Decision Point (ARC)

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  before—uh huh. I’m sorry. Last night was just really rough

  and …”

  Oh. Mom was talking with the people at that special home

  for National Lab curse patients. It was down near the University

  of Washington. A really nice place. They were building it for

  compatibility with a dozen different curses-in-progress.

  Mom’s voice slurred. Maybe the person on the phone

  wouldn’t notice. Allison’s stomach clenched in a knot. She hated

  mornings now.

  Mom trailed a hand down her face. “Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

  She pressed a button on her phone and set it down on the table,

  staring at it between her fingers.

  “No progress?” Allison asked.

  Mom’s lips worked for a second and she shook her head.

  “They can’t build it any faster. Other than that, they said we can

  sedate her more if necessary. I just …” She looked away,

  blinking, her head bobbing slightly. “Hey, don’t you have that

  biology test today?”

  “That was last week. But all of my homework is done. I had

  everything taken care of before my date, remember?”

  “Oh yes. Your date. That’s right, it’s Monday morning.”

  Mom stared at where the calendar used to hang. Now only a few

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  gouges from tacks marked the spot. “I’m losing my mind.”

  “You could drink less.” Allison tried to keep her voice light.

  “That’s none of your business.” Mom made no such attempt

  at levity.

  “It is if I hear you slurring like this first thing in the morning.”

  Mom sucked in a sharp breath, the sound so like Grandma’s

  cockroach hiss that it sent a rush of cold along Allison’s spine.

  “How dare you. I’m an adult. I’m in complete control of how

  much I drink. It helps me sleep. Last night I needed all the help I

  could get, after that.”

  Allison grabbed an apple from the fridge and made a quick

  retreat towards the front door. She couldn’t bear to even look at

  Mom.

  Grandma was still asleep on the couch, her jaw gaped open.

  Asleep, she looked so normal.

  “Hey Grandma,” Allison whispered, her throat hot with

  tension. “I’ve gotta go to school. I’ll miss you. Maybe this

  afternoon we can hang out?” Without waiting for an answer, she

  planted a kiss on Grandma’s forehead. It was a shame the game

  show channel had changed their whole line-up a few months

  before. All their old shows were shuffled around.

  “Allison. She’s gone. This is just a shell—”

  “Don’t say it. I’m sick of you saying that.”

  “Reality’s going to crash down hard on you when it comes,

  Allison. You can’t be in denial forever.”

  “Denial? I know Grandma’s sick—”

  “She’s not sick, damn it, she’s gone! Dead! That’s not her on

  the couch, get it?”

  It was the whiskey, it was that stupid whiskey that made

  Mom all awful every morning. Allison backed up to the front

  door, her nails digging into flesh of the apple in her palm. She

  swung her backpack onto one shoulder and fled. She hit the

  sidewalk running fast enough that the tears tipped from her eyes

  and flew away without touching her cheeks.

  *

  “Come on, Grandma. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

  With her hand curled beneath Grandma’s armpit, Allison

  walked her down the hall. They staggered together, Grandma’s

  steps small and shuffling. She fitted Grandma in fresh disposable

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  underwear and a pink paisley nightgown that snapped up the

  sides. Then she guided Grandma to her room. Mattresses sat on

  a bare concrete floor. Scratches gouged the walls. Allison tried

  not to see it, tried not to compare the room to how it used to be

  with its dense ‘70s wood furniture and Currier & Ives prints on

  the walls.

  She tucked in the old woman, taking care to layer the

  blankets and cover her wrinkled feet.

  Allison laid a hand against Grandma’s cheek. By Mom’s

  account, it had been an okay day. Nothing good, nothing bad.

  Allison’s day—well.

  “Jonah asked me to go out with him on Friday,” Allison

  whispered. “I didn’t say no, not straight out. I mean … I know

  how he’d react. He’s a cool guy, really. But …” She could only

  say “no” so many times. Most of her old friends had moved on

  for that very reason, or were content with just hanging out at

  school, never mentioning the possibility of anything after.

  “It’s hard sometimes, you know? But I know Mom won’t let

  me go.”

  Grandma’s teeth bared in a grimace. If her shadow had been

  visible, no doubt those pincers would be working as if they could

  bite. But there was no shadow. Just Grandma.

  “Good night, Grandma. I love you.” She planted a kiss on her

  forehead.

  Allison shut the door and bolted it on the outside.

  Mom was holed up in her office, working frantically on her

  work backlog. Probably would be until late. Allison disgorged

  her backpack’s contents onto the couch and turned on the TV.

  She had already gotten a decent start on her homework by staying

  late after school—not like she was in a rush to get home for more

  quality time with Mom—but the terrors of algebra awaited.

  Out of habit, she picked up the remote and flicked it to the

  game show channel.

  “—Match Game Marathon!” boomed an overly-pleasant

  announcer.

