No matter how hard he tried, Truman Burbank could not remember getting home.
Of course, he knew how he'd gotten home, since it was the same way that he'd left– Marlon had driven him. He'd sat up front, clenching his fists together in a white-knuckled grip while Marlon, in a mellow tone, tried to ask what had happened and if he was okay. The return trip must have been similar. Fragments flashed through his head, mostly aural memories– "I've been away at sea. Had no idea who I was or where I came from. I promise I'll make it up to you, all the time we've lost." He remembered his father– his very much alive father– patting his knee. But he'd been on autopilot ever since they'd come face to face on the bridge. Just like the night I lost him. Twenty-three years later, and Truman still had no idea how he'd gotten to dry land during that fateful tempest.
My dad's back, Truman told himself as he unlocked his front door. Marlon tracked him down. He came back to see me. He's alive.
It didn't take. Over and over the words pulsed in Truman's head, like blood rushing through his ears, and yet here he was with that same hollow feeling, that sense of unfulfillment. Here he was just as on edge as he had been all day.
A lone light shining in the kitchen greeted Truman as he stepped into his house. He half-expected to find Meryl there, loading the dishwasher. But the room was deathly still. Not to mention there were no dishes to wash, anyway. Dinner had been forgotten in the evening's tumult. The realization sent a pang of hunger throughout Truman's body, shaking him from his numbed stupor. At once there was nothing he'd like more than some of Meryl's home-cooked macaroni– or what was left of it from two nights ago. Maybe a glass of milk, to wash it down. But first, out of these damp clothes.
Upstairs, Truman paused in the doorway of his bedroom, listening for Meryl's soft breathing. From the sound of it, she was fast asleep. It was hard to believe that Meryl had chosen to stay in the house after what had happened between them, but, well… this was Meryl after all. For as long as Truman had known her, she'd demonstrated a remarkable ability to brush off all forms of unpleasantness, from minor inconveniences to catastrophes. At first Truman had found this to be an uplifting quality, but her avoidance of serious issues eventually wore thin– especially when she all but demanded the same from Truman himself.
In the dark, Truman changed into his pajamas without another glance towards Meryl. Even if she were awake, he doubted he'd have much to say to her. Not after his father's appearance had swept away all that had happened earlier—
What happened earlier?
DO SOMETHING! Meryl's desperate shout resounded in Truman's inner ear. It echoed through him– do something do something do SOMETHING…
Who was she talking to? Although he was warm in his pajamas, the hairs on Truman's arms stood up. Before the embrace on the bridge, before the talk with Marlon… Meryl had called out to someone who wasn't in the room, as if expecting divine intervention.
His stomach crawling with nerves, Truman crept out of the bedroom. One thing was for sure– something had happened, and Truman needed to get to the bottom of it right now, because he had no idea to whom he could turn. Now was not the time for placating words and reassurances. Now was the time to remove the anvil weighing on his brain. Now was the time for action.
When Truman returned downstairs, he took the leftovers from the fridge and set the container beside Meryl's Chef's Pal™. Just a couple hours ago, Meryl had held him at its point. And now, she was sleeping soundly. The juxtaposition of the two Meryls reminded Truman of a worksheet his parents had given him to keep him occupied on car rides, filled with side-by-side pictures that looked the same, but not quite. Can you spot the differences? He wasn't sure if Meryl or Marlon could. Both had waved away his concerns, Meryl with her rationalizing and Marlon with his platitudes. Even the return of his father felt convenient. As if his presence had been a distraction…
Truman's hands trembled as he transferred the leftovers onto a plate and into the microwave. Though he was the only person in the room, he tried not to visibly express his unease. Something was definitely wrong here. Something had been wrong all week, and Truman was starting to get a sense of why it hadn't gone away.
Despite all that Marlon had told him, despite his father's reappearance… no one had offered any explanations. No one had told Truman why it felt like someone was watching him every second of the day. No one had let Truman know what was so important about Seahaven that he, and he alone, couldn't ever set foot outside it. No one had explained how a policeman he'd never met in his life could know his name, or why the pedestrians on his block kept circling around and around, or what the hell he had seen behind the elevator in the building next to the one where he worked.
