Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews!
Juniper Frost: I don't think it's weird for you to want more – I encourage it! Otherwise, I'm just a weird girl talking to herself. Oh, and I don't think I've ever been complimented on my "feels" before, so thank you for that!
imperius01: Aw, thank you! I hope I can keep it up!
TheBlade17: I'm glad you like the story! I'm not familiar with Batman, but I think I once saw a parody of that Joker scene in "The Simpsons" when Lisa had those ugly braces fitted. It was a long time ago now. They hardly ever show the good old reruns these days.
Invader Johnny: I feel that, too. From what I've seen of Jack and Maddie on the show, I think they would be tempted to revert to "science mode" when something goes wrong, because being in "parent mode" is too emotionally draining. Thanks for keeping an eye on the characters in this way. If anyone seems out of character, let me know and I'll sort it out.
Guest: Thank you! I was worried that the descriptions might be too detailed or not detailed enough, so I appreciate the reassurance!
On with the next chapter! Please keep reading and reviewing!
Chapter Two: Dependence
Evening draws in. The window to your left welcomes the gentle orange beams, which illuminate the NASA posters on your left wall. It's a shame you can't enjoy the effect. You're viewing the world through squinting eyes.
Whatever your parents injected into your bloodstream wore off ages ago. Your nerves are on high alert. You're aware of every tremor in every part of your body. The skin around your chest seems to have shrunk in the wash; you're scared to breathe too deeply in case it bursts open and your guts spill out. Even turning your head to the side is a chore.
When Dad arrives with a bubbly pink drink in his hands, he carries the warm meaty aroma that wafts upwards from the kitchen. You lick your chapped lips. You could use a distraction right now.
"What's for dinner?" you ask him, once again startled by your own voice's animalistic timbre.
"A glass of ecto-purifier and a mouthful of pills. Lucky you," he jokes.
That was not the answer you were expecting. "But – downstairs – the smell-"
"Oh, that's dinner for us, not for you. Your mother and I thought it would be better to keep you off the solids for a while. We don't want to overload the system when it's trying to fix itself."
"Oh. Okay." You try smiling back at him; your cheeks hurt. Well, it could be worse. They could have thrown you out onto the street and refused to feed you at all.
Dad puts the glass down, produces about seven boxes from his spacious jumpsuit pockets and arranges them on the chest of drawers. Tiny capsules in every colour of the rainbow fall into his hand.
"Wait!" Jazz pops up between you and Dad. When did she sneak in? "Before he puts these weird anti-ghost things in his system, I want to know exactly what they are and what they do!"
Dad rattles off the names as he points to each pill. "The stuff in the glass is ecto-purifier to treat the ecto-acne. These two pills are made from blood blossoms, a natural ghost repellent and human painkiller. This is Hotynuff for the ectoplasm burns. This is Yurynate, a laxative to make him pee all the ghost chemicals out of his system. This is Feelyn to sort out the nerve damage. This is Myndfol, a parapsychology blocker to prevent the growth of any ghost tumours in his brain. This is Blowitol to treat his lungs. And this is just plain old Vitamin D to make up for not going out in the Sun. But it's Vitamin D with the name 'Fenton' on it!"
His speech finished, he scoops the pills into the fluid and watches them dissolve.
"Do you catch what any of that stuff was?" you ask Jazz, making your speech as quiet as it can go while still being heard.
"I got the Vitamin D," she whispers back, "but the rest of it? You'll just have to trust him."
She lifts you by the armpits into a sitting position, manoeuvring your pillow to support your back. When she moves away, you're resting on your stubby arms. You grunt. There's too much weight on them. You just want to get this over and done with.
Sensing your discomfort, Jazz holds the glass with one hand and cradles your balding head with the other. She presses the drink to your lips. You take a sip. A rank tang fizzes on your tongue. You moan and push the glass back with your head.
"What's wrong?" Jazz asks.
"It tastes like sewage," you spit.
"How would you know? Have you ever tried drinking sewage?" Dad points out. When you refuse to answer that question, he changes his tactics. "Listen, I'm not going to pretend this is the most delicious thing you'll ever have, but you have to drink it. It's supposed to help you get better. You want to get better, don't you?"
You clench your phantom fists and open your mouth. The cure may be rancid, but it's a million times better than the disease.
The thin sour liquid pours down your throat once more. The muscles in your neck tighten. You want to gag, to squirt it back into your dad's face, but you suppress those instincts. You gulp it down and don't stop until there's almost nothing in the glass.
"See?" says Dad, taking the receptacle from Jazz. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Your big sister lies you back down before picking up the lemon yellow Yurynate box and examining the label. "Isn't this thing a laxative?"
"That's right." Dad sounds prouder of this than he should be.
You cotton on as well. "What am I supposed to do if I have to go to the bathroom?"
"Just go," is your father's instant answer.
"But I can't walk down the hall by myself," you snort. "I can't even sit up without my body trying to kill me."
"No, I mean just go. There's a bedpan ready and waiting beneath you." He pulls the cover back. Your bare butt is perched on an oval bowl made of grey plastic.
