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Martin, Revisited
Chapter Five
THE DEAD THING
Copyright 2016 - 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
Draft One:
Having some writer's block with this chapter.
So far, the chapter is not quite what it could be, but it has possibilities.
The pacing is way off; definitely needs a thorough re-write.
Of course: errors, inconsistencies, typos.
It's short at the moment; most chapters so far are twice as long.
Apologies to Shirley Jackson, author of "The Lottery."
Draft Two:
Still not quite what I was thinking. Getting there.
Pacing is still off.
DISCLAIMER
Except for the first section of the prologue and the interludes, this is a work of fiction.
The rest is either a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, things, or events is coincidental and unintentional.
Martin shifted again, but could not sleep.
More tears rolled down his face, silently. He did not want to wake Carter.
Something buzzed softly: a phone. Martin felt around, found it leaning against his stomach, and checked the screen. A message advised, “Go to BED. NOW! It’s 12:30 a.m.!”
Usually, he laughed at the frantic words. He stared dully then turned the phone off, thinking he might take Carter’s suggestion and stay an extra day, negating a morning alarm.
“Dad,” Martin whispered.
The tears flowed again, at the thought of Caleb being replaced. The original marriage had been sweet and happy; fruitful and long. Kirby was a strong and kind man, but Martin wished Caleb was alive and well. The dead thing was no longer working for him.
He gnawed on his left hand, dimly remembering this habit as a child when anguished or frightened.
Out of frustration and concern, he turned the phone back on and for the fifteenth time since leaving Heather’s room for the second night in a row, he checked his messages. He had sent a nosy, “I hope you’re sleeping” at 11:30 p.m. and was still waiting for a response. She was supposed to stay one more day, and Kirby had visited again, and they had both blushed again. However, the conversations between the three of them had been more relaxed.
The tears continued to fall; he stared at the phone; he barely moved as a message appeared: “No. Still awake. We started talking about Dad, and cried a lot. It wasn’t a very happy visit. Kirby’s gone now; trying to relax. And why are you still awake?”
Martin typed and sent: “I still have occasional bouts of insomnia. I get it from my mom.”
She sent an Emoji of a mother and a boy. “Yep.”
He turned the phone off, again, and mouthed, “Keep it off. Got to get some rest.”
So it was not a happy visit; Kirby was gone; Martin considered this then cried again. He cried for everyone: Caleb, who had called out several times before passing away in his wife’s arms; Heather, who felt blessed for the time they had together, but who also wanted the love of her life back; Kirby, who had survived two murder attempts and still somehow had hope for humanity; Hayley and Garance and Christopher and The Others and the struggles they faced; and last but not least, Carter.
“Maaartin.”
As if summoned by thought, Carter sat up in the bed. He was a dark gray shadow in a light gray room.
“Did I wake you?” Martin asked.
“No. I I I was snoozing. I I heard you crying.” Carter swiftly lowered the bars to his left, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and leaned over.
A warm hand held Martin’s. “This is aaa friendly touch.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Whaaat is wrong?”
“Wait. How can you move? Aren’t you attached to an IV or something?”
“Yes, but it is long eeenough that I I I caaan move around.”
More tears. Martin managed, “Why does everything have to end? Life, happiness, togetherness, loyalty?”
“Sometiiimes some of those things start up aaagain.”
“I know. But wouldn’t it be nice if all of those things lasted forever?”
“Yes. It would.”
“We’ve ... we’ve never really addressed or talked about ... religion. Do you feel comfortable talking about it?”
“Yes. I I I am aaa Christian. No denominaaation.”
“Me too. Does it give you hope?”
“Most of the tiiime. Aaand you?”
“Some of the time.” Martin felt more tears; he said, “I want my Dad back, now. I’ve had enough of this dead thing.”
A big hand squeezed Martin’s. He frowned, thinking that the hand felt exactly like one of Caleb’s, and that perhaps it was time to do more research on Carter’s background to see if there was any chance they were related.
“Carter. Were you close to anyone? Where you lived?”
The hand squeezed again. “No.”
“They were your ... blood relatives?”
“Thaaat’s what I I I was told. Caaan we ever really know? We caaan choose to believe or not believe whaaat they tell us.”
“Yeah. People lie. Was it a big group?”
“Yes. There were aaa bunch of kids, including thaaat so-called twin. There waaas aaa big group in The Building. Butlers, maids, aaa whole household staaaff.”
“A lot of money?”
“I I I think so.”
“Huh. But money can not buy happiness. Or safety.”
“Not happiness. I I I think safety is relative.”
Martin thought about living in a cardboard box in a doorway, where he had felt very much at peace, and rather safe. “I agree.”
“Maaartin. I I I don’t know whaaat it is like to have aaa positive, long-term Platonic relationship. But I I I do know what it means tooo love, and to lose aaa loved one. I I I loved myyy childhood friend. She was pretty and kind. I I think the pain of loss mayyy always beee there. But so will the love.”
“I hope I did not wake you.”
“No.”
“My Dad would have liked you.”
Carter said, “Tell meee about him.”
Martin considered many memories. “I’ll tell you about a typical visit when I was in college. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
About halfway through college, Martin stopped by his parent’s place in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City.
He found himself apparently waking up from a nap, shortly after arriving.
On that afternoon, when he woke up, he saw the ceiling of the huge front room at his parents’ place: a light off-tan color. To his left was the kitchen; underneath him was the main couch.