All Truman wanted, all he had asked for, were answers. And yet, no one around him– not his best friend, not his wife, not even his own mother– had come anywhere close to providing them.
The microwave dinged, startling Truman from his thoughts. On his way to the table, plate in hand, he spied the box of cocoa mix that Meryl had so insistently and inexplicably pressed upon him. Truman picked it up, wondering if some kind of drug had been mixed into it to make him agreeable, or wipe his memory, or worse. But it looked all right, and smelled all right, and when Truman opened the box, he discovered that Meryl had already made herself a cup. She hadn't seemed to be addressing Truman when she'd spouted off, anyway. Though she'd stared straight at him, Truman had sensed a not-so-imaginary audience– the same people to whom she'd begged to "do something!"
Had it been some kind of code? Was he still under surveillance?
Truman felt like banging his fist against his forehead, but he refrained. If they were observing him… whoever they were… he couldn't show any signs of fear. Deviant behavior had only caused more problems. He needed to be strong.
How long had he been blind to this conspiracy? Why did they want to keep him in Seahaven? What was their goal? How did his dad fit into all this?
Who could he trust?
The last thing I'd ever do is lie to you, Marlon had said, baring a soul that suddenly seemed murky. I mean, if everyone's in on it, I'd have to be in on it, too.
But everyone was in on it. Truman gulped as the painful shock he'd felt earlier that night returned. Meryl… she was definitely in on it. That policeman, and those townspeople, and everyone who'd restrained and obstructed him over the course of the day– none of them were innocent. If them, why not Marlon? Why not the world?
The revelation hurt too much for Truman to want it to be true. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to walk upstairs and throw himself in bed with Meryl, bury his head under the pillow and forget that anything out of the ordinary had happened. But how was he supposed to ignore all that he had seen and heard? His eyes were open now, wider than they'd ever been. What sense was there in closing them again?
Sipping his Mococoa™, Truman discovered it really was the best, like Meryl had said. The thought didn't ease him. From here on out, there was only one course of action, and that was to confront his father. Surely it wasn't too much to ask for Kirk to be honest with him. As a child, Truman had always come running to him when he needed to make sense of the world. Not even the nightmarish week he'd just had could erase those childhood memories of feeling loved and protected and, most importantly, respected.
But if his father offered no explanations…
No. Truman cast the thought as far from his mind as possible.
After finishing his cocoa and rinsing his cup and plate in the sink, Truman trudged upstairs to where Meryl was still fast asleep. The bathroom mirror usually served as an inviting canvas for Truman's imagination, but tonight his reflection just stared blankly. He averted his eyes and turned the water on.
Meryl didn't stir as Truman brushed his teeth, washed his face, and slid into bed beside her. For a long moment, he observed her silent form, watching the sheets rise and fall as she breathed and trying to conjure up some emotion– any emotion. Anything that felt genuine.
"My dad's back," Truman whispered, to no reaction. Out loud, the words sounded even more artificial than they did in his head.
What was it that Sylvia had said to him, once upon a time?
"It's all fake. It's all for you."
All for me. Me. Truman.
Meryl was gone when Truman awoke, which brought the events of the previous day flooding back in a wild rush. The many unsuccessful attempts to leave town, the joyride, the kitchen confrontation, Marlon's empty words, his father's return… Truman nearly sighed aloud, but thought the better of it when he remembered that someone might be watching him. Just take a page from Meryl's book. Smile and nod like everything's fine. Yesterday, Truman had thought for sure that he'd be gone from Seahaven by Sunday, but here he was on a Sunday morning, waking up in his own bed. For a split second, the stability tempted him. Maybe it was a dream… Well, maybe some of it was a dream. Maybe today the pieces would fall into place, and Truman would finally understand.
When Truman came downstairs, he found Meryl sitting demurely at the kitchen table. That's… Odd. Ordinarily he'd find her puttering about, opening cabinets and cracking eggs and displaying herself like a mannequin in a storefront window. It had been a while since such poses enticed Truman, not since Meryl had seriously buckled down on the "let's make a baby" thing. Either way, he could tell from the lack of a smile on Meryl's face that there would no indulgences today.
