Chapter 41
The first time I woke up, I wasn't really awake.
Washed-out, bright sunlight shone through the bedroom window, but the window had bars on it—skeletal black bars against the white autumn sky.
That was the first indication that I hadn't yet returned to the here and now.
The second was that I was in the middle of a conversation with some raspy, disembodied voice telling me, "Regardless of your own personal philosophy, not washing bagged lettuce can be hazardous to your health."
I said, "I'm with you on the raw chicken thing, but rewashing triple-washed salad seems kind of extreme."
"So you believe in salmonella, but you don't believe in the hundreds of strains of E. coli."
"I try to strike a balance between self-care and paranoia."
"I understand," she said, "but the point is you think your perception can change reality, and it can't. It is what it is, whether you believe it is or not."
"Saying 'it is what it is,' is just an egotistical way of dismissing what matters to other people but not to you."
"That's your belief," she said. "I rest my case."
While savoring the brief reprieve, I thought I heard knocking. My rational mind argued bars on the windows meant bars on the doors, too, so I figured I must have been imagining it.
"Right and wrong exist with or without your approval."
"Inadmissible," I said. "You already rested your case."
"Walt is right."
A wave of the earlier volcanic anger rolled through me again, scorching my sore shoulder and boiling in my core.
"If that's how the world works, then why bother trying?"
"Because it is possible to become more agreeable."
"You sound like my mother," I said.
"That's right."
"Vicodin causes nightmares."
"It's only a nightmare if you wake up from it. If you sleep through it, it's just a bad dream."
"Lucid dreams then."
"That would suggest you can control the events," she rasped.
"Agreed. I chose to have this boring-ass conversation about nothing."
"Then you must have chosen this, too."
Before I even had time to wonder, I had a full-sized Baretta shoved in my mouth, the muzzle touching the back of my throat, the front sight scraping my palate, my top teeth biting down on the cold steel of the slide, and the chill of sheer, unadulterated terror spreading through me.
I tried to shake my head, and the pressure increased. The trigger guard was smashed against my bottom lip which in turn was smashed against my teeth, and I could taste the blood and the metal, smell the gun oil. My gag reflex activated, and I retched, drool dripping down my chin from the corner of my mouth.
Then in this meta, out-of-body moment, I could see myself, eyes and mouth wide, and from my chin, stringy saliva dripping onto an orange jumpsuit that wasn't orange but rather black-and-white striped, which in jumpsuits carries the same significance, just as cardiac arrest and heart failure have different labels but similar matter.
Or maybe it's not like that at all.
Again there was the knocking, this time unmistakable, and I realized I was wearing the jumpsuit I perceived to be orange, not only because of captivity but also because of Halloween, and the most ambitious trick-or-treaters had a gun to my head, except instead it was suggestively nudging my uvula, not to be confused with similar-sounding anatomy located at the opposite pole. Then again, the confusion wouldn't change the story a whole lot.
The third indication that I was still stalled out in the ether was that responding to the beckoning seemed to require swimming up from the depths of my being, where there is no air and where sky is water, through vast paleness towards bright light where wake is the surface and where, if still forty feet from the surface, the air presenting itself as water is in fact just air, so instead of drowning, a panicked gulp results in two thirsty lungs full, and instead of being beyond the last breath, the gulp becomes the first in a series of breaths surrounding the surface of the bad dream, which officially becomes a nightmare upon reentrance into the material.
The knocking persists.
I'm halfway down the stairs before I realize that I am not, in fact, wearing prison garb, though if I were I would likely smell better, and that my mouth is unoccupied. The drool, however, is a reality.
In the pulsating fog of my semi-consciousness, there is no app for speculating as to who it might be. Somehow I know it's not him, and beyond that, I don't especially care.
As it turns out, when I open the door, I am somewhat surprised to find Henry and Tabatha standing there, both perfectly groomed and smiling. Tabatha is holding a pumpkin.