To his right, sitting on the floor, was Caleb.
“Dad?” Martin had said.
Caleb’s face was solemn, with one lowered eyebrow. “You been getting enough sleep?”
“No.”
Caleb’s words were serious but his face and tone were kind. “Didn’t you decide on good sleeping habits instead of taking seizure medication?”
“Yes. What happened?” Martin looked toward the front door. He remembered arriving for a weekend visit, but nothing after that.
“You walked in and hugged your mother, saw me, and had a seizure.”
Martin smiled, anticipating the next few words.
Caleb said, “Waaaas it something I said?”
“Dad, that is getting soooooo--”
Martin retched, then trembled. Out of habit, he turned to his right side; he felt Caleb assisting. When the trembling receded, he frowned again and just stared at the massive coffee table.
“--old,” Martin finished. “Such a bad joke.”
Caleb patted him. “Always gets a smile out of you. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, Dad.”
Matin sat up and they hugged. Caleb said, “Stay here. I’ll get you some water and see how dinner is going.”
“Right.”
Caleb placed his large hands to either side, one on the coffee table and one on the couch, pushed himself up with little effort, and sniffed. “Smells good,” he said. As he maneuvered around the furniture, Martin was reminded of giraffes moving among trees in Africa.
“Tacos almost ready?” Caleb asked.
In the big, open kitchen Heather said, “Almost.”
Caleb’s voice lowered. “Talk to the little one about this meds situation. He’s as stubborn as you are.”
“Pot addressing the kettle.”
“I’m nicer about being stubborn.”
“Hm. Let me consider that ... I’d have to agree.”
“Mayyy .... I haaaave ... a kiss?”
Martin smiled. They still could not keep their hands and lips off each other.
There was a long silence. Then Caleb said softly, “I only asked for a kiss.”
“Aaare youuu complaining?”
“No.”
Martin said, “Ew. I’m still here and I can hear everything.”
Caleb said, “Let’s not disturb the little one.”
Martin smiled and whispered, “The little one.” He looked down the couch at his tall adult body.
Caleb returned with water, went back to the kitchen, and returned again with chips and salsa and guacamole, then tortillas and beer. He and Heather brought trays of sliced vegetables, and a pot of spiced beef, plus a pot of pinto beans.
As they all sat around the coffee table Heather said, “Baby, how do you feel?”
Martin said, “Nauseated. But I’ll be okay.”
Caleb said to the air, “Meds could keep that under control.” He took a tortilla chip and dipped it into the guacamole. “But we--” He gestured toward Martin “--like the adventurous life. If you die before I do, say hello to my Dad. He died young.” He put the chip into his mouth and chewed tranquilly.
Martin felt an odd shiver of fear, hoping Caleb would not die young, yet had a terrible feeling it was going to happen anyway.
Heather said, “Martin. Would you work harder on maintaining good sleep hygiene?”
Martin considered his history so far with a set bedtime versus the quantity of seizures. He would have to continue doing research, as he was not satisfied yet with any conclusions. “I will.”
Caleb looked back and forth between them. “That’s it?”
Heather said, “He’s an adult. We can’t make him do anything anymore.”
“I could if I wanted.”
Martin stared sideways at his father, who stared sideways back with narrowed eyes.
“Howard would have kept you in line,” Caleb said. “He would have kicked your ass a lot.”
They all laughed.
Martin said, “If I died young I might be with Howard again.”
His parents gave him identical concerned looks with matching frowns.
“I’m not TRYING to die young. I just want a holistic approach to this.”
Caleb squinted at something in the air again, as if remembering something.
Martin added, “Like you, Dad. In that recurring dream you have about not quite following doctors’ instructions.”
“I do that in this life, too.”
“Really. About ....”
Heather said, “He’s supposed to eat more. In general. He eats well. Just needs more calories.”
Caleb said, “Which I take in when I feel like it. I never did like being too heavy.”
Martin looked him over. “You’re slim, Dad. Healthy.”
“Thanks. You two are fat.”
They all laughed again.
“I wonder what Howard would have looked like,” Martin said.
“Just like you,” Caleb said. “Identical twins.” He and Heather had soft smiles on their faces, and no tears.
In his chair at the hospital, Martin smiled.
“Maaartin. I I I met him. Twice.”
“What? When?” Martin suddenly felt terribly disturbed. A minor seizure might be coming. He put all sharp objects into his commuter bag, zipped it shut, and put his phone in one of its pockets.
“When I I waaas thirteen, and when I waaas fifteen.”
“How? Where?” The disturbing feeling went away, just a bit. He concentrated, hoping the seizure was minor enough that he could have a decent conversation.
“Aaat the Tripod Theater. Aaand at aaa coffee shop in Chelseeea.”
“Yeah? He liked some big golden place over there. And he said ....” The world spun slightly.
“Whaaat.”
Martin did his best to concentrate. “What did he say to me? He told me when I was twelve. Something on the phone. Yeah -- I was at school in England. Told me he was glad to hear my voice because he could have sworn he saw me downtown. I was freaking out about puberty so I just freaked out and ignored him until he was ready to listen again. That was it. But nothing else. Maybe that was you?”
“I I I think so. I was thirteen, and waiting for a ride back to The Building. He and the band he was with. Hanker. They were nice.”
“How weird,” Martin said. “What about when you were ... you were ... you werrrrrrrr ....”
“Are you okayyy?”
“Just a sec. It’s almost .... okay. When you were fifteen?”