"Ugh."
"We've also removed your pyjama pants," he adds. An unnecessary comment, given that you can clearly see the lack of pants.
"Uh … thanks. I guess."
…
While your parents and sister are gathered around the kitchen table tucking into meatloaf or whatever, you've been lying here by yourself squeezing your thighs together. You will not use the bedpan. You will not use the bedpan. You will never stoop so low. You wish someone would pop in and carry you to the bathroom.
Plates clatter. It sounds like they've finished their meal. Are they finally going to check up on you?
Nope. The tap's running so Mom can do the dishes!
You groan. Why? Why must they torture you so?
You can't take it anymore. You release it. You go to the bathroom in your own bed. It's as humiliating as it sounds.
Jazz comes in as soon as you finish. Where was she a few seconds ago?!
She sniffs the air. "I'm guessing you've used the bedpan?"
"I held out as long as I could," you grumble.
"Hey, there's no shame in it. It's better than wetting the bed and making Mom wash the sheets every five seconds."
"Humph."
She sighs; she can tell from your grimace that you're not convinced. "I'll just pour this stuff out and give the bedpan a wipe."
She does so. About ten minutes later, she returns, dragging two tubs of water behind her. One is overflowing with bubbles. The other is clear.
"Wow. What's the occasion?" you ask.
"It's time for your bed bath!" She pulls your sheets onto the floor with a flourish and a cheesy grin.
"Bed bath?" you echo, like a dumbfounded parrot.
"Yep!" Without asking, she turns you onto your side and places a towel behind you. "Just because you're bedridden and wounded doesn't mean you have a licence to stink up the place." Then, without asking, she turns you onto that towel to place another one. You're being treated like an inconvenient piece of furniture that keeps getting in the way but can't be thrown out because it's been in the family for generations.
"How come you're doing this and not Mom or Dad?" A third towel covers your legs (and your modesty). "Not that I don't appreciate it or anything, but where are they?"
"In the lab," says Jazz, with a note of scorn. "Apparently, the unusual readings from the Fenton Portal are more important than their own son." She's so annoyed her fumbling hands can barely unbutton your pink pyjama shirt. After inhaling deeply and calming down, she expertly slips it off.
This is the first time you've had a proper look at your chest. Chunks of deathly pale flesh have been stitched together with an almost luminous white thread. You look like a macabre patchwork quilt. You're a real-life example of Frankenstein's monster.
"We'll have to be careful here," says Jazz, tracing the path of your parents' craftsmanship with her finger. "It's probably not a good idea to get soap in the wounds."
"Do you actually know what you're doing?"
"Of course. I borrowed a book from the library. It was written by a doctor and everything."
You keep your mouth shut. You're running out of things to argue with your sister about and you don't like it.
Jazz misinterprets your silence as reluctance. "Come on, this could be fun. Remember when we shared a bath and made ourselves beards out of the bubbles?"
"Yes, but I was about six! It was cute then! This is completely different."
"Well, you can't stop it happening, so let's make it work."
The water splashes as she tests the temperature, and then it begins.
There's a pattern to this, as Jazz explains. She rubs a bar of soap on your skin. She gets a washcloth and scrubs at that space to dislodge any bacteria, before tossing it in one of the basins. A second washcloth from the less frothy basin rinses away the soap, and then she pats you dry with a towel and moves on to another part of the body.
That's the theory. In practice, modifications have to be made. She starts with your face, ears and neck. There's a limit to what she can do because your skin prickles when she tries applying the soap (and you yelp to alert her to this fact). In the end, she's reduced to dabbing a bit of water on you and patting it off immediately after. On her instruction, you keep your eyes shut at all times. The scraps of hair that remain on your head are treated with a dry shampoo that makes it look like you have a seriously bad case of pungent dandruff.
She switches to your left arm and shoulder, then your right arm and shoulder, then your chest, stomach and sides. "Are you warm enough?" she asks as she's drying your belly.
"Yeah." You're enjoying yourself now. There's something therapeutic about baths, even if they're just bed baths. Before, you were tainted by the ecto-energy from the portal. It clung to you and pushed you down. After, the murky film has peeled away. You feel a lot less sticky. You're cleaner, lighter and, strange as it may sound, more optimistic.
Jazz carries on, moving the modesty towel above your waist and soaking your legs. The feet, the horrid hematite feet, are the most difficult things to wash so far. For the longest time, she creeps towards them and then retreats, as if she's afraid there'll be a gory explosion if she puts the smallest amount of pressure on them. She eventually decides that the best way to not make you bleed to death is to drape the washcloth over the feet, leave it there for a few seconds, and then remove it.
"Can you turn over for me?"
You heave yourself onto your right-hand side. It's not as painful as you expected. The blood blossoms (or whatever Dad called the red painkillers) must be working. A chill runs down your spine as more water dribbles down your back. You frown when you notice the coolness spreading to your buttocks. "You're going a little low, aren't you?"
"I have to. And there's an even trickier part coming up."