"Truman." Meryl's voice was soft, yet direct. No "good morning?" Truman was inclined to take that as a bad sign, but on the other hand… maybe yesterday had been a blessing in disguise. Maybe Meryl would finally stop playing around and voice her feelings, instead of painting the world with garish sunshine.
"Yes?" On instinct, Truman moved to pull up a chair, but the look in Meryl's eyes convinced him not to sit in it. A sigh that seemed equal parts discomfort and relief escaped her.
"Truman, I've given it some thought, and I don't think we should ignore what happened yesterday," Meryl began. If she'd paused, Truman would have shouted that he agreed. "You driving around like that, all willy-nilly… it gave me the fright of my life!" Meryl pressed her fingers to her temples. "And when you had that blade against my throat, you could have killed me!" Swallowing, Meryl's mouth turned downward as her eyes welled up. "I don't feel safe in my own home anymore."
That makes two of us…
Truman wished he could feel something in response– even the smallest shred of empathy would have been enough– but Meryl's words smacked of phoniness, just like they had the night before. Part of Truman felt like Meryl deserved this, after he'd seen for himself just how little she cared for his feelings. But he wasn't about to argue with her, because that would mean rocking the boat.
"You know I'd never do anything to hurt you," Truman murmured. He'd never wanted to, really. He even regretted how he'd scared her in the car, as thrilling as the moment had been. No matter how tiresome he found Meryl's behavior, he'd never, ever in a million years raise his hand or even his voice against her. How could he, when the most he could summon was indifference?
Seemingly unconvinced, Meryl began to play fretfully with her hands, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. Her demeanor was strangely refreshing. At least she's being sincere, for once in her life.
"You know, I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to this," Meryl said at last. "But I think… I think it's time that we… take a break."
Confusion swamped Truman. "Take a break?" He deposited himself into the chair and leaned across the table to peer into Meryl's eyes. "We can't just— take a break, Meryl, we— are we talking divorce, or—"
"Please don't blame yourself!" Meryl declared, even though Truman hadn't said anything along those lines. From her regal carriage to the sudden authority in her voice, Truman felt as if she were a royal subject heralding the arrival of the king and queen. "I've tried my best to make you happy, Truman, but I can't keep up with you anymore. I'm sorry." Laying her hand over Truman's, Meryl offered a rueful, bittersweet smile. "You deserve a better partner to accompany you on this crazy adventure called life."
She paused, as if waiting for Truman to respond, but for once he was at a loss for words. On the one hand, this was all he'd ever wanted since the honeymoon phase of their marriage had worn off and Truman was left with the knowledge that he'd settled, in more ways than one. For the past year, he'd imagined with guilt-tinged pleasure how Meryl would react to him taking off on a spontaneous one-way trip to Fiji. But on the other hand… this was too sudden. Too easy. You could just admit that you never loved me. Truman had never given Meryl a reason to be so unquestionably devoted to him, which meant that her feelings couldn't possibly be authentic. Too often her gentility and kindness came across as a stifling hand placed over his mouth.
Besides, why was Meryl trying to make this moment about her, anyway? What lay behind those blue poker chip eyes? She was beginning to sound like a theater actress, spouting lines everywhere—
Oh.
OH.
Truman couldn't let Meryl know that he'd caught on, so he placed his other hand over Meryl's, the way he'd done a million times before. "It's okay. I think you're right." The words were sour in his mouth. Boy, was she ever. "I'm not going to stop ya." Even though she'd tried to stop him…
"Oh, Truman…" Meryl's chin wobbled, and her eyes overflowed. She stood up, crossing the floor and inclining her head towards Truman to peck him on the cheek. "Thank you for understanding. You know I'll always keep a part of you in my heart."
If Truman wanted, he could have pointed out that mere minutes ago, Meryl had suggested a simple break, and now she was acting like Truman was never going to see her again. But as it was, Truman wasn't the least bit surprised. Whether she stayed or left made no difference, because this wasn't about what he wanted anymore. It was about whatever they wanted.
"Are you going to move out today?" Truman asked as he reached for a box of Motion BranTM.
"Don't you worry about that," Meryl said, returning to her syrupy lightheartedness in a flash. As if they hadn't just been discussing the impending breakdown of their marriage. Typical Meryl. "I'll have all my things out of this house by the time you're back from visiting your father."