“I saw him again. It’s a long story. I I I will tell you sometime. I I I am sorry I did not tell you sooner about this.”
“That’s okay. This world is smaller than it appears to be.”
“I I I think so, too.”
“And I also have a confession, and could have told you sooner.”
Carter said, “You’re haaaving a seizure?”
“No. I mean, I just did. But that building. Where you work. I think I worked for the architect and builder. A man with no arms? Named Nelson?”
“Yeah. Thaaat’s him. Whaaat did you do?”
“I worked in his office at a different location. Handled phones, filed, ordered office supplies, did the payroll, a bunch of other things.” Martin scowled involuntarily.
Carter squeezed his hand. “Aaare you okayyy?”
“Yes.”
“Is thaaat why you did not taaake the TV work right awayyy?”
“No. I thought the TV work would mean more hours. I wanted to be ready for that.”
Martin squeezed Carter’s hand. “I think I should get some sleep, and you too.”
“Yeah. Aaare you sure you aaare okay? Did youuu get enough to eat and drink?”
“Yes. Thank you for the comfort.”
“You aaare welcome.”
The third-floor hallway rose around Carter in a high long tunnel, with faint golden light at either end.
He sat in the middle of the hallway near the doorway to his room, where he had been thrown. He continued to stare in fear at his right shoulder. The arm was hanging at an unusual angle, and the joint hurt badly.
“Someooone help meee,” he moaned. “Myyy aaarm. Youuu broke it. It huuurts.”
He looked both ways again, hoping someone would help. If no one helped, would he die here in the hallway from a broken shoulder?
Faintly, from the second or first floor, someone said at first in a low alto, “There he goes again,” then in a high-pitched voice, “Someone help meee. Oh, my aaarm. Probably lying again, as he usually does. Entirely too much of this household budget goes toward his medical expenses.”
A second, lower voice, “Patience. Maybe this will do the trick.”
“Don’t talk too loud.”
“No one can hear. The staff is off. The children are watching that movie.”
“Yes, but maybe he can hear and then ....”
“He can’t hear anything. He never pays attention to anything around him. We’re doing him a favor. Just let him sit there until we’re ready for the next step.”
Carter frowned. The next step?
A third voice -- whispery and bland -- said to Carter’s right: “ Carter, you still get the annual reports. Net profits were down just a bit last year. New publicity will remind consumers that this company makes the best products in its business in this region. You had to be harmed once again in order to generate business. Why complain? Everyone ends up happy. Join in the happiness.”
Carter morphed into his adult body. His arm also grew, and hung in a lopsided way.
“Like a lamb being slaughtered?” he said. “Just an impersonal sacrifice?”
The whispery voice said, “Why does it bother you so much? Why are you always complaining about how much it hurts when you're in physical pain and when you're being falsely accused? Why can't you just shut the hell up?”
Carter said, “Why don’t you just bite me?”
The whispery voice leaned over and bared one tiny, broken, black tooth.
Carter said, “You need to brush more.”
A shadow moved up the stairs to his left: Kramer, who said, “That was pretty good. Remember to acknowledge as much truth as possible.”
A gold form rushed past and pummeled the one-toothed whispery voice into invisibility.
Carter watched, and felt comforted. The gold form was familiar, but he could not figure out who it was ....
Carter opened his eyes and frowned at the dark hospital room. His heart rate was up; he watched as the numbers gradually decreased. Illumination from the machines revealed a gently-snoring Martin to his left, in the fully-extended armchair, covered with a blanket.
“Okay,” Martin muttered. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, again.”
Carter closed his eyes, sending up a rare prayer, thanking and praising, grateful for Martin, hoping their friendship would last and be enjoyable for both of them.
Martin realized he was dreaming as soon as he said, “That’s my Dad in the hallway!”
Carter moved to the side of the bed, lowered his feet to the floor, and stood up. He walked to the doorway without his crutches, holding his gown together behind him, and said, “He’s in here.”
Caleb walked in and smiled while looking back and forth between them.
Caleb said, “Martin. I have an assignment for you.”
“Again?”
The scene changed; they were in a conference room on a spaceship. Hayley, Garance, Christoper, The Others, and someone blurry sat around a big conference table surrounded by a bunch of silver doors.
Martin laughed. Everyone was wearing shiny silver military-style space suits.
“What’s so funny?” Christopher said. “We agreed on the silver ones. You don’t like them?”
Garance stood and modeled hers. “I do.”
Martin said, trying not to laugh, “They’re fine.” He kept to himself the fact that every time he had this dream the space suits were a different color.
Caleb said, “Pay attention, kids. I need a volunteer to visit Heather and give her a message. Who wants to go?”
Martin stomped toward the ejection pod, feeling irritated that he was having this recurring dream once again, and also irritated that no one else ever volunteered. “I’ll do it, Dad.”
“Wait a minute, Martin. Do you know what you’re supposed to do? To say? Just hang on a minute.”
Martin turned around, and said, “Dad. This is like ... the--” He’d had the dream at least five times a year since age eighteen; he was twenty-three now “--twenty-fifth time we’ve gone over this. I’m supposed to tell her that you and she made a bet that she wouldn’t survive on this ‘Earth’ planet in this timeline, and she rejected the bet, and--”
“Just calm down. Breathe. And you know what? If we can get this thing to work properly, I’m requesting one disability for you. Otherwise--” Caleb turned to the table, his back to Martin.
