Scary Out There (11 page)

Cam. No, impossible. But the sheet

lifts, the pressure shifts, an icy hot

wave splashes against my skin, and

still I'm deep-mired in quicksand.

Our joining has no single entry

point. It's like every pore opens

up, inviting the tiny electric pricks

that sizzle, close to pain, and tingle,

arousing the private places no one

but I have touched. Though it only

lasts a moment or two (who could

take more?), the apex is spectacular.

And with it, the weight disappears.

I'm alone in my bed, the force field

has disintegrated, and I can move

again. Breathe again. Talk again.

“Cam? Was that you? Where are you?

Please tell me where you've gone.”

I lie still for a moment, hoping to hear

his voice, but the answer does not

come as a whisper. It's a single word,

lettered red, on the screen of my computer.

Correction. My powered-down computer:

Paradise.

I Slap Myself

Into the present.

Sit up to watch
Paradise

fade into the ether.

Letter by letter.

I take deep breaths

to counter the anxious

tremors. It was a dream.

Not.

It was a hallucination

care of last night's

self-indulgence.

Not.

It was a product

of my overactive

subconscious brain.

Maybe.

As my heart rate slows

from wind sprint to crawl,

a phrase surfaces.

Sleep paralysis.

According to Paula,

it's when you wake up

while your brain's caught.

Mid-REM sleep.

Mid-dream. So you're half

here, half wherever, and

your nightmare visitor

isn't real at all.

The Experience

Isn't completely foreign.

Something similar happened

not very long after Daddy drowned,

trying to save a toddler from a car

overturned in a swollen stream.

When I heard the door open,

I thought it was he, come to say

goodbye. That time, though,

I viewed the scene as if looking

up through water, and there was

no voiced communication,

nor low voltage electricity.

Still, some unidentified weight

did land heavily on top of me,

crushing every emotion but terror.

When I confessed this to Paula,

she gave me the lowdown on

sleep paralysis. “But it seemed

so real,” I argued, half disbelieving

her and half relieved it probably

wasn't Daddy's ghost after all.

Of course it seemed real. Many

people think they're being attacked

by an evil spirit. But surely your dad

wouldn't want to scare you like that?

“I don't know,” I admitted.

“Sometimes he was really mean.

Sometimes I thought he liked

to be mean, like it helped him

forget the bad stuff at work.”

Paula nodded.
A cop sees a lot

of terrible things. Makes sense

he might take it out on his family.

But I'm betting he was a good man

at heart and that he loved you a lot.

She Convinced Me

It was all in my head—

a byproduct of my twelve-

year-old psyche trying

to process my father's death.

I haven't had another episode

since. Not until this morning,

that is. Yes, they were akin.

But the differences were notable.

I pull myself out from under

the covers, into morning cool.

Mom will come knocking

soon, insisting I go to services.

Funny, because she was not

a believer until after Daddy died.

It didn't take sleep paralysis

to send her looking for answers.

Too bad she found them where

she did, because her so-called

church seems more like a den

of thieves to me. It's cultish—

all about hellfire, brimstone,

and speaking in tongues, as if

anyone could actually decipher

exactly what such babble means.

But it brings Mom comfort,

so who am I to tell her I think

Pastor Smyth is full of crap

and living large off the generous

gifts of his faithful followers?

Regardless, I exit my bed,

reach into my closet for a skirt

(women in this congregation

do not wear pants), head

for the shower. I pause at

the mirror, startled by what's

reflected there. Head to toe,

my skin is red, as if sunburned.

It wasn't that way last night.

I remember the electric sizzling

and know they must be related.

Now, as I stand here staring,

a series of small bruises

shaped like fingerprints

appear all over my body,

most concentrated on

my inner thighs, breasts,

and circling my neck.

I blink disbelief. Once.

Twice. They've disappeared.

I hear Mom in the hallway,

lock the door, hide behind

the shower curtain, adjust

the water temp to cool.

By the time I finish and

towel dry, my skin has

faded from red to pink.

I cover it all anyway, with

a demure baby blue blouse

and floral patterned skirt

that stretches to my ankles.

Plus I keep my makeup

barely there, nothing

dramatic to disturb Pastor

Smyth or draw his attention.

Nope. Please, just let me

sit in the back, tuning out,

trying not to think about

what yesterday might mean.

Somehow I Manage

To mostly do exactly that.

Good thing. Pastor Smyth

is wordy today. A few key

phrases do not escape

my attention, however:

darkness wrestles light

key to the kingdom

doorway to everlasting life.

My own thoughts turn

to Cam, of course, but also

to Erica and Daddy, all three

moldering in the ground.

Did any of them discover

the doorway, let alone the key

to some Disneyland in the sky?

The question has barely coalesced

inside my head when I notice

the vibration of my cell, which

is sleeping in my bag. I reach

for it with a trembling hand,

extract it stealthily so no one—

especially not Mom—notices.