Something inside Truman shifted. Not in the world-tilting, floor-falling-out-from-below way he'd experienced the day before, sitting in his car and watching the pedestrians loop around his block. And not in the bucket-of-ice-water-thrown-over-his-head way that he'd felt on the bridge with Marlon. Instead, the change was miniscule, a pinprick that confirmed what he'd already known.
He chose his next words carefully.
"Who told you about Dad?"
"What?" Meryl stepped back, breaking into the plasticine smile that Truman knew all too well. "What are you talking about?"
"Dad." Truman tried not to sound urgent, because his insistent questioning about his father had started this whole mess, but… "I didn't tell ya, did I? Dad's back. He's alive."
"Oh!" Instantly Meryl's bewilderment melted into a flustered sort of relief. "Of course, Truman. Marlon told me. He called this morning."
Why did she sound so darn cheery all of a sudden? Memories from the dawn of their marriage stirred in Truman, all those nights that he and Meryl had sat up in bed together. So many times she'd stroked his hand and whispered tell me about your father, Truman. Was he a great man? She was one of the few people who understood exactly how much Truman cherished the memory of his father, and had expressed a deep wish to have met him. And now, she had one foot out the door, prepared to exit stage right. Truman guessed that meant she'd played her part in– in whatever this conspiracy was that surrounded him. Perhaps she'd known all along how little Truman wanted to do with her. But still… had those conversations meant nothing?
"So you see," Meryl continued, speaking as if Truman wasn't there, "you were right, Truman. All these things you've been imagining had to do with your father. There was really no need to run around like you did yesterday. Patience is a virtue, Truman, and I'm afraid you possess very little of it."
As much as Truman wanted to shake Meryl's shoulders, to tell her she wasn't making any sense, to beg her to please be real with him because this was her last chance to do so… he refrained. Not only because he didn't want to raise suspicion, but because he really couldn't be bothered. Meryl had never been worth it. Not after he'd met Sylvia.
"So…" he said slowly. "You'll be goin'?"
Meryl patted Truman's shoulder, before whirling away. "Go see your father, Truman. He's waiting for you."
Playing along with her pretense, Truman did exactly what Meryl had suggested. As he rolled his bike out into the street, he clocked the waves from his neighbors out in their garden, and the nods from passersby. They stayed with him as he rode off, like sunspots painted on the inside of his eyelids. Everyone's in on it. Pedaling like mad out on the road, it was all too easy to forget yesterday's revelations. To disbelieve the conclusions he'd drawn, to shut out the possibility that something was amiss. But that must be how they WANT me to feel. Once Truman had started tugging at a loose thread, he couldn't keep the tapestry from unraveling.
Someone– a coworker, perhaps?– had once told Truman about the human brain, and how easy it was to trick. Humans were prone to seeing patterns that weren't there, he'd explained. They were always trying to make something out of nothing. But lately, it was the nothing that was beginning to seem more like something.
Truman wondered if anyone else in Seahaven had ever felt the same way. Thirty years he'd spent in this town, and no one he knew had ever indicated such a thing. Ordinarily the thought struck Truman as melancholy, but now it brought about a sense of dread.
Just how long has this been going on?
Truman's father was out on the front porch as Truman rode up, leaning back in his white wicker chair as if he'd never left it. Beside him stood Truman's mother, her hands placed on his shoulders, gazing dreamily off into the distance. And sitting in folding chairs around them were Cynthia and Ernest, the elderly couple from next door. Truman almost did a double take as he skidded to a stop, the presence of others catching him off-guard. He hadn't anticipated that his dad would want an audience.
"Dad!" Truman called from the end of the walkway. For an aching moment he was a kid again and all was right with the world. His dad was going to walk him to the bus stop, hand over his bagged lunch, tell him to have a great day and that he'd be there when Truman returned. When his father waved, however, the spell was broken.
"Truman!" Kirk Burbank rose from his chair as Truman approached the porch and said a quick hello to the visiting neighbors. "How are you, son?" He grabbed Truman's arms and looked him over approvingly, his eyes sparkling, as if he couldn't believe that Truman was standing before him. Despite himself, a flush of adrenaline swept Truman's body. There was no mistaking it– this was his father. This was the man who'd raised him and taught him right from wrong, whose absence had haunted Truman every day of his adult life. This was his father, happy to see his family again after so many years.
