Middle C, G

Christian!

Fuck! Not again. Just when I thought I was past all this shit, here it goes again.

Middle C, G

Christian!

Focus! I tell myself. Remember the plan – go along with it, take notes, discuss with Flynn. Anastasia's still asleep. I quietly slip out of bed and leave the room.

Christian!

"Oh, shut up," I mutter to whatever the fuck this is. Why do I have to have these goddamn hallucinations at two-thirty in the fucking morning?

I pad across the balcony and down the stairs. As soon as I enter the music room I see her there, standing between the window and the piano. The lighting is such that I can't see her face, only her hair and her bodily shape. I start walking towards her but after a few steps, her hand comes up like a crossing guard's signal.

Stop! That's close enough.

"Whatever. What do you want?"

I need to talk to you, baby boy. I have so much to say and not enough time to say it.

The moonlight shifts in the window so I see her face more clearly. Yes, it's the face I remember from last week and the one I remember from my early childhood. I don't faint this time, though, and I force myself to look right at her. This is not happening. This is a delusion brought on by stress. This is just a trick my mind is playing on me.

"So say what you have to say. I'd really like to get back to bed."

You don't believe it's me, do you?

"Believe you're my birth mother? The crack whore?" I snort, a loud, sarcastic snort. "Hardly. You're more like Marley's ghost – what was that Scrooge said about him? Oh, yeah, you could be a bit of undigested beef, except I didn't have beef for dinner, I had salmon. So maybe you're a piece of rotten fish."

She seems to grimace at these words. Damn! I sure can produce realistic hallucinations.

It's really me, Christian. I'm your mother.

"No, you're not my mother! My mother is asleep right now with my father in a house in Bellevue, Washington! You're nothing but a figment of my imagination, a hallucination!"

I'm sorry, Christian. I know you're angry but please listen to me.

Play along, play along. Remember the game plan is to play along.

"Okay, what are you talking about? What are you doing here?" I force myself to maintain a civil tone of voice.

This house is special – it's built on a portal between the earthly plane and the spiritual plane. I've been allowed to contact you through it. This is my chance to make amends.

"Make amends? Seriously? For what? Letting your pimp use me as an ashtray and punching bag? Leaving me to starve to death after you overdosed? You really think you can make amends for that?" In spite of my efforts, my voice has grown louder until I'm almost shouting.

Calm down, calm down. This is just an illusion. You've gone over all this shit countless times with Flynn and other shrinks. This isn't real. I keep telling myself that but the funny thing is, it sure as hell feels real.

I know, baby boy, and I'm so sorry. I was really fucked up back then. I know that's not an excuse but

"Christian?"

I turn and see Anastasia in the doorway of the music room.

"What's going on?" she asks, "I heard you shouting."

I look back towards the window and the phantom is gone. Strange, but I almost feel sad about that. I shake my head, hoping to get rid of such ridiculous thoughts.

"What are you doing down here?" I turn back to Ana.

"I heard the baby through the monitor and when I got up, I saw you weren't in bed. After checking on him, I came down here looking for you. Want to tell me about it?"

"Not really, but I will. Let's go back to bed." As I leave the music room, I notice the keyboard cover is down. That's funny, I know I heard the notes tonight but every other time I heard them, the keyboard was uncovered. This is making no fucking sense at all.

"Is Teddy okay?" I ask as we walk back upstairs.

"He is now. I heard him cry and went to his room. All I had to do was hold him; he wasn't wet or poopy or anything. He calmed down as soon as I picked him up."

"Maybe he had a nightmare."

"What would a baby his age have a nightmare about?"

"I have no idea, I'm just guessing here."

Back in our room I flop down on our bed and turn on the light on my night table. Ana turns off the light on hers.

"Okay, Grey, what went on down there?"

I sigh. "I saw her again. She kept insisting she's my mother."

"Did she look like your mother?" Ana interrupts.

"Yes, I could see her face a little more clearly this time. She looked like the crack whore, or at least how I remember her. She sounded like her, too. Again, at least how I remember she sounded, it was so long ago." Damn, I hate reliving this shit!

"So did she say anything else?"

"Yes, she said this house is built on a portal to the other world and she's been allowed to contact me through it." I look at Ana; her face is totally noncommittal. I don't know if she's thinking I'm crazy but she's listening intently.

"Why is she contacting you?"

"Last week, before I actually saw her, she said something about a warning and she kept saying 'He's alive.' This time she didn't elaborate on that. I got rather angry with her."

"Angry?" That got a reaction from Ana. "Why did you get angry?"

"She told me she was here to make amends. I lost it at that point. Then, when she was trying to justify herself, you walked in and she disappeared."

"So you believe you were talking to your birth mother."

"No, I believe I'm talking to a fucking hallucination! Look, I have no idea why all this shit is coming up but this isn't real, it's all in my mind. I've told you everything. Now I'm going to write it all down while it's still fresh in my memory and then try to get some sleep. You go back to sleep now, too." I kiss her forehead. "I'll talk about all this with Flynn and we'll get it straightened out. Trust me. It'll be okay." She gives my hand a squeeze and gets under the covers. I pull a notepad and pen from my nightstand drawer and start writing about what happened.