  Allison’s head jerked up.

  A Match Game Marathon this Friday. Twenty-four solid

  hours of bell-bottoms and orange-shag goodness. Grandma

  would love this!

  From the office, the chatter of computer keys continued,

  punctuated by dark, indecipherable mutters.

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  Mom wouldn’t agree. Mom would say it was pointless, that

  Grandma wasn’t in there, that it was all just a waste of time. She

  would yell and rant and do everything she could to make sure the

  TV stayed off. Allison’s hand clenched the remote as if she could

  strangle the plastic. Grandma would love this marathon. If

  anything could coax her out of her shell, this would be it. Mom

  had even said Grandma responded best to her.

  Mom needed to be out of the house that night.

  Grinning, she reached for the phone and dialed up Mom’s

  best friend, a friend who’d already pestered Mom for months to

  cut loose and relax for sanity’s sake. “Hey, Shayna?” she said.

  “Allison here. Mom’s really needing a break. You think we can

  tag team her?”

  A few minutes later, she hung up. A devious plot was already

  underway. Shayna knew how to score tickets for some overnight

  bed and breakfast deal over in Leavenworth this Friday night. If

  Shayna had already shelled out the money, Mom would be more

  likely to cave in and go. It’d still take a few da
ys to wear her

  down, but Allison knew it would work. On some level, Mom

  knew she needed a break, too. This was the excuse.

  Allison finished up her homework as the TV droned in the

  background. For the first time in ages, she hummed aloud, a

  smile on her lips. This Friday was going to be the awesomest

  night ever, for all of them.

  When Allison crawled into bed, she was still smiling. An

  incessant buzzing sound shivered through the wall. Grandma

  slept one room over, her breathing like a mob of a thousand

  mosquitoes.

  Down the hallway, the door clicked open. From the living

  room came the soft thud of the opening liquor cabinet and the

  clink of glass. Mom was getting ready for bed, then.

  Allison stared at the blackness of the ceiling. Her happiness

  dwindled away as a sick knot resumed its normal place in her

  stomach. Mom was the one who was really gone, not Grandma.

  The terrible susurrus continued from next door, from

  Grandma. “It’s just buzzing,” Allison whispered, as if saying it

  aloud made it true.

  She drifted to sleep, and the buzzing droned on.

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  “I shouldn’t go.” Mom clutched her suitcase handle and

  paced the living room. “You know what happened on Sunday—

  ” “She’s been fine all week. If it gets to be too much, I’ll call

  9-1-1,” Allison said. “Now go. If Shayna has to shut off her car

  to come get you, the neighbors might call 9-1-1 before you even

  leave.”

  Mom laughed, the sound abrupt and nervous. “Yeah. Riding

  tied up in the trunk might look suspicious.”

  “Go.” Allison held open the door and pointed to the sidewalk.

  Mom ducked her head like a chastised child, casting glances

  over her shoulder as she walked halfway along the path. “If you

  need me—”

  “I’ll call. Go!”

  Allison bolted the door and stood there, shivering. It was

  going to be awful cold tonight. Through the peephole, she

  watched the car drive away. Mom was probably crying now,

  apologizing to Shayna, saying she shouldn’t go. Shayna would

  keep driving.

  “Well, Grandma, this is our big night,” said Allison.

  Grandma sat on the couch with a slack jaw. Her dead eyes

  stared ahead at the television.

  “That’s right, it’s TV time! We’ve already missed some

  twelve hours of the marathon. We’re slacking.” She powered on

  the television and squealed as she sat down beside Grandma.

  “Look at Charles Nelson Reilly in that snazzy red suit! Geez, I

  think I saw Brett Somer’s dress on sale at the mall last week. And

  you said the ’70s would never come back in fashion.”

  Grandma buzzed softly. Allison leaned against her knees and

  giggled as she watched. “Oh, gosh. I’m surprised that comment

  made it past the censors then. That was awfully double-edged,

  even for now.” Rain drummed a soft rhythm above their heads.

  Another episode came on, then another.

  “That was a cop-out answer. That could have been smarter

  or funnier.” Allison shot a furtive glance at Grandma, in search

  of agreement.

  “Charles Nelson Reilly! Best player ever! Remember when I

  showed you the song Weird Al made all about him? Wasn’t it

  awesome?”

  “That hair. Crazy. Did she stick her finger in a light socket or

  what?”

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  Buzzing answered. Only buzzing.

  Two hours passed; three.

  Grandma’s laughter wasn’t there. Grandma wasn’t there.

  Allison turned off the television. She stared at the black

  screen. Through the marred protective glass, she could see their

  reflections. Grandma’s expression never changed.

  Grandma was really gone.

  The realization was quiet. Cold. Back when the diagnosis

  first came, Allison had tried to joke that the curse wasn’t real

  until Grandma had wings. Now she understood. It wasn’t about

  how Grandma looked, or even her shadow. It was about …

  Grandma.