So why wasn't Truman happy?
"I'm fine," he murmured, because that was what he was supposed to say, and leaned in for a hug. Truman's father chuckled as he let go of him, before gesturing to a chair. "Why don't you take a seat?"
"Kirk was just telling Ernest and Cynthia all about the time he spent out at sea," Truman's mother declared. "What a dreadful time it must have been!" She laid her hand on Truman's arm as he pulled up one of the folding chairs. "I made lemonade, Truman, would you like some?"
"No… no, I'm fine." Truman sat down, hardly glancing at his mother. He couldn't believe the normalcy of this scene. Many a childhood Sunday morning he'd stepped out on the porch to say hello to Ernest and Cynthia. Many a time his father had sat outside, resting his feet on the porch railing with his arms folded across his chest. "Just watching the world pass by," he'd respond whenever Truman asked what he was doing. Sometimes they'd sit together, Truman snacking on an orange from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and his father puffing on a pipe that he didn't want Truman's mother to know he still owned.
It was so routine, so comforting, and yet Truman couldn't shake his anxiety because there was no way to know if it was genuine. Eagerly he waited for his father to proceed with his interrupted tale. Kirk had been out there, after all– away from Seahaven. If something was keeping Truman in town, surely his dad would know firsthand.
"Well, go on, then," Ernest said, as if he'd read Truman's thoughts. "Tell us more. How'd you end up on dry land again?"
"I'm afraid there's not much more to tell." Truman's father huffed an easy sigh. "Perhaps I should start from the beginning, now that Truman's here." He leveled a smile towards Truman, and Truman found himself smiling back. But even as he did so, his heart pounded frantically. Was his father finally going to answer his questions? Would he provide a sufficient explanation for everything that had happened that week? Could Truman accept that what he was going to hear was the truth?
Truman's hope spiked when his father led off with what he'd mentioned last night– the friendly fisherman who'd pulled him from the sea, the bump on the head that had set his memory back a decade. He listened with bated breath as his father detailed the months he'd spent catching fish, cleaning them, and selling them at various ports along the coast, and how the months had turned into years. He allowed his father to recount how he'd eventually earned enough to open his own shop, all the while unaware of his true origins. But when the crucial moment came– a business trip to Seahaven that had jogged Kirk's memory and hastened his return– something about his recollections felt… off.
"I'd only been here a day," Truman's father said, "but I knew already that this place was different. This was a place where I could settle down, rest my weary bones. And it was on that very day that I found you, Truman."
So sucked into the vivid imaginings of his father's tale, Truman was jolted by the mention of his name. "Me?" His stomach plunged. "It really was you—"
"When I saw your face that day," Truman's father declared, "it started coming back to me. Piece by piece, the memories of the life I had lived. Next thing I knew, someone's calling me up, says he's a friend of my son. My son!" Truman's father shook his head, as if in disbelief. "As soon as I heard his voice, I knew. That man I'd seen on the street was my son, and I was speaking to his best friend, Marlon. And this town that felt so homey, so familiar– this was where I'd spent half my life! All those years of wandering…" His voice wavered, a fragile smile on his face. "I can't tell you how good it feels to finally come home, and it's all thanks to you, Truman." He aimed his smile at Truman, though it didn't quite touch his eyes. "If you hadn't had your suspicions, Marlon would have never thought to look for me."
For some unknown reason, Truman expected to hear applause once his father had finished speaking. He gazed from face to face, observing Ernest and Cynthia's understanding nods, and his mother's gentle smile.
That was it? The story had a nice ring to it, all wrapped up with a bow on top, but something wasn't adding up.
"What about those guys on the bus?"
Truman's words shattered the peace of the moment like a stone being cast into a pond. Ernest and Cynthia's gazes zeroed in on him. His mother stopped smiling, her grip on his father's hand tightening. Only Kirk remained unchanged, meeting Truman's eyes without a hint of apprehension.
"What guys, Truman?"