Martin mouthed the next few sentences; he had heard this speech a hundred times at least, or was it only twenty-five? “--you’re going to run yourself ragged. In fact, I’m ordering a disability for every one of you. Otherwise, you will never rest and die early deaths.”
Everyone glanced from him to Caleb, but remained straight-faced, by either politely coughing or biting the inside of their mouths.
Caleb turned back to Martin. “This is the message. She’ll end up there, with two of you, but one will have to return. The rest of us are here. There are many different timelines, but the one with all of us, I want you to give her in detail. After you knock her out, you can tell her about the other timelines--” he frowned and blushed “--and about that little problem we had on Planet K, but do that in a subtle way.”
“Okay. Okay. Tell her about us here.”
“You want to go over it again?”
“Yeah. Tell me again.”
Martin listened to the whole thing. The others fell asleep at the table. When Caleb was finished, everyone woke and wished Martin a good trip.
He went to the ejection pod and blasted away.
Once again, he was vaguely aware of dreaming. He sailed through time and space, passing Saturn, admiring its tan and off-white and dark gray colors. Further on, he discovered small red Mars, and then Earth was up ahead.
He adjusted a few controls on the pod, and lined up several coordinates. After studying the situation, he landed the pod on a big field on Earth, got out of the pod, and hiked a few miles.
Just as he was spraying Anti-Awake into the cracks around Heather’s door -- after having set off an Anti-Awake Mini-bomb in the immediate vicinity -- his Inter-Galactic Communicator buzzed and Caleb’s voice said softly, as it did every single freaking time at this point, “Is she alive?”
Through clenched teeth, Martin said, “Dad. Let me spray the stuff, first!”
A few seconds later Caleb said, “Okay.”
Martin heard Heather moving about, but knew she was still asleep. He sprayed the stuff into the crack three times (minimum recommendation), then waited five minutes.
“I’m going in,” Martin whispered.
He picked the lock, looked around, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door. He used a night-vision camera to take pictures of everything, especially the sleeping Heather. Her sleep was fitful; she mumbled; her face was strained. The Anti-Awake was supposed to relax as well as prolong deep sleep. Not for her. What to do?
Caleb’s whisper was loud: “One more spray of that stuff. She knows you’re there.”
“Damn it, Dad. Shh.” Martin sprayed two spritzes. Up to eleven might be required for small creatures, “who might be more vigilant about impending death while sleeping than larger creatures,” according to the directions.
Heather’s face changed from anguished, to blank, to peaceful.
Caleb again: “Let me see her.”
Heather jerked and her eyes opened.
Martin quickly glanced at the settings in his night-glasses: the camouflage option was on.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
Martin took another small spray bottle from his utility belt and aimed a gentle breeze of Peaceful Deep Sleep directly at Heather’s face. For insomniacs, it might take up to an hour to work.
Nine minutes later, she was sleeping again.
Martin said, “Mom. There’s more. Much more. Like how you don’t want to celebrate holidays and birthdays anymore. I don’t know who’s here with you--”
Heather’s eyes opened and she stared at the ceiling.
Caleb’s voice said, “I’m coming in.”
Martin whispered, “How? Why? You’ll kill her.”
“Use the Coma-Inducer.”
“Dad. You’ve never been here. What if she wakes?”
“I’ve been there twice. Remember?”
Martin had to think about that. “Vaguely.”
“Do it. Wait until her eyes shut, first.”
Heather swore several times. She closed her eyes.
Martin whipped out his Coma-Inducer bottle and sprayed her with it.
She fought it, but finally went still.
The front door slowly opened. Caleb appeared in the doorway, tall and slim in his black and silver traveling outfit.
Martin said, “You know your presence defies the laws of physics.”
Caleb ignored this and moved to Heather’s side. He sat on the floor and pulled her onto his lap, and kissed her face from forehead to chin.
“Dad, if she wakes and sees you, she will die.”
Caleb held her close. “She won’t. Give her the message now.”
Martin told her about the bet, and about the other timelines, and the other children. As he spoke softly, Caleb stroked her hair and kissed her face. In another room, someone breathed slowly and deeply. Martin tried to figure out who, but only Heather was clear; the rest was blurry.
“Dad, we have to go.”
Caleb looked around, still holding on to Heather. “Why did she accept this stupid bet?”
“Because you two were messing around, and drinking that wine, and challenging each other with increasingly disturbing scenarios.”
“And then I bet her she could survive being forced apart from me, no matter what the circumstances.”
“She said she would not be able to.”
“And I bet her again that she could,” Caleb said.
“And she insisted again she could not.”
“And I told her if she won the bet, I’d get her that new state-of-the-art spaceship.” Caleb kissed Heather’s face again. She was still, and breathing deeply, yet sighed softly and smiled.
Martin said, “She said she’d rather stay with all of us, and not have the spaceship, than survive this and go back and have it.”
“And then we drank some more.”
“And you bet her again. And she said there was no way she could live by herself with only one of us.”
Caleb said, “And then she suddenly took off running and said, ‘I want a deep green one, Caleb’ and got away before I could stop her. Stupid wine, stupid bet, stupid stupid. Stupid.”
Martin sighed.
Caleb wept silently as he rocked Heather in his arms. “And time is moving as slowly for me, as it is for her. Why? Why.”
Martin started preparing for departure. He prepared Heather’s blanket, made sure all his tools and sprays were attached to his belt and vest, and patted Caleb’s back. “Dad, we can return often.”
“I don’t want this dead thing anymore. I want her back.”