I move it carefully into my lap

and words swim out of the dark

screen.
Paradise is better

than Disneyland. No tickets

required, and no key, either.

Your friend's here. Your daddy, too.

I close my eyes. (Why did I

look, anyway?) When I reopen

them, the text has faded away,

away and the screen is black

again. Black, because I turned

off my phone before services,

like I always do. “Please leave

me alone,” I beg silently,

just as Pastor Smyth winds up

the benediction and everyone

rises for the coffee hour. My heart

races, but Mom doesn't notice

that either as she goes to talk

to Daddy's old patrol car partner,

Mark. She stands very close—

maybe too close for church—and

as always when I see them

together, a hot shot of anger zaps

my nerves. Yes, it's been five

years since Daddy died. Plenty

of time for Mom to hook up

with another guy. But why Mark?

That feels totally wrong, and it's

becoming ever more obvious

that they've bonded, both here

and well beyond church, which

is probably where it started.

Mark, in fact, was the one who

convinced Mom that this peculiar

brand of born-again believing

is her entry code to the Pearly

Gates. Arm in arm, they approach

Pastor Smyth, who grins broadly

at their news. Now all three turn to

stare at me. Whatever they're selling,

I damn sure don't want any.

As If I Have a Choice

Mom kisses Mark softly

on the cheek and as she starts

in my direction, my phone

vibrates. Like an idiot moth,

drawn to a smoking lantern,

I peek at the text.
Snake oil.

My ghost has a sense of humor.

Wait. My. Ghost. I just thought

that. Does that make him real?

I suspect my cell holds an answer

to the unvoiced question, but I

don't try to look because Mom

is standing in front of me.
Mark

is coming over to watch the game,

and he's bringing pizza for dinner.

Hope you don't mind. We've got

something kind of important

we want to discuss with you.

“Game?” Mom watches games?

What kind, and since when?

The baseball game? It
is
April,

you know. Mark's a Yankees fan.

Oh, of course. And it
is
April.

Like that's ever meant anything

before. What the hell's going on?

“I don't care if he comes over.”

Actually, I do, but whatever.

She turns and gives Mark a thumbs-up,

and I follow her to her car, wishing

I'd driven my Bug so I could skip out

on whatever it is they're determined

to tell me. It can't be anything good.

On the way home I sit in quiet

anticipation of a Valium cocktail.

That's what I need. Deep silent

space and zero communication

with the living or the dead, whether

or not it's all in my messed up head.

I consider the text I might or might

not have received in church.
Paradise
.

Is that the same place as Heaven?

If it exists, Erica would be there.

But what about Cam? Or Daddy?

Not only was he mean, but despite

the noble way he died, he did plenty

of dirty cop things. Makes me wonder

out loud, “Hey, Mom. Think Daddy

ever found the key to the kingdom?”

If you mean do I think he's with our

Heavenly Father, of course I do.

“But what about . . . ? He did

some shitty stuff, you know.”

She actually lets the S-word slide.

He was a good man who behaved

badly sometimes. God understands

human frailty and forgives our sins.

Every sin except suicide, apparently.

But I keep that nugget to myself.

By the Time

Mark arrives, extra large meat

lovers' pizza in hand, the game

is underway, the Yankees ahead

by one run in the second inning.

And I am one Valium toward calm

acceptance of the approaching

storm. I didn't want to get too

buzzed until
after
the thunder

rumbled. But I'm not going to

wait seven more innings before

liftoff. I don't watch baseball,

but I do know there are a minimum

nine to suffer through. Mom

must really have a thing for this

guy. But I don't, so as I pick

pepperoni and sausage off

my pizza in protest of eating

in front of the television, I forge

ahead and ask, “What is this big

news you want to share?”

I expect maybe they'll finally

fess up and tell me they're dating

or even that they're taking a trip

together, implying they're having

sex. But when Mom mutes the TV

and they both turn away from

the game and toward me, I know

suddenly and without a doubt

there's more. Mom clears

her throat.
Ahem. Mark and I

have tried to keep our relationship

private, and away from here,

because I realized it might upset

you. But we've been seeing each

other for almost two years, and,

well . . . The truth is, we're in love.

We think it's time to take a big

step forward and sanctify our union

in the eyes of God. We want

to get married, Chloe. And soon.

Glad I didn't eat any greasy

meat. But I wish I'd popped

a couple extra pills, and I'll need

to score hella more. This won't be

easy to live with. I feel like

someone just sledgehammered

me in the gut. “Know what?

You suck. Why weren't you

straight up with me? You can't

just drop something like this

in my lap. ‘Come have some pizza

and, oh, by the way, we're getting

married soon.' What does that

even mean? Like, when?” I try

not to look at Mark, but fail.

Smirk. Is that a word? Yeah,

it is, and that's what he's doing.

Calm down, honey,
says Mom.

You're right. I should've been

honest with you, but I didn't