"When we met on the street. A bunch of guys forced you onto the bus. I was there, I saw it!" The accusation seemed to disturb his company even further. Ernest and Cynthia inched closer to each other. Maybe Truman sounded too insistent, too hung up on this one detail. But he didn't care.
"I don't— I don't know what was going on." Truman's father took a deep breath. "Still had a few holes in my memory. Besides, I can't blame them. They probably thought I was a common bum, dressed the way I was. You know, Truman, when you're out at sea all the time, you forget to buy new clothes."
"Anyway, all that unpleasantness is over with," Truman's mother declared. "Cynthia, would you like to come inside and take a look at the aloe plant I've been trying to grow? I'm sure your green thumb will do it a world of good."
"I'll come with you," Ernest announced, helping his wife from her chair. "Good seeing you, Truman."
With that, they trundled off, leaving Truman alone on the porch with his father. Just like old times. Except back then, Truman had felt secure and sated– exactly the opposite of his current situation.
Meryl was one thing, Marlon was another, but to suspect his father made Truman feel sick. Surely Kirk was telling the truth when he said he didn't remember what had happened just a few days ago. Surely there was nothing calculated about his return, no hidden agenda. Surely his father would never make up a story just to make him feel better.
"Look at that." Truman's gaze followed the arc of Kirk's hand as he gestured to the street, where two girls were riding their bikes, side by side. Their parents trailed a few feet behind, holding hands and chatting quietly.
"You don't meet nice folks like that when you're a fisherman, Truman," his father said wistfully. "It's the people I missed the most, when I was away."
Truman didn't reply immediately, staring after the amateur cyclists until they rounded the corner and disappeared. How many times have they been around this block…?
"What was it really like out there, Dad?" he ventured. "Did you get to see the world?"
"Hardly," his father scoffed. "What little I saw of it sure didn't impress me. The further away I got from Seahaven, the more I felt the longing for a place to- to belong." He sighed. "You can travel far and wide, but nothing beats the feeling of settling down right in your own backyard."
Right in your own backyard… Truman folded his hands in his lap and tried to copy his father's peaceful expression, but inside he churned. His head swam with jagged images of the pounding sea that had stolen his father away… the sea from which his father had been rescued hours later. The sea that he and Sylvia had walked beside, for one fleeting night.
"Everybody's pretending, Truman! Do you understand? They're all pretending!"
If they were pretending, Truman could pretend right along with them.
Marlon was waiting for Truman when he got home, inspecting the front lawn with a six-pack of beer dangling from his hand. The sight didn't surprise Truman in the least. First Meryl, then my parents, now Marlon. It seemed his friends and family were determined not to let him spend a second on his own.
"Hey, Truman." Marlon straightened up and smiled as Truman walked his bike into the yard. Truman smiled back, though he felt cold inside. He'd never thought the time would come when Marlon's presence failed to cheer him up. Oh, what a difference a day makes…
"I heard the news." Marlon brandished the beers. "Figured you could use a little company."
"The news…"
Sympathy shone in Marlon's eyes. "Meryl told me."
"…Oh." That's right. The only reason Truman had gone to see his parents was to give Meryl some space to move her things out of the house. Somehow Truman had completely forgotten that she'd left him. Of course, it didn't help that neither of his parents had even mentioned Meryl while he was over. Nor had Truman thought to inform them. It was as if Meryl had never existed, removing herself from the narrative of Truman's life as tidily as she conducted every other business.
At first it seemed strange that Meryl should have spoken to Marlon about a decision she'd apparently made overnight, but Truman immediately discarded the suspicion, if only because there was no use anymore. Questioning would lead him nowhere. All Truman had to do was bide his time, partake in the continued charade until Marlon left and he had the space to parse through his thoughts and figure out just what the hell he was going to do.
Marlon came forward, throwing his arm around Truman's shoulders and herding him towards the front door. "C'mon, it's happy hour, on me. Whaddaya say? A few drinks and some football 'll cheer you up in no time."
"Thanks, Marlon," Truman answered wanly, as if he were in fact the heartbroken husband that Marlon believed him to be. That he was supposed to be. Is that what it's come to? Couldn't he just relax and hang with Marlon without reading any hidden intentions into their interactions…
No. No, he couldn't drop his guard. He just had to shut his mind up, observe without reacting, until Marlon was out of the house.