“She will die if she sees you. And she will lose the bet.”
“Who cares about the stupid bed and the stupid spaceship.”
Even though he said that, Caleb gently moved Heather to her bed and pulled the blanket to her waist.
She touched his hand, stroked his palm, smiled.
Martin said, “We have to go soon. Imagine her joy when she sees that spaceship.”
“If she wins the bet.”
Martin looked around again, but could only see a blurry background, with a clear spot focused on Heather and Caleb.
Suddenly, Caleb leaned over into the blurry area and said, “Martin. Have you ever figured out what exactly happened in this lifetime? Any details?”
“No. I can’t go any further than--”
“What is this?” Caleb said. He disappeared into the blurry area. He muttered and rustled papers; whispered a few times; swore. After a few minutes, he emerged into the clear spot and said, “I’m going back into this timeline to get some answers. Wait here.”
“But Dad--”
“For you, it’ll only take a few seconds.” Caleb went to the door, slipped outside, and shut the door. His footsteps were audible for a few seconds, then stopped.
Martin frowned.
A few crickets chirped.
Then the footsteps resumed. The door opened and Caleb stepped back inside. He shut the door, patted Martin’s back, returned to Heather, sprayed her with Deep Sleep Booster, then caressed her face.
Caleb said softly, “They lied to her. And they lied to me. The me in this timeline.”
“Who lied?”
“It was hard to tell. I was able to see some of our history, but not all of it. I did get to see me crying because I missed her. I saw Heather in deep shock. And I heard her, over and over, crying and moaning, calling for me. And at one point ....”
Martin waited, also paying attention to the breathing in the other room, the sounds outside, the possibility of being discovered. “What,” he said.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell what was being said. Parts of it were blurry. But she was being called names. For missing me. And I was weeping. It was terrible. I died and she survived me. I couldn’t tell when or how.” Caleb caressed Heather’s face again. “And I wish I could tell her all of this. So she wouldn’t be so sad.”
“I come here a lot. Because you’ve sent me. I think she knows.”
Caleb leaned over and kissed Heather. She squeezed his hand. He kissed her hand, then stood slowly.
He and Martin moved to the door.
Heather sighed softly again.
“I love you,” Caleb said.
She mumbled, “Iloveyoutoo,” let out a tiny snore, and continued sleeping ...
... as Martin and Caleb left her place, they emerged into an old-fashioned western town, complete with wooden buildings on either side of a dusty road, on a hot, dry day.
Martin looked around.
Something was different about this dream. It felt more vivid than others. The heat was making him sweat. His hat -- his hat? -- was too big and kept falling over his eyebrows. The horse manure droppings smelled like freshly-mown grass and fertile soil. His boots made hollow sounds on the wooden sidewalk. As he crossed a dirt path between buildings, the sun warmed his hat and shoulders, then the shade under the next awning was cool.
A woman walked to his right, as she chatted softly with another woman. Both were tall and curvy with long dark hair. Both wore long, short-sleeved, light green, cotton dresses.
The woman closest to Martin turned and said with a big sunny smile, “Martin! Come on! There’s about to be a public flogging! Let’s watch!”
She reached for his right arm. He backed away and said, “No. I don’t get pleasure out of things like that.”
“Don’t be a party-pooper! It’ll be fun.”
The other woman said, “Come on, Martin! It’s about to start.”
They moved away from him, toward what looked like the center of town. Big signs on the corner identified the cross streets as Downtown Way, which Martin was on, and Timeline Avenue.
Paper signs with string hung from the buildings: “Next public flogging: Right now! Watch Heather and Caleb get whipped!”
In the center of town, a large round person who appeared to be a man - who held a big whip, and who also wore a big star on his big vest over his big torso, which was covered by a big shirt and big pants -- leered at Martin. “Welcome! Heather and Caleb are liars! They are problems, and they are tiresome! Everyone around them is fed up with their happiness! Let’s punish them for being happy!”
Up ahead, Heather and Caleb walked down the street, holding hands, wearing twentieth-century jeans and hoodies and sturdy walking shoes.
“Mom! Dad!” Martin called. “Watch out!”
Somehow he knew: once they reached the intersection, the whipping would begin.
He ran, then flew like a bird ahead of the others, but was too late. Once he landed, he heard the crack of a whip.
Heather shouted, “Caleb!”
“Leave her alone!” Martin shouted, looking around.
But there was no whip, and no blood, and no visible injuries.
However, Heather and Caleb were struggling to hold on to each other. Their fingertips were barely touching.
Another crack.
Caleb shouted, “Stop flogging my wife!”
“But it’s your day to get flogged! Enjoy it!” said the round man.
Another crack.
Their fingertips grew further apart.
Green Dress Number One said, “She doesn’t love you, Caleb. She doesn’t mean anything she says. Go to the other timeline. You’ll be happier there.”
Martin tried to shove the woman, but his hands disappeared into her. She said, “Martin. I told you to enjoy the flogging.” She disappeared then reappeared a few feet away.
Another crack.
Heather and Caleb reached for each other. They were further apart.
The man said, “He doesn’t love you, Heather. He’s broken. That’s why all your kids are--”
Martin shouted, “Don’t you talk them down, or my brothers and sisters, either!”
Another crack.
Heather and Caleb wore identical looks: smiling, looking at each other. Martin knew they had both experienced great emotional and physical pain before. This invisible flogging was nothing new to them. Nor were the lies.