  She stood. In the blank screen, she saw Grandma stand as

  well. Grandma pivoted, hunch-backed, and dove at the taped-

  together lamp on the end table. It crashed to the carpet, and in a

  blink, the room was cast into darkness.

  “Grandma?” No. This wasn’t Grandma, not really. It wore

  her skin, but soon, it wouldn’t even wear that. Mom had injected

  Grandma before she left—her regular dose with a little extra.

  It wasn’t enough to quell the rage.

  There was a long, cockroach hiss and the shuffling of feet

  and Grandma was there, those hands scratching at Allison’s

  neck.

  She sidestepped. Grandma grunted, swinging towards her.

  Allison retreated towards the TV. Lamp shards skittered and

  crunched underfoot. Pain pierced the sole of her right foot,

  followed by the intense warmth of blood.

  In scant grey light, Grandma advanced, her feet wide like a

  sumo wrestler. Her mouth gaped, glare reflecting from her teeth.

  Her gaze—empty. No hatred. No malice. Allison was just … a

  thing. A target. Prey?

  Grandma was gone. Dead. She was dead. She wasn’t in that

  body anymore.

  Anger rippled through Allison and clogged her throat. Anger

  at the hippies and their curse, anger at Mom and her alcohol and

  her work, anger at doctors for doing nothing. Anger at Grandma.

  “You were supposed to fight this!” Allison yelled. “You’re

  supposed to still be in … there!”

  Grandma launched herself forward. Allison slipped aside,

  her bloodied foot tacky on the carpet, and Grandma plowed into

  the liquor cabinet. It rattled, glass tinkling and liquid jostling.

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  Allison hated that cabinet. Hated it. She turned, throwing her

  shoulder into the cabinet. It rocked against the wall, unable to

  fall because of the straps securing it in place. She hugged it with

  both arms and yanked with all of her body weight. The cabinet

  pulled from the wall. Then Grandma was there, tackling her.

  Allison met the next wall with a grunt. The cabinet crashed into

  the carpet at Grandma’s heels.

  Mom could buy more alcohol. She undoubtedly would. But

  there was something amazing about hearing those bottles shatter.

  There was just enough light to see a gush of dark fluid seep

  through to the floor, as if the cabinet itself bled.

  “You should have laughed during Match Game,” Allison

  whispered. “You would have laughed.”

  How long would the curse drag on? How many months,

  years? How long would this thing wear Grandma’s skin? How

  long until—that Asian cockroach emerged? The wings. The

  antennae. The shadow come to life. And Mom—how would

  Mom change? What facade would she wear?

  Nausea punched her in the stomach. Suddenly it was all real.


  All too real. Grandma hissed, and Allison stepped back. Her bare

  feet kicked through more pieces of the lamp. Pain zinged all the

  way up her leg and caused her to gasp. If she made it across the

  room to the switch, Grandma would go for the light instead. That

  would distract her until …

  Light. Outside, the light would be on down at the dock. A

  light that attracted clouds of bugs.

  The awfulness of the thought froze her for a moment. Then

  the fumes of weeping liquor stung at her nostrils, and she knew

  what she would do.

  She glanced at the door to the back patio. The story poured

  into her head: she would say she heard that old tom cat on the

  porch, that she opened her door to check. That Grandma attacked

  her. It was close to the truth. That they had fought throughout the

  room and then ended up back at the door. The door that lead to

  the stairs and the lake and the light and the cold, rainy night.

  Allison staggered across the room and towards the door.

  Grandma’s nails gouged at her neck. An earring ripped free from

  Allison’s lobe. She worked the locks as Grandma’s body dragged

  from her arm. The door swung free, iciness a wave over her skin.

  Grandma hissed, grabbing Allison’s neck with both hands,

  and shoved. Allison’s head met the hardness of the doorjamb.

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  Stars danced in the middle of the room as she fell to her knees.

  The loosened snaps of Grandma’s gown clacked at Allison’s

  head level.

  “You’re free,” Allison whispered. “Go.”

  Then, the old woman was out the door, her bare feet

  smacking on wet cement. Allison forced her head to turn.

  Rain fell in wavering sheets. Out on the nearby lake dock, a

  single yellow light stood as a sentinel. Grandma, hunched, was

  like a gray shadow in the blackness as she scurried away. The

  unsnapped gown trailed behind her like wings. Then she met the

  stairs. She tumbled, feet over head. Allison listened to the rasps

  of her own breaths. Grandma’s head was visible again, barely.

  She still worked towards that brightness below, just like the

  Asian cockroach she was.

  Allison could have screamed for help. She would have, if

  Grandma had been somewhere within that frail shell.

  A slow ooze of blood coursed Allison’s cheek. She lowered