waving giant flashlights.

  “What do we do now!” Mitsy screeches.

  He shrugs. “We get some gas, I guess. I could use a food break, too. I’ll check my phone and figure another way down there.”

  Mitsy glances at her watch. It’s nearly midnight. “We have to stop,” she says. “Overnight.”

  He scowls.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “but it will take us forever at this rate. Plus it’s super dangerous.” She stares at him, as if just noticing he’s in his teens. “Does your mother even know you’re here?”

  “I don’t have a mom,” he says. “And my dad is dropping my kid sister off in Pennsylvania to visit our cousins for the break. So, no worries.”

  “Phew!” she says aloud. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”

  He shakes his head. “We’re pretty independent in my house, Mrs. M. As in unsupervised,” he says with a sardonic laugh.

  Since his independence suits her at the moment, she doesn’t comment, just files it away for future reference. However, just for the record, she does not want Sydney hanging out with an unsupervised male. “I’ll get you a nice room and you can rest up,” she says, reaching under the dash for her purse. She fishes around in the dark, under the seat and behind it before she realizes she didn’t bring one. She left without it! She left without her purse, her license, her money and her clothes. That’s how long it’s been since she’d held herself responsible for…really, anything. Thank God she remembered her phone!

  “Uh…”

  “What?” he says as he merges the car into the single exit lane. “Something the matter?”

  “Did you bring a wallet?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Of course. I have a wallet.” He frowns at her. “I’ll be happy to pay my own way, Mrs. M, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  She shimmies uncomfortably. “No, it’s just that I, uh. Well, I forgot my purse, Dane.�
�� She swallows hard. “I have no money. I brought no money.”

  He exits the turnpike, his eyes wide. “That so,” he says. “Well, then the room won’t be so great, but I can probably swing one.”

  “One?” she says. “Don’t you have a credit card?”

  “It has a $500 limit,” he says, “and this baby’s gonna take a lot of gas to get us to Virginia.”

  “Oh dear,” says Mitsy. “I just didn’t think this through, did I?” She wrings her hands. “What will we do? We have at least another four hours on this drive, and that’s if the weather cooperates.”

  “Hey!” he says, pointing. “Look there! A Super 8!”

  “What? Oh. Well.” She steadies her trembling chin. “I’ve never stayed in anything like that,” she says as evenly as she can.

  “We’ll be lucky to get any room at this point,” says Dane, drawing closer. “Lots of cars already pulling in.”

  Mitsy debates calling Hannah or Aaron to phone in a reservation with their credit cards. But she doesn’t want to give anyone the heads-up on their decision to visit Sydney. And anyway, like Dane said earlier, Sydney may reject them both if she knows they’re coming. No, she doesn’t feel like informing anyone. It’s an adventure. A hideous, terrifying adventure. And it’s too late to turn back.

  Dane drives into the Super 8 parking lot and pulls over to the side. “Stay here,” he says. “I have to jump ahead of the rest of these guys if we want a room.”

  “Well, not one room,” she says. “Right? Two?”

  “We’ll see, Mrs. M. Depends on what they have and how much they cost.”

  While Dane’s in the reception office, Mitsy tries Pandora again to no avail. What has she done with her phone? Or maybe she’s ignoring Mitsy on purpose. Not that Pandora would offer much practical help in a situation like this, but you never know. She might be wealthy, or at least able to lend Mitsy her credit card for an emergency. But anyway, no luck.

  She starts a rosary, using her fingers, which are cold at the tips since the car’s turned off to conserve gas. She wishes she’d brought gloves. At this point, though, she’s just lucky she’s dressed. And not just dressed, but dressed in Hannah’s expensive clothes. She was really a mess this afternoon. Not just this afternoon, but for weeks, if she’s honest. She recites a couple of Hail Mary’s praying for financial intervention when Dane knocks on her window nearly giving her a heart attack. “Aaaaaaa!” she screams.