The man studied both of them, then sounded unsure for the first time. “Come on! You two don’t love each other! Heather, you don’t mean a thing you say! You’re not serious about anything! Caleb, you yourself called her crude names yesterday!”
Caleb stood over the man and said, “That. Is. A lie.” The man backed away just a little bit.
Martin groaned. His mother no longer had arms.
Another crack. Caleb lost his legs, yet remained standing.
Green Dress Number Two said, “Now, that’s more like it. Caleb, go to that timeline. You’ll be happier there.”
Caleb somehow turned, but as he did, he winked at Heather.
Martin rushed to block them. “No, Dad!” He looked down, and saw the summary of that timeline in small letters that faded into the distance: “Caleb and Heather fall in love.” The rest was blurry.
“Caleb!” Heather shouted again, over the whip’s crack.
Caleb somehow moved again, without feet, as he surveyed each possible timeline; there were many around them, intersecting at the intersection. Martin went with him, reading a few: “Caleb and Heather meet and marry and have eight children and enjoy life,” “Caleb and Heather come from outer space with their kids,” and “Caleb and Heather die after their public flogging!”
Green Dress Number One said, “Caleb. Over here. The one where you fall two ‘fall in love’--” she made air quotes and snickered “--and you die and she gets left behind and lives without you. Gotta make that happen. Do it. Now.”
Caleb moved that way, slowly, then reversed his direction and threw himself at Heather.
Green Dress Number One said, “Wrong, you’re gonna have to--”
Heather turned into a long green bird. Caleb did, too, and they shot into the sky, flying as one.
Everyone watched. The two birds flew gracefully, soaring and gliding and nuzzling against each other.
Then, eight eggs fell from the sky.
Martin took off his hat and ran around the intersection, catching them, one by one. He was about to catch the last one when the women snatched it and ran.
The women ran away, giggling, “We got him! We did! We did it!”
The egg in her hand cried and cried.
Martin ran after her. “That’s my twin! Leave him alone!”
The dry, dusty town grew vacant, and the hat disappeared. The buildings faded slowly, followed by a darkness that Martin had not encountered in a long time. The darkness was friendly and comforting.
He slipped away into deep sleep.
Carter woke abruptly.
He looked straight ahead, frowning at the bathroom door, then to his left where Martin slept.
A little smile decorated Martin’s face; his breathing was deep and slow and even; his arms and legs were relaxed. His commuter bag was at his side, with the phone’s screen facing Carter.
“NOVEL: SCIFI VOLUME FOUR” proclaimed a document application on the phone. In smaller type: “The Green Spaceship Theory: The Lost Egg by MC.” The rest of the screen was hidden by the phone’s pocket.
Carter said, “Really,” accessed his own phone, looked up “The Green Spaceship Theory” and found three books listed in a series by K.I. Rogers.
Quickly and furtively, Carter took one of his crutches, carefully aimed at Martin’s phone, and pushed it further into the bag’s pocket until only the top of the phone was visible.
Martin continued to sleep.
Carter quietly slipped out of the bed, grabbed his crutches, and left the room.
In the hallway, he looked around. A clock revealed the time: five-thirty.
“Good old insomniaaaa,” he muttered.
He took a few steps, holding back laughter. His butt was sore.
“No,” he said. “My bum is numb.”
That made him laugh softly.
“What are you laughing at?” a voice asked.
He turned and saw a nurse at the station, peeking over the counter. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“Myyy bum is numb,” he said.
“Oh.” She smiled. “Are you supposed to be up and around already?”
“Yes. Theyyy said aaas soon aaas possible.”
She typed a few things. “Huh. They did. Don’t go too far.”
“Okayyy.”
Carter moved slowly, testing everything: his arms, his feet, his numb bum. Everything was working the way it always had.
He stopped after about thirty feet and recognized Martin’s mother as she walked towards him, dressed in regular clothes. She approached him and said, “Carter.”
“Hi. Caaan’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Meee, either.”
“How are you?”
“Mostly okayyy.”
“Cool. What about Martin?”
“Heee is sleeping, and soundly. I think thaaat is rare.”
“It is. You know him that well?”
“Yeah. He’s stayed aaat my office with meee and myyy co-workers overnight.”
“Oh yeah. He mentioned that.”
“When do youuu get to leave?”
“Probably today. Um ... will you be okay, with all this legal stuff?”
“Yes. I I I have aaa good lawyer.”
“Cool. And I’m glad to know someone else who has successfully emancipated.”
Carter smiled. “It waaas difficult, buuut not impossible.”
Her face changed from rather tired and watchful to pleased.
He asked, “Did youuu emaaancipate?”
“No. When I was a child I gave that careful consideration, though. Wish I had; I might be a professional musician.”
“Really. Do youuu do aaanything with music now?”
“I play badly for myself. And the desire and knowledge came in handy as a musician’s wife.”
“Did youuu know thaaat I I I met your husband downtown, aaand later at aaa cafe?”
Heather squinted. “Huh. He said something once about someone who looked like Martin outside a concert venue. Caleb said the boy was much better dressed, and seemed to be waiting for someone. No cafe story, though. When was that?”
“When I I I waaas fifteen. I I I saaaw him after aaa special on TV. Caleb and a friend were at a coffee shop.”
“Oh yeah, that special. About disabled children. No, Caleb never told me. A friend?”
“Kirby.”
“You know Kirby?”
“Aaaa little.”
“We all know each other. Cool. Does Martin know?”
