INTERZONE 253 JUL-AUG 2014 (11 page)

She wouldn’t be home. She taught a full day of classes that day, according to the university course catalog. In this university, Zhorah was a professor. Literature. It made sense. In his universe, Zhorah was a poet.

Blankenship didn’t know what this Zhorah’s husband did. He was also obviously not home. Blankenship looked at photos of him on the Internet – Maxwell Graham – but only enough to know he was not someone Blankenship knew.

Blankenship cricked his neck trying to see past the front room. He couldn’t see himself there. This was not his stuff. None of it. He also couldn’t see any evidence of children.

On the two bus rides back to and from the appointment, he looked down at his feet on the floor, ashamed. He felt like he’d done something – not criminal, but dirty, somehow. He wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. And he wouldn’t allow himself the relief of rubbing the side of his neck.

“That’s why we’re here,” Dr Reed said.

Blankenship dug his knuckles into the sore lump. It throbbed with a life of its own.

SESSION FOUR

The ring of chairs of was gone, replaced with two wide-armed wingbacks. Blankenship was glad. These were more comfortable, and the circle always made him half expect a group to show up around him.

“Would you say you’re practiced at going to your safe place?” Dr Reed asked. “I’d like to move onto your target today, if we can.”

“I am,” he said. “Let’s try.”

Dr Reed pulled a thin wand out and held it up. She pushed a small button on one end, and a blue LED light creeped across the wand, back and forth. “Are these lights too bright to focus on?” she asked.

“They’re OK.” The color reminded him of holiday lights.

“As you talk and think about and picture your target, I want you to follow the light back and forth. Blink whenever you need to.”

“Are you hypnotizing me?” Blankenship felt nervous again, like he had on the first day. He was here to process what happened, sure, but he didn’t need to go blurting out how he stole money, even if it was from himself, or how he went to his wife, not-wife’s house.

“No. Not at all.” She explained something about changing the way he stored memories, affecting his neural pathways. “Imagine the event, if you can. Place yourself there.”

Blankenship watched the lights. He was impressed at Dr Reed’s arm strength, how she could hold that out for so long without shaking.

“If it gets too much, just tap your knee and go to your safe place,” she said. “But imagine the target now. Call it up in your mind.”

Blankenship didn’t think of the explosion. Instead, he remembered appearing in this universe. Tattered, bloody. Onlookers thought he was attacking Tibbi, and it wasn’t until they pulled him off that they realized he was shielding her.

Someone called emergency services.

Tibbi didn’t understand what had happened, and Blankenship couldn’t say it yet, so the paramedics and police filled in the blanks.

The social worker couldn’t find him under Blankenship, but found a Seth Ferguson. His face matched the license photo. They found no records at all for Tibbi, but that didn’t concern them since she was only thirteen. “She won’t actually need her social until she gets her first job,” the social worker told him. “But it isn’t a bad idea to get it soon.”

He’d nodded. Doctors treated them, and an off-duty fireman dropped them off at Ferguson’s house.

This universe offered them one immediate kindness: Ferguson was not home.

“What’s come up?” Dr Reed asked. “How do you feel?”

“I feel horrible,” Blankenship whispered.

“On a scale of zero being fine, and ten being the worst you have ever felt?”

“A six,” he said.

He fit in Ferguson’s clothes. Tibbi helped her father fold some clothes into a suitcase from the back of the hall closet. Ferguson, like Blankenship, had an emergency fund stuffed inside a hollowed out book – just took three shelves before Blankenship found it. Neither of them knew how much a stack of paper that size was worth.

Turns out it was enough for a nice motel. And food. And a few outfits for Tibbi until he found a job.

“Talk to me, Blankenship,” Dr Reed said.

“I used to be a film critic,” he said. “But in this universe, I haven’t seen any of the films. I lied to become a bookkeeper, because math, math is the same.” The lights seemed to move faster and faster, but he knew it was his imagination. “There’s another me here, and my wife is married to someone else.”

“Good, good.”

Then he touched his knee.

SESSION FIVE

The receptionist explained that Dr Reed was running a few minutes behind, and did he mind sitting and waiting?

He didn’t mind. He signed in and sat down.

The receptionist was new. She had the ombré hair stylish in his universe, shaded dark at the roots down to light blonde at the tips. Tibbi had begged to dye her hair like that. “Your hair is pretty,” Blankenship told the receptionist. “My daughter wants her hair just like it.”

The receptionist pulled up a few strands and frowned at it. “This? Ugh. It’s a bad bleach job growing out.” Then she smiled at Blankenship. “Thanks, anyway.”

Blankenship sat. He had no interest in the magazines, so he bobbed his leg in time to the background music.

The song had twangy, stuttering guitars. A simple melody, moving up and down the scales. Consequent notes, it was called, in his universe. Consequent. Like the disease: Consequent Distress Condition. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The receptionist sang along. “You said I love you like the stars above…” she sang. “La-la-la-la-la…movie song…”

“What song is this?” Blankenship asked, after a line about how love songs were supposed to be.

She seemed embarrassed to realize he’d been listening. “This guy I started seeing made me a mix. It has a lot of old stuff on it.” She held up her phone, and stroked the little screen. “Let me see. Oh, yeah. ‘Romeo and Juliet’ by Dire Straits.”

“I like it,” he said. “It’s really sad.”

“And romantic,” the receptionist said. “Just like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Who were they?” Blankenship asked.

The receptionist laughed, and then shut up, as if she first thought he was kidding. She tucked her shaded hair behind one ear, eyes wide. “You never had to read
Romeo and Juliet
?”

Blankenship shook his head. Now, he was embarrassed. It was, apparently, basic to know in this universe.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who wasn’t forced to read any Shakespeare,” she said. “It’s about two lovers. Very sad and romantic.”