In no time, Truman and Marlon had settled on the couch, one beer for each and a freshly-popped bowl of popcorn perched between them. It turned out there weren't any sports on, so they flipped through channels for a bit, passing silly game shows and news reports and classic Hollywood films.
"I wouldn't worry too much about Meryl," Marlon said between mouthfuls of popcorn, his eyes glued to the woman in the lipstick commercial onscreen. "I think it's the job that cracked her. All that stress. Once she's got her head sorted, she'll be back."
"I'm not sure," Truman said. His hands felt clammy, a slick sheen of sweat coating them. How much was safe to tell Marlon, and how much wasn't? He'd never had to… deceive his best friend before. It was difficult to start now. "I don't think she's coming back."
"Oh." Marlon tore his gaze from the screen to give Truman a look of such sincerity that Truman felt as if he'd been scolded. How dare he sit here and think such insecure, paranoid thoughts about his friend? "Well, that's a shame. I had no idea things were that bad." He shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Truman took a performative sip of beer, the sour taste stinging his throat. "It wasn't… I guess it wasn't really that bad until… lately, y'know? This past week…" He drew breath, prepared to describe how everything had felt so wrong lately and how the stuff with Meryl was only the tip of the iceberg and how his father's return had only confused him further– but then he caught himself. This wasn't what Marlon wanted to hear. Truman sighed and affected a cursorily regretful air.
"I guess I really put her through the ringer, didn't I?"
"Hey." Marlon set his beer down. "Don't beat yourself up over this, okay? You did the best you could. Sometimes it just doesn't work out." He shrugged. "Anyway… there's plenty more fish in the sea, right?"
Truman stared, unsure of how to take Marlon's words. After meeting Meryl in college, he'd tended to think of himself, her, and Marlon as a three-person unit. There was no birthday party, sock hop, or Fourth of July barbecue that they hadn't attended together. To hear Marlon seemingly write off such a loyal figure to both of them was disconcerting.
"I guess…" Truman said slowly. "I think I'd rather spend some time on my own for a while."
Marlon tossed his head dismissively. "C'mon. You know as well as I do that the best way to get over someone is to get back on the horse."
"Oh, right." Truman snorted playfully. "I learned from the best." He gazed at Marlon, as if staring at him for long enough would bring back their natural sense of camaraderie. But the air between them remained as empty as it had when he'd first spotted Marlon in the yard.
"Hey, we're talking about your life here," Marlon shot back.
Truman's gaze drifted to the TV screen. "Never said we weren't." He grinned to sell the illusion, and Marlon laughed.
It took hours for Marlon to finally leave. Even when Truman stepped outside to see him off, he got trapped into a conversation with Spencer that seemed to last hours. Eventually he managed a convincing-enough excuse and crawled back to the safety of his own home. Or rather, what would have been safety just a week ago.
What was that saying about… the walls having eyes, or ears, or whatever? Even without concrete proof, Truman had never felt such a thing more acutely. Usually on weekends, Meryl filled the house with noise– the water running as she scrubbed potatoes to boil for dinner, the radio providing a soundtrack to her obsessive dusting and sweeping. Without her, the house felt abnormally silent. Truman was terrified to even cough, for fear that he'd be heard for miles around.
He was alone, and yet he wasn't alone. How could he be alone? What would happen if he ran out screaming in the street? If he sat down and stayed put all night? Would the world react accordingly? Or would he be returned to his usual path, as has happened time and time again?
A path I never asked for…
He had to do something, or… or else they'd know. Someone would know. Truman moved through the house, inspecting surfaces for dust and noting the absence of Meryl's Chef's PalTM on the counter, the spare keys missing from the rack by the door. As he fell into the guise of cleaning, his thoughts grew more pronounced.
Okay. He should assume that he was still being monitored. Assume that this wouldn't end until whoever was watching him felt that he'd managed to move on, putting all his suspicions out of his head. How could Truman make them believe that, even though it wasn't true?
What had caused this, anyway? Had someone dropped a nuclear bomb on the rest of the world? Then how come there were still buses running in and out of Seahaven, buses that never seemed to start when Truman stepped on? Seahaven wasn't that far from the coast. If there'd been a bomb, Truman would have felt its effects.