“No. I I I waaas telling him, but he haaad aaa minor seizure, so weee aaagreed to discuss the whole story some other time.”
“Carter. Would you ... well ... would you mind encouraging him to think about medication? He’s determined to treat epilepsy holistically. Maybe a peer might have more influence on him.”
“I I I would not mind. I I haaave studied aaa lot about cerebral paaalsy, aaand epilepsy aaand meds. I I I could aaat least advise him.”
“Do you have seizures?”
“No.”
“You move well.”
“Thaaanks. I I I haaad a lot of practice while escaping from aaabuse as a child.” Carter froze for a microsecond, then mentally shrugged. He had never said such a thing in his life to anyone outside several trusted confidantes; the words were out; he braced himself for a disappointing reaction.
Heather’s face hardened. “Abuse. If I were a different person, I’d march out of this hospital and take down whoever did that, right this second. Bare-handed.”
Carter smiled, relishing the images and the validation.
Heather said, “I remember reading a couple of stories about someone who reminded me of Martin, but I was busy and only scanned the headlines. After you emancipated, were you able to have the life you wanted?”
“Mostlyyy.”
They both looked up as, down the hallway, Martin emerged from Carter’s room and walked toward them slowly with his crutches.
Heather said, “He looks much better. Happier, too.”
“Yep.”
Martin joined them and said with a scratchy voice, “Hey, Mom. Are you two-timing me? And Carter, you too. Shall I leave you both alone?”
“Martin, Carter is young enough to be Howard’s age.” Heather hugged Martin sideways.
Carter said, “Maaartin. You looked like you were sleeping well.”
“I was. Mom, I had that spaceship dream again.”
“Did you find out who was with me?”
“No--””
“Carter Locke?”
Carter looked back towards his room. He waved.
A doctor called, “Mind if I check your stats?”
“Coming. I I I will see you two soon,” he said.
Martin watched, admiring Carter’s ease of movement. “I’ve been wondering if he will eventually stop using crutches.”
“It’s possible for some people with CP.”
“How is your hand? And thumb?”
“Still sore. I may be leaving soon.”
“You need any help at home?”
“No. Steele is around. And The Others will be visiting soon.”
“What about Steele’s lookalikes?”
Heather laughed. “They help out sometimes.”
“Let me know when The Others will be here. I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“They love hanging out with you.”
“Me too. Are they happy where they live?”
“Yeah. They take care of each other.”
Martin yawned. “Did you get much sleep?”
“Not much.”
“Let’s go to your room.”
In there, she rested on her bed.
Martin said, “In the spaceship dream I found out that Dad wanted you to stay on earth so you could win a bet. And you almost saw us. But I knocked you out using something called a Coma-Inducer.”
They laughed.
“Dad held you and you knew he was there even though you were sleeping.”
“And it ended?”
“No. There was something else. A western of some kind. You guys were birds. Or spaceships. Someone was crying. Something was violent. Then I thought I was really sick. But when I woke, I felt rested.”
Heather said, “How about your sleeping patterns? Getting enough sleep?”
“I’ve been working on it since my doorway days. Making progress.”
Martin fell asleep, woke up and saw Heather sitting on her bed, staring into space with big sad eyes, like she did in the recurring dream.
He checked the time: nine-thirty.
“You okay, Baby?” she said.
“Yeah. I better see how Carter is doing. He’s really independent, but I think he’s enjoying our friendship, too.”
“Okay. No more living in doorways, okay?”
“No more doorways. I just needed that time to myself.” He kissed her cheek and hugged her. “If you leave before I do, I’ll see you soon.”
“Cool.”
Martin went into the hallway and toward Carter’s room, where the door was shut. At the nurse’s desk, he said, “Is he busy?”
“Yes. I don’t think it’ll be too much longer, though.”
“May I buy a breakfast, if there are any left?”
A young woman dressed in scrubs said, “I’m a volunteer. I can purchase something at the cafeteria if you’d like.”
“Please.” He gave her a five. “A basic breakfast, low-fat if possible.”
“We have those. I’ll be back soon.”
“Thank you.”
He sat in the hallway. Vivian emerged from a patient’s room, approached him and said, “Martin. How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good. Slept well last night.”
“Did you say you’re taking meds?”
“No.”
“I can give you some pamphlets about alternative treatments.”
“Please.”
He looked toward Carter’s room; the door was still shut. He looked toward the room where he last saw India; his thoughts appeared to have power as she rolled out of the room in the wheelchair. He tried not to watch, but failed, and smiled as she rolled next to him.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning. What’s happening today?”
“I’m leaving soon. I’ll be back tonight.”
“Do you sleep during the day?”
“Usually.”
Martin thought about a variety of things to say; considered each of them; struggled between wanting a lot more but also realizing a happy relationship would take time; then settled for, “Not sure if I’ll be here. I gotta get back to work eventually.”
“If you are here, let’s chat again.”
“Yeah.” He nodded and smiled at her. She smiled back.
Carter’s door opened, and a tall, slim, golden-haired man stepped out. Martin recognized the man but decided to remain silent; there were privacy issues. The man smiled at Martin and India, and walked down the hallway toward the elevators.
“Would you excuse me?” Martin asked India.
“Of course. Maybe see you later.”
Martin stood and moved as quickly as possible down the hallway, turned to his left, and saw the golden-haired man in the lobby near the elevators.
“Kramer,” Martin said.
“Martin. I thought that was you.”
