In Nightmares We're Alone (18 page)

“All life is one, but you serve yourself,” said God, said All Life. “This is why you suffer. Because you are you.”

“So tell me how to transcend! Tell me how to be something more!”

And God laughed and laughed at the foolish lion.

God replied, “How could anyone be anything more than himself?”

I flip on the light when I come back into the yard and I stand in front of the sycamore.

You mossy bitch. Before you infected me, I had money and women and health. I even had myself convinced I was good. Delusional or otherwise, I was doing fine.

Tree of Life. Existentialist shit. Pseudo-philosophy.

Everything you relate to me belongs in a self-help book or on a bumper sticker—next to a ‘coexist’ poster on some blonde-haired hippie chick’s front door.

Well fuck it all then, sycamore. You can’t help me and I can’t help you. You’re too big and I’m too small. I will not love you one second longer. It can’t be done. I will love me. I will serve me. I have fallen out of love.

I rear the axe back and swing. The bark splits open and the first chip dislodged flies straight into my eye and blinds me. I drop the axe and fall on my side in the backyard, kicking the base of the trunk and swearing at the sycamore.

This is who I am. I can never be anything but me.

But do not pity me. You have to be you.

The doctor does everything but call me a fucking psycho. There are no saplings sprouting when I’m sitting in his office and he looks over my hands and feet and mouth and asks me to clarify about six or seven times that I’m sure the wounds aren’t self-inflicted. It doesn’t help the situation when I eventually concede that they technically
are
self-inflicted, but only because I had to pull trees out of my flesh.

He asks whether I take any recreational drugs. He asks if I’m sure. He asks if I’ve used any in the past.

I tell him I’ve smoked marijuana a few times. I’ve had good times and bad times with it, but I’ve never had to pull a tree out of my finger with a pair of pliers because I smoked bad hash.

He x-rays each of my hands and tells me there’s nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. He says he wants to give me the benefit of the doubt but all he can see is some carved-up fingertips that look to have been cut up from the outside.

“Here’s a question,” he says. “Do you bite your nails?”

“I did until recently. Lately my fingers are in too much pain.”

He nods, interested. “Have you been under any extra stress lately aside from the wounds?”

“They’re growths, not wounds. And no, I don’t think so. I’ve got stress at work and family shit, but the wounds started before that stuff got bad.”

“This is just something I’m throwing out there. Just humor me. You said the growths always wake you up at night. Is it possible you’re having very vivid night terrors and biting them down to the fingertips in your sleep?”

I shake my head. No. “Are you fucking kidding?”

“It does happen. People harming themselves in their sleep. Frankly it happens a lot more than… you know… tree growths. I’ve met people who have night terrors so clear they swear they really happened even when there’s no way they could have. I’m not saying what you’re telling me is impossible but I’m sure you’re aware that it’s virtually unheard of.”

“It’s not unheard of. There’s a guy called the Tree Man.”

“I’ve watched the same Discovery Channel freak specials as you. That man’s affliction is a case of radical transformation of wart tissue. You don’t have what he has. I can tell you right now the specimens you brought me aren’t wart tissue. They don’t even look like human cell tissue. They look like plant tissue.” He says