In Nightmares We're Alone (10 page)

It’s better this way, Macie.

I’m too paralyzed to reach for the switch. I stand and watch my sister and she watches me back with Beth’s eyes. I beg her not to do this. I beg her to fight, to go against the doll’s will. I beg her with my eyes because the rest of me won’t work.

But Sissy stands and looks at me from across the room with no emotion of any kind on her face. She raises the knife to one side of her own neck, presses down hard, and pulls it across to the other side.

Just us, sweetheart. Just us.

I scream. With tears streaming down my face I pound my fist on the light switch and the flames in the fireplace come to life a few moments too late to matter. I don’t bother watching.

I kneel over Sissy and I ask her not to die. I tell her I’m sorry I was bad and that I didn’t burn the doll sooner, or sometime when she wasn’t home. I promise her I’ll never do anything to hurt her again if she lives.

And when the blue and the green fade out of her eyes and they go to a glazed-over look like a newborn baby who can’t see a foot in front of its face, all Sissy says is “Macie? What happened?” and then her body jolts and spasms and maybe some old memory comes back and makes her say “Don’t tell Mom.”

Then all of a sudden my sister is dead. My sister, and her boyfriend, and the boy who might have been my first kiss, and even my dog.

I want to cry. I want to go into my room and bury my face in the pillow and scream and sob until my throat is hoarse and my eyes are dry and there’s no energy left for me to do anything but lie there for the rest of my life. But I can’t let the sadness take over. There’s still too much anger. Anger at the laughter that’s filling my mind—the soft, grandmotherly laughter.

You really did it this time, Macie. I hope you’re happy.

I turn to the fireplace. I stand there and watch until there’s nothing left but a ball of ashes and a charred porcelain head. Then I get the fireplace poker and spread the ashes and smash in the head and let it burn some more. Then the voices stop and I can cry.

I go to the phone and dial.

“Mommy,” I say when she picks up her cell, tears streaming down my face. “You need to come home right now. Something really bad happened.”

Mommy holds me. Sits in her rocking chair and holds me.

Every day now. It’s all she likes to do anymore.

She tells me what a perfect daughter I am, what a beautiful little girl. She tells me how she loves me.

“How are things at school?”
she asks.
“You’d tell me if anything was wrong, right? You know I’d already know.”

Of course when Mommy came home from her date her eyes were Beth’s eyes and her voice was Beth’s voice. And she never judged me for the pile of death in the living room. She only asked that I help her load them into the car at night. That I help her bury them in the woods.

I sit comatose in Mommy’s lap in the rocking chair each night and she tells me how everything is going to be okay, how we’ll be together forever, how every little girl needs a mommy to love her and nothing I could do would ever make her stop loving me.

And when the new dolly arrives, the last new dolly, Mommy tells me I should open it for old time’s sake.

I hold my breath when I pull open the box and it’s just what I envisioned. Pretty little dolly with auburn hair and almond eyes. Deep, familiar, human almond eyes.

Old Mommy’s eyes.

New Mommy puts the new dolly up on the shelf where Beth used to sit. And some days I go into the doll room late at night and stand there and watch her.

I say, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

I say, “I was only trying to help.”

Once in a while I hear a voice in my head.

Macie, is that you?

I can’t move.

Help me.

I sit with New Mommy. She brushes my hair and kisses my forehead. She rocks with me as I get older and grow, and she never changes.

“Macie.”

“Pretty girl.”

“My beautiful baby girl.”

“Aren’t you happy we’ll always have each other?”

“Most people don’t have anyone.”

“We’ll always be happy.”

“We’ll always be together.

“Forever.”

I wish I knew how to help you, Old Mommy. I wish I knew how to make you come home.

At first I keep telling myself it’s gout. I don’t even know what gout is but it must be that. That or athlete’s foot. These are just words to me, but I don’t think you have to go to a doctor for them. As far as I know they’re just painful and uncomfortable for a while and then they get better. Better yet, I bet it’s an ingrown nail. Or a sliver. If I ignore it, it will go away.