"It's Halloween," I say, and they both react palpably either to what I said or, more likely, to how I said it.
I stand aside and gesture for them to enter because now I'm self-conscious about speaking.
"We are here, Vic," Henry says, picking up a half-empty Sierra Nevada Pale Ale from the table, examining it, and putting it back down, "mostly to prove to Walter that you will not perish from a broken collarbone if he goes home to get some rest. But also to help with whatever you need."
"Sounds like you two've had a rough few days," Tabatha says, using the remote to turn down the volume on the sound bar, which I only now notice is playing Back to Black. I have no recollection of turning it on.
"You may, however, perish from mixing alcohol with prescription narcotics," Henry says.
He's pouring the remaining beer down the sink.
"What?" I say.
"The fact that you do not seem to recall mixing the two is a good indication that you did. Unless Walt left a half-finished bottle of a bohemian microbrew on your table this morning?"
"He didn't come in," I say.
"I know," he says. "And like you, he is catastrophizing because that is what he does."
"We're fucking it up pretty bad," I say.
"Or you are just being human."
"Honey," Tabatha says, as she straightens the pillows on the couch, "you can worry about the crops when the tornado passes."
"Huh?"
"It's something my sister back in Huron used remind me of often because I so dearly needed reminding." She stands up and looks at me, so warm and so accepting. "Chances are the corn'll survive. If it doesn't, you'll plant more, and if it's too late this year, your loved ones'll help you through it, and you'll sow again next year."
"That is a metaphor," Henry says.
"I'm not an idiot," I say.
"No, you are just intoxicated and listening to Amy Winehouse, neither of which indicate healthy decision-making."
"Walt was concerned about you taking a bath and changing your clothes," Tabatha says.
"I suppose if I ask why, you'll say I'm catastrophizing."
"No," Henry says. "He said you looked messy and unclean and were not able to solve that problem without assistance."
"Maybe I don't think it's a problem," I say.
"That is what I told him," Henry says.
"But since we're here," Tabatha adds, "why don't you and I just get you a little more comfortable."
Henry stays downstairs while Tabatha comes up to the bathroom with me. With a considerable amount of pain, we're able to remove the clavicle splint and therefore the tank top underneath, then we put the sling back on for the bath.
Tabatha has a bottle of dry shampoo with her, and after helping me get my body clean, she washes my hair.
"It's all screwed up," I say.
She's quiet long enough that I start to worry that she knows something I don't know, or that she thought I was talking about my hair, in which case the pause is warranted.
She finally says, "He wanted to come back, but Henry convinced him to go home and leave it be for a while."
"Why?"
"Would you have rather he came back?"
"No," I say. "I can't give him what he needs right now. I'd just hurt him more. But I'm afraid we're ruining it."
"You know, honey, if you two are able to ruin everything with a few days of emotional upheaval following some very upsetting experiences, it probably isn't—"
"Meant to be."
"Probably not," she says.
"But I think it is."
"So there you have it then."
Back downstairs Henry is listening to "Back to Black" the song, and there's a paper grocery bag in front of him on the coffee table.
"This is not a bad album," he says.
"I know," I say.
"But for the time being you may want to go with something a bit lighter."
"What's in the bag?" Tabatha asks.
"Two bottles of wine, a beer, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I will hold onto all of it for you until you are feeling better."
They stay a while longer, and I tell them about the shooting and about Sherry's rampage. Parts of the story have slipped into shadow, but I'm able to relay the gist without them.
Late in the afternoon, following a far more restorative nap, Ferg comes by with groceries. He carves Tabatha's pumpkin and puts it out front with a candle in it, then we watch The Haunting and the original Halloween while handing out candy.
When Ferg is gone, and all the porch lights up and down the block are out, and I'm alone again, I realize that I may not be ready today, and I may not be ready next week, but someday soon, I'll brave the shadows, not only from the past few days but from the past thirty-four years, and I'll survive.