As I start writing out the events of the past week in longhand, I'm surprised to discover how viscerally satisfying it is to put pen to paper. I haven't done this in a long time and it seems so much more pleasant than typing on a keyboard. I think I'm the last generation to have actually learned penmanship and it makes me sad that my son might never learn it. The words flow like magic from my brain right through my hand, recounting all the events that started a week ago today.

By the time I finish writing, then rereading it to make sure I didn't miss anything, it's almost four. I feel strangely relieved, almost like I've made a confession, which I guess I have, in a way. Getting it written down so anyone can read it makes it seem a little more real.

I join Ana under the covers for another hour of shut-eye but when I wake up again it's almost six. I look over and Ana's not there; she's probably already downstairs feeding the baby. I debate skipping my morning run but decide I need it after three days of slacking off.

Ana's in the kitchen when I get back, all dressed and ready for the day; she's been waiting for me to show up before she leaves for work. Teddy's in a bouncy swing; Gail sets out my breakfast and I sit down to eat it. While I was running, I decided to go back to seeing Flynn weekly. For the last five or six months I've been seeing him only about once a month but considering recent events I think it's a good idea to go back to more frequent sessions. She's all in favor of this when I tell her.

It's a crazy day at work, what with my three day weekend and the usual Monday crap. Several deals seem to be going sour but I slog through it all and manage to remember to call Flynn to set up my weekly appointment, starting tomorrow. He jokes about going shopping for a new Mercedes and I tell him to fuck off.

Ana's day is just as crazy as mine, maybe even crazier, seeing as she called to tell me she won't be home until very late. They're ordering dinner for her and her staff so it'll be Teddy and me eating alone tonight.

I get a report from Taylor after his phone call with the guy I bought the house from. Unlike the previous owner, this one was very willing to talk. It seems everything was great for the first year or so after they moved in but then weird things started happening. They had two kids in middle school who started talking about seeing an old man over by the cliff. The wife began to feel cold drafts in the music room, then she claimed to hear her dead father speaking to her there. The guy put the house on the market after she talked about actually seeing her dead father.

"Sir, his exact words were 'I knew we had to get out of there before she went completely crackers,'" Taylor tells me.

"So he didn't sell for financial reasons?"

"It would appear not, sir. They bought another house a mile or so away from your parents' place."

"Thank you, Taylor. Anything else?"

"No, sir, that's all I have. Do you want me to do any more follow-up?"

"Not for now. I'll let you know if I need more research or investigation." With that, he heads back to his office down the hall.

I end up working rather late myself, although not as late as Ana; she called again to tell me she might not make it home until almost midnight. Getting home at seven, Teddy and I opt for dinner on the terrace again, just like last week. I don't feel like going for a hike, so when we're finished, we move to my office for a little more work. After an hour or so of that, I've had enough so it's over to the music room for some piano therapy. I know I'm pushing things by doing this but damn it, I am NOT going to be chased out of my own house, not by any ghost, apparition, hallucination, delusion, whatever.

Teddy really should be in bed but his presence is comforting, especially when Ana's not here. I set him up in his play yard and sit down at the piano to get lost in some Mozart. I don't really buy that bit about Mozart being good for babies' brains but it can't hurt him and my brain can certainly use the orderly structure of the music.

I start warming up with scales, keeping my eye on Teddy while I'm playing. He's chewing on his toy and watching the mobile overhead. Progressing from scales to etudes, I watch him get sleepier. When I finally start a Mozart sonata I'm pretty sure he's fallen asleep but when I finish it, I look over and see he's wide awake. His pudgy little arms are waving in the air and he's really babbling. I go over to check if he's wet or poopy.

"What's up, buddy?" I ask as I kneel and pick him up from the play yard.

"Gaga, Gaga!" he answers, somewhat loudly.

"Grandma's not here; she's at home," I tell him. "Gaga" is his version of "grandma" and we joke about how he's transformed my mom into Lady Gaga. Maybe he was dreaming of her (my mom, that is, not Lady Gaga).

"Gaga! Gaga!" he insists. I check his diaper but it's unsoiled. I close my eyes, sit back on my haunches, and bounce him while hugging him closely. Much as I wish Ana were here, I relish these moments alone with my son. I love him so much!

He keeps saying Gaga but he doesn't seem upset. Maybe after spending the weekend with her he misses her. I ask him, "Do you want to see Grandma? We'll call her in the morning and see if she wants to come over tomorrow, how about that?"

I rise halfway up and lean over to put him back down in the play yard. He's smiling and blowing little drooly bubbles. I rub his belly while he waves his arms and kicks his legs. "Gaga!" He really seems to have a fixation.

I straighten up and kneel next to the play yard, just watching him. He's looking up at me and smiling. It takes me a few seconds but I finally notice that he's not just waving, he's pointing. At first, I think it's at me but no, it seems to be at a point beyond me. And then I feel a cold hand on my shoulder.