There are no STDs that start in your toe, are there? There can’t be, right? How would that make sense?

I pull off Danielle’s panties and shove my face into her.

I know I’m not careful about this stuff. I’ll calm down one day soon, I promise I will. It’s just a phase I’m going through. If I get it out of my system, everything will be okay.

Of all the people who should’ve learned by now, though. Of all the people who ought to know to bag it.

I undo my belt and pull my fly down.

Seventeen years old with a son. How do you make that mistake? How do you screw up being six-three and toned and naturally tan and hairless in all the right places with a penis a little more than eight inches long? How do you screw up being an extrovert with a movie star smile and blonde hair and blue eyes and ‘cute’ dimples all the babes want to ride bareback? How do you turn that into nine years with barely ten orgasms that aren’t self-induced, pretty much all of them on your birthdays?

Danielle gives me a look that says she can’t wait another second, so I insert myself.

Exactly like this. That’s how you screw it up. Except you’re ten years younger and you’re in the weight room at your high school after football practice with one of the cheerleaders and you want to know, just once, what it feels like when you don’t pull out. Then bam! Sixteen years old and she’s got a swelling belly infected with a parasitic monster and both sets of parents are telling you that you ought to be married before the thing comes tearing out of her and shits all over your plans and goals.

You want to talk about STDs. I love the kid, but fuck.

And ten years later, what have we learned? What have we learned, Casey?

I thrust down hard, whispering filth in her ear. Skin on skin lubricated only by natural human secretions.

Not a thing. Not a goddamn thing is what I’ve learned. That and a thousand empty incantations from self-help books with titles like ‘I Am Still Me: Getting Over a Traumatic Experience’ and ‘Unleash Your Inner Power.’

I am a unique child of this universe.

The will of the cosmos flows through me.

I have the strength to achieve what I set my mind to.

I wrap a hand around Danielle’s neck and bite her ear while I fuck her.

I was a good husband. Never hit her. Never cheated. Raised my voice few enough times in eight years to count on my fingers—or my fingers and toes together at the most, leaving off the big swollen one that feels ready to fall off. I remembered birthdays, holidays, worked my ass off, and the worst I ever did was get tired. A little stress here and there, so shoot me. So every goddamn once in a while I needed an hour to just sit down and watch TV and be left alone. Was that too much to ask? Did that really have to mean I didn’t love her?

I was practically an angel. If I’d been milked a few times a week I probably would’ve been.

And fatherhood, forget about it. I did everything for Martin, and not just out of responsibility either. Nine days out of ten I loved being a dad, and no one ever says it out loud, but I swear that ratio must be as good as anybody’s.

I roll Danielle over and go at her from the back. Or is this one Rory? No. The tramp stamp. Definitely Danielle.

“You made your bed, you lie in it.” That’s what Mom used to say. Her excuse for not running out on that asshole she called sweetheart. I always told myself if you make your bed so badly you can’t sleep, there’s no reason not to get out, tear it up, and make it again from scratch. But I did what Mom did. Selfless sacrifice for the good of the family. Anyway, once its been shat, your bed can only be made so well.

I am a hero to those around me.

And then goddamn Daphne comes along. Daphne with her seductive glances and her short skirts, always trying to pretend she doesn’t know I can see up them when she sits on my couch. With her increasingly explicit text messages that turn to increasingly explicit pictures as I tell her over and over that she’s beautiful but I’m married and it needs to stop. And maybe if I’d just told Rose, if I’d forgotten how bad we needed the money from these sessions and just told Rose about the advances…

“Oh yeah,” Danielle moans. “Mmm, fuck me.”

Yeah, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you like no one fucked me for a decade because my wife stopped loving me. I’ll fuck you like I fucked Daphne in my dreams every night until that last picture did to my world what this infection is probably doing to my toe. I’ll fuck you like I fucked my life.

One pussy pic at a bad time. One pussy pic I would have deleted if I’d seen it anyway, but because I left my phone on the coffee table while I went out to mow the lawn, it meant three months of sleeping on the couch, cast out of love over an act of infidelity that never even happened, straining myself not to go out and anger-fuck Daphne out of spite. Three months, and then still, “I can’t forgive you. I think we should divorce.”