Jazz snaps on a pair of latex gloves, retrieves a clean washcloth and lifts your left leg. Oh, no. She's about to wash you … down there.
"Do we have to do this?"
"Yep. Every day. Even on the days when you're not having a full-body bed bath."
"Are you nuts? I'm not getting those bits wiped by my sister!"
"It'll be fine. Just pretend I'm Paulina." She attempts a Latina accent. "Hi! I'm Danny's girlfriend! I'm ever so pretty! Who wants a taco?"
"Now that's just racist."
"Yeah, I'm going to stop that."
You close your eyes and imagine yourself being somewhere far, far away from here.
Before long, it's over. She finishes off with a chalk-coloured lotion on your back and face – one of Mom's soothing anti-ecto-acne concoctions – before buttoning up your shirt. She grins when she puts the covers back over you.
"What?" you bark.
"Admit it."
"Admit what?"
"That you liked it."
You don't say anything.
"It was nice," she insists, "wasn't it?"
You don't meet her eyes. "I do feel cleaner. Thanks," you add gruffly.
Jazz kisses your vein-riddled forehead. "You're welcome."
Neither one of you can resist smiling at each other.
"Aww!"
Jazz whips her head around. Your parents are standing in the doorway. "You kids are so sweet!" Mom simpers.
"What were you doing to the portal?" your sister sneers.
"The portal? Oh, that. Nothing special. Just, uh…" Mom has a nearly-empty fuchsia bottle in her hand. "Danny, you'll need a little more ecto-purifier before you go to sleep."
You glance down at the spots on your arms. First the juice and pills, then the cream, and now more juice? Those guys really don't like skin conditions. "I'm fine, honestly," you bleat. "Dad gave me some blood blossoms and the pain's almost gone. And Jazz has just put that cream on my skin."
"Yes," Mom concedes, "but those things are treating the symptoms, not the cause. The ecto-acne could still be weakening your muscles and we need the ecto-purifier to counteract that."
"We don't want what happened to Vlad to happen to you," says Dad.
"Who's Vlad?"
"Ignore your father." Mom shoves the ecto-purifier in your face. "Just finish this off, sweetie, and you'll be fine."
She drives the neck of the bottle between your teeth. You nearly inhale the stuff in her haste. "Who's Vlad?" you try again between hacking coughs.
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. "Jack! Now look what you've done!"
"Hey, I wasn't the one who sprung the ecto-purifier on him!"
"I meant you've got him worked up about Vlad!"
"Why can't we tell him about Vlad?"
"Because I told you I didn't want to scare him."
"It won't scare him. Kids see a lot on TV these days. And don't you think he ought to know?"
Before Mom can continue her protest, Dad sits on the chair beside you, whips a picture out of his pocket (is there anything he doesn't carry in those pockets?) and holds it up for you to scrutinise. It displays a young Dad looking exactly the same as he does now, with exactly the same jumpsuit, the only difference being the longer hair that isn't turning white. He has his arm around a much skinnier man with spiky dark grey hair, wearing a gold and green t-shirt and brown trousers.
"Vlad Masters was my best friend in college," Dad reminisces. "And my roommate. And my lab partner. We did everything together. He let me blabber on about ghosts, and I bought him piles of Green Bay Packers merchandise." Hence the colours of Vlad's t-shirt. "One of our biggest projects was a prototype of the ghost portal. It was only a small thing, about to size of a guy's head, but it was a giant leap for us."
"That was how we met, wasn't it?" Mom chips in. "You two built the portal, and then you roped me in to fill out all the paperwork you hated doing."
"Yep, we made a great team." Dad's beaming, but not for long. "Why did I turn that thing on? Your mother was trying to tell me something – she thought the calculations weren't right. But I wasn't listening. I slammed the lever down on the remote…" His voice seems thicker now. "Vlad was still checking it over … and the blast … his face…"
He stands, turns away and moves into a corner of the room.
It's Mom who breaks the silence, taking up the story where her husband left off. "Vlad's face was covered in pimples. I knew what was wrong with him as soon as I saw them. But we were young then, and we didn't understand as much as we do now about treating ecto-acne. We couldn't sort him out by ourselves, so we rushed him to hospital instead." She pauses. "Sadly, they knew even less about the disease. Most of the doctors didn't think ghosts existed in the first place."
"Was Vlad okay?" you ask.
Mom makes a noise that is half-chuckle and half-sob. "He was as far from okay as you can get. Those spots completely drained him. He couldn't move a muscle – not even his heart." She lingers near the end of the story, watching her husband. "He passed away in the middle of the night."
Dad sniffs and leaves the room.
"Vlad … died?" Jazz whispers.
You put your stumps together; if you still had all your body parts, you would be lying there with hands clasped and palms sweating. "A-A-Am I going to die, too?" you quaver.
Mom's eyes widen. "No, of course not!" She puts a hand on your shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about. Vlad didn't last twenty-four hours, but you've made it from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening – you were unconscious while we fixed you up on Saturday – so you've already lasted way longer than he did!"
You can barely hear her reassurance above the ringing in your ears and the churning of your stomach at the thought that you could be next.