He wanted to hear the song again, but the receptionist already thought he was strange. And she didn’t turn on any more music. He wished he had a pen and paper to write some notes. Romeo and Juliet. Dire Straits. Shakespeare. He repeated them to himself. Dire Straits, Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet. After a few minutes of that, Blankenship stood up.

“You know,” he said. “I should get back to work. Tell Dr Reed I’ll call to reschedule.”

“Are you sure?” I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”

“Just let her know I’ll reschedule.” Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Dire Straits. He held up his hand, and tried not to run out of the waiting room.

The medical complex was one of many in the Pill Hill area, and on the edge of a hip, young neighborhood in this Seattle, Capitol Hill. After quizzing a few kids that looked no more than Tibbi’s age – but in scrubs and stethoscopes, holding coffees – one pointed Blankenship towards a music store.

The store clerk’s face was littered with acne and disorganized facial hairs. But it wasn’t unkind. “I’m looking for a song,” Blankenship told him.

“Which?”

“‘Rominey and Julius’,” he said. “By Dire Straitspeare.” It didn’t sound right.

But the clerk nodded. “In Classics,” he said. Then, after Blankenship didn’t move, led him there, rifled through some skinny plastic cases, and handed him one. It had a blank red cover. But Blankenship didn’t question it. He let the kid lead him back to the register, take his paper money, hand him back a few coins, and then thank him.

Inside the skinny plastic box was a silver disk. In the sunlight, it reflected the light like a prism. It was beautiful. Only then did Blankenship realize he had no idea how to make the disk play the song.

But the lady at the motel’s front desk clerk offered to send him up a stereo when he showed the disk to her. “I’m sure we have a boom box somewhere,” she said. “With a CD player.”

It took some experimenting to see how to plug the grey box into the outlet, and where to place the disk and what button to push to make the music play. Blankenship even found a knob hat made the sound louder or softer.

Blankenship sat on his bed and listened to ‘Romeo and Juliet’ seven or eight times straight through. He listened a little to other songs on the disk, but he kept going back to the one song. He liked the part about kissing though the bars of Orion, even though he had no idea what the bars of Orion were. The next line was about stars, so he figured it had something to do with the sky.

He’d never looked at the night sky in this universe; he’d never thought to. He’d been looking down, not up.

Maybe he should. Maybe after dinner tonight, Tibbi would come with him somewhere to look at the stars. Maybe a park. There were so many streetlights, though. They might not see anything.

So many streetlights. In the song, Romeo steps out from behind a streetlight and sings to Juliet. Blankenship imagines there’s a streetlight in front of Zhorah’s blue house. He steps out from behind it. He sings to her.

He started the song over again from the beginning. He sat back a little. He tapped his left knee.

SESSION SIX

Blankenship saw the blue car in the driveway of the blue house before he saw Zhorah squatting in front of the porch. She was planting or weeding or something, in a soft line of soil bordering the front of the house.

It was new. Last time Blankenship was here, there had only been slightly unkempt grass.

Later, Blankenship would try to sort out whether it was surprise, or terror, or a subconscious desire to be discovered that kept him standing there and staring at Zhorah until she looked up and turned around.

“Seth?” she called.

The sounds of his name made Blankenship almost crumple at the knees. “Yes,” he said.

She was in front of him. She called his name again, “Seth,” sounding pleased. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, and she was close enough for Blankenship to see her eyes, her strange, wonderful eyes – just like their daughter’s – blue with a ring of caramel brown. Then she hugged him.

He felt a layer of unfamiliar fat around her middle. She smelled like dirt and salt and vaguely like cigarettes. He wanted to throw her down onto the grass right that second. Rip off her plaid shirt, kiss her shoulders, push his face in this new chubby belly. Instead, he pushed her gently away.

You haven’t been at book group and not answering emails. I figured you took off on one of your trips.”

“Nope,” he said. Ferguson took trips. He could understand that. He was looking for something. Or trying to get away. Either one made sense.

“What are you doing here?” Zhorah asked. She led him across the lawn towards the porch stairs. “Come inside. Tell me everything.”

He wanted to. He wanted to tell her everything. But he couldn’t tell her anything. “No,” he said. “I can’t. I felt bad I hadn’t see you, and wound up nearby, so…” He trailed off. Let her fill in the blanks. “But I have an appointment.”

“OK, Seth,” she said. She sounded genuinely disappointed. “I’m glad you showed your face at least.”

“I miss your face,” he blurted. Stupid.

But Zhorah just made a happy sound and poked him playfully. “Thanks.”

Blankenship backed away.

“See you soon,” Zhorah said.

Dr Reed was not happy with him. He’d never rescheduled his appointment, and made him sit through a lecture about how important continuity and commitment were in any treatment. He half listened. He looked past the light stick. He was trying to keep the image of Zhorah’s face steady and clear.

“I miss my wife’s face,” he said.

“Tell me about her. Tell me about the last time you saw her.”

“Her funeral,” he said. It was half a lie, since the Zhorah he saw today had never been his wife. Then, he suddenly put something together. “Your scarf,” he said.

“The one you didn’t like?” Dr Reed asked.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it…” he started. It was, he realized, just like Zhorah’s veil.

In the coffin, her face was covered, as dictated by tradition, with the painted silk veil. Most people had loved ones paint a veil for them after they die, but Zhorah had wanted them to paint their own. She’d painted hers in bright colors, with a pattern like a tadpole, a symbol, in his universe, of life and new beginnings. It was garish.

“By the time this drapes me,” Zhorah had said, “the colors will have muted down.”

But they hadn’t. Zhorah’s veil was as distracting at Dr Reed’s scarf.

“That’s a beautiful tradition,” Dr Reed said. “Are you there, right now? At the funeral?”