So fine, I say. Go. Rob me of my sexual prime and tend to your pastures till they’re greener than I can get them. Just leave me my son. And even though behind closed doors she says sure, the boy says he’s going with her anyway. So long, Dad. The two of us don’t need you.

All that work. All that fighting. All those years of working myself half-dead so the three of us could have everything we needed and they don’t need me.

Now
you
fuck
me
, Danielle. Fuck me like I’ve got nothing to show for eight years of marriage save for a thousand photographs to trigger regret and a lack of sexual experience. Fuck me like I’m worth something.

I lie on my back and pull her on top of me. She grabs my knees and bounces her ass up and down on me. The phone rings. Probably Trish. She’s clingy. Maybe Rory or Keisha. Nikki’s in New York and Bibi never calls anymore. Viv and Michelle never did; I have to call them myself. At this point Daphne would just show up and ring the bell.

You made your bed, you lie in it. But if the bed up and leaves, make as many beds as you can before you’re old and ugly. Never get bedridden. Rampant, hedonistic bed-making is the only real benefit of not having to be a husband and a father all the time.

I am happy in my own skin.

Yeah, and the skin of others. As many and as often as possible.

Danielle squeals and lets loose. It’s always messy with her. Not as bad as with Trish, but close. I shove her back down and get on top again and it’s hard and fast and mean, on my knees with one foot elevated so I don’t disturb my toe.

That big, red, swelling spot just under the nail. What is that? Three days now. Worse each morning when I wake up. And if it’s worse again tomorrow maybe I’ll go to a doctor. But I said that about today too, said it yesterday.

Danielle says not inside, so I pull out and collapse on top of her and glue us together.

In a few minutes she’ll dress and go home and I’ll check my missed call. I hope it’s Trish. If it is I’ll take a shower and call her back. Danielle and Trish in the same night would be one for the ages.

I am where I want to be.

Say it. The idea with a mantra is, if you keep saying it, eventually it’s supposed to be true.

* * * * *

The key to talking to the dead is to understand that the dead don’t talk and can say anything you want them to. To be an effective medium, one must master the art of talking without speaking.

‘There is somebody here who wants to talk to you,’ you’ll tell them. ‘I’m sensing the smell of smoke, maybe? And the ocean, or some body of water. I’m getting a letter G, or it could be an O? And I’m seeing people who are playing some sort of game? They’re running… and…?’

‘Soccer?’ they’ll chime in. ‘I had a grandfather named Oscar who liked to watch soccer.’

‘That’s it. Oscar is here. Your grandfather says not to worry. He wants you to…’ bibbity beep bop boop.

Understand that they want to believe this and as long as you present it with confidence, they will. They’ll even forget you mentioned smoke and the ocean.

By doing this, you are not just making money, you are giving peace of mind to those who suffer.

My work impacts the world in a positive way.

You can learn this skill easily. Next time you meet someone, stop talking about yourself. Ask them questions and really listen to the answers. Observe their t-shirt and tattoos and wedding ring and ask them questions. People love to talk about themselves and we don’t notice it because we’re people ourselves. We have trouble shutting up and listening. But practice it. Start listening. Give it fifteen minutes and you’ll know everything there is to know about this person and they won’t know a thing about you. You’ll feel like you have a superpower.

If you want to make them feel better by channeling dead friends and relatives, more than anything it’s about listening. If a client says the dead person was shy, or crass, or yelled a lot, they’re doing your work for you. Play the character. Improv is about saying ‘Yes, and…’

Be positive. If Mom was always disappointed, tell Claire that Mom regrets it. Tell her Mom was very proud of Claire but she didn’t show it well and she wishes she had. Bibbity beep bop boop.

In my experience, Claire sometimes sucks your prick that night. In sales they call that a spiff.

Take an improv class if you need to. Or make crank phone calls. I’m telling you how to do this because nobody else will.