They moved toward the windows.
Martin said, “I guess we can’t talk about ... well ... the man in the room.”
“No. But I will say that for about half a second I thought it was you. But you’re more ... well ... slightly more filled out.”
“My Dad used to call me fat.”
“You’re slender. And you take after your Dad, so ... pot ... kettle. How are you doing?”
Martin remembered several counseling sessions with Kramer, and answered honestly, “Surviving. I really miss my Dad. I still can’t think or talk much about Rose. That was awful.”
Kramer stared into the distance; Martin wondered what it must be like to counsel people who looked almost identical, and keep both a secret; he was probably changing gears.
Martin added, “I’m sleeping better.”
“Good. Take your time with the rest. We all move at our own pace. Remember what to look for in the event it becomes unmanageable.”
“Yep.” Martin remembered sweet conversations with Rose and thought he might weep, but just felt dull and jaded. “It was bad for a while but I just survived. Life is still happening.”
“You’ve blazed your own path in other ways, so I believe you’ll do the same with your grief.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw the news about the um ... incident ... near the bus. Sorry to hear about it. Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah. The first thing she said to me was that old Monty Python quote about a mere flesh-wound. At the same time she was going into shock and turning pale.”
Kramer smiled. “I hope the other parties come to their senses and learn to satisfy their thirst for violence someplace else: hunting in the forest or desert; perhaps contact sports; taking up boxing. I think for some, violence is a way of life. If they could only channel it toward those who feel the same way.”
Martin nodded. “Nicely said.”
“Thank you. Well. I have work waiting for me. If you’re still up for your twice-yearly appointments, perhaps I’ll see you in a few months?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
They walked to the elevator, and Kramer said goodbye.
Martin returned to the hallway and moved toward Carter’s room. India walked by, dressed in a fitted pink jacket, blue jeans, and a baseball cap; she said softly, “See you later, dude.”
“Okay, detective.”
He went to Carter’s room, saw the curtain drawn, sniffed and smelled soap, and said, “Okay if I enter?”
“Yes. Maaartin, I I I am glaaad to see you. Would youuu mind shutting the door, and I I I’ll get the curtain.”
“Not at all. I can get the curtain, too.”
Martin shut the door, and opened the curtain. Carter’s eyes were red, and he was wiping his nose with a tissue.
“You okay?” Martin asked.
“I I I will be.” Carter sighed. “After a bath, I I I had a counseling session. It waaas more difficult than most.”
Martin imagined various combinations of his immediate family members hunting him down, aiming weapons at him, and actually causing physical harm. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, and an urge to retch. He said, “Did you talk mostly about the bus incident?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No. Not now. And I I I never waaas. Not even during the worst tiiimes. Just confused and disturbed. Hughes and Kramer -- thaaat is my counselor --- want me to sue for PTSD, based upon the bus incident. I I am considering it.”
“I was serious about what I said.”
Carter’s face softened. “Youuu haaave said a lot of things.”
“About no one harms my Carter.”
“Your Caaarter.”
Martin studied his friend’s face, and thought he saw his father in there somewhere: the shape and color of the eyes; the nose; basic mannerisms.
“Carter. Would you mind if I looked around for evidence supporting a switched twin theory? Regarding you and me?”
Carter smiled; he looked a lot like Heather now.
“Maaartin. How would thaaat be possible?”
“Well. If they lied about you, and to you about other things, it’s possible they lied to you about many things including your birth date.”
Carter grew serious again. He looked away and was silent for a long time. “Thaaat is possible. I I I haaave never thought about thaaat. They are all taaall and bulky. I I I am the shortest and least bulky. Aaat first, I I looked like everyone else, but as tiiime went byyy, I looked different.”
“They’re all what height?”
“Six feet ooor over. Everyone, women included, after pubertyyy.”
“That tall? For that, the mother usually has to be taller than average. You have a short woman and a tall man, it’s likely all the kids will be average or just over. Not sure why you and me and ....”
“Whaaat.”
“I was about to say the rest of our family, and how most of us are five-ten.”
Carter said, “I I I’m five-ten.”
They frowned at each other.
Carter said, “Go aaahead.”
“Thanks. I think we should first do what we can without getting lawyers or DNA tests involved. There might be public records or press coverage.”
“Coveraaage?”
“Some papers print birth notices. Or maybe something in the society pages.”
“I I I thought birth notices were aaan old-fashioned, smaaall town thing. The society paaages might work.”
“Some papers still do. Some don’t, due to privacy concerns.”
Martin’s phone dinged. He checked it and found: “Any chance you could work today? We need to film a few red scenes, and need to use you since Carter is not available. Just twelve p.m. to five p.m., and you could get back to Carter, if you’re still visiting him.”
Martin explained the message and added, “If I leave soon for work, I can go by the library and check out a few things regarding our theory. And come back, if you want company.”
“I do. Red sceeenes? Green scenes, bluuue. Is this aaa science fiction show? I I I don’t understaaand the plot anymore. I I I think youuu should check out the society paaages. Let meee know if you find aaanything.”
Martin re-packed his commuter bag, slipped the strap over his shoulder, and said, “If the work day ends at five, I might not get here till eight or nine. I have some errands to take care of, and also grocery shopping. If that’s too late, and if you’d like some time to yourself ....”
“No, it’s not too late.”
Martin moved closer to the bed. They hugged briefly, then Martin fought tears as he went to the elevator.
TO BE CONTINUED
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