Maybe it was a pandemic, a virus that wiped out the population of everyone else on Earth except for the folks from Seahaven. But that still didn't explain the buses. And it definitely didn't explain why no one could just tell Truman that he'd be at risk if he left the island.
So maybe… Truman paused in his cleaning as the heavy thought descended on him. Maybe this was all some sort of experiment. Maybe he'd been selected as the control subject, logging the effects of travel on a body. And this, he imagined the scientists cooing, is what happens to a person who has never experienced travel whatsoever.
Except… he had traveled before, hadn't he? As a child he'd gone to Mount Rushmore, or so his mother had told him. And they'd gone other places, he was sure. He could hardly remember…
Maybe this was all a plot designed by his mother. After losing her husband, maybe she had decided to never let Truman out of her sight. A hollow feeling rose in Truman's chest. He couldn't imagine his mother lying to him for so long, sabotaging his own decisions…
But how was that any different from Meryl hurling brand names at him when he was trying to open up to her, from Marlon telling him blithely to "get back on the horse," from his father hardly acknowledging the world that existed outside of Seahaven?
None of them were going to help Truman. Not even if they wanted to. If Truman was determined to escape this conspiracy, he had to do so on his own.
Truman didn't go up to bed after dinner that night. Maybe the bed felt too wide and empty without Meryl in it, or maybe he couldn't stop imagining himself being watched, unable to catch a break when asleep. Whatever Truman felt, it wasn't long before he ended up in the basement. It was strange, he hardly ever went down here at night, usually because he was occupied with Meryl. But Meryl was gone, along with any semblance of normality, so what was stopping him? The basement had always been something of a safe haven, a place where Truman could reflect on the past and dwell on what might have been. Tonight, however, he didn't dare open the chest that contained the last vestiges of Sylvia. Instead, he sat down in front of the large map on the wall. Fiji.
Once upon a time, the world had seemed Truman's oyster. All those books about explorers and their discoveries had stoked his wanderlust as a kid, until they'd gone mysteriously missing following a yard sale. He'd acted out the expeditions he'd read about on the playground with Marlon, daydreamed about hot desert sands and steamy green jungles and crisp mountain air. How enticing the open water had looked, the water that had consumed his father and then, inexplicably, returned him. Life had slowly rerouted Truman's ambition, assuring him that the best method of happiness was assimilation. That was one thing Sylvia hadn't wanted to do. And for that, she'd been banished from Truman's life.
They're watching us, Sylvia's sweet voice rang in his head. They're watching us, right now!
…So what do you want to do?
Following the weekend, life proceeded at its usual pace. Truman rose from his new spot in the basement, picked out a suit to wear, used the bathroom, ate breakfast, waved to the neighbors and bought a magazine and settled down to take calls at his cubicle. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred– no traffic stopping as he walked into the street, no radios broadcasting his every move, no giant lights falling from the sky. So that's it. As long as Truman stayed inside the lines, everything would be fine.
Except it wasn't fine, because just as Truman was launching into his sales pitch, his coworker walked by, escorting a woman Truman had never seen before. The first glance brought him up short, because… she looked like Sylvia. The way she held herself, the clothing she wore… As she drew nearer, the similarities ended, but Truman couldn't stop staring.
"Truman, this is Vivien," said Truman's coworker, by way of greeting. "Vivien, this is Truman. The two of you are going to be neighbors!"
The smile on Vivien's face blew Truman's halfhearted attempt at the same out of the water. A sense of déjà vu prickled him all over again. That was Meryl's smile, all shallow and seductive. She had Meryl's smile and Sylvia's eyes, and she wouldn't quit staring at Truman, not until she was led away.
It didn't take long to finish the sale and hang up, but the sight of Vivien left Truman reeling. This couldn't be a coincidence. He hadn't even told anyone in the office that Meryl had left him, and here came this woman from out of the blue, with a look in her eye that could entrap him before he knew it. They were pre-planning his life, again. He would never be free.
Except… he could be.
"Get out of here," Sylvia had whispered to Truman from the car, on the night that had changed his life forever. "Come and find me."
And that was just what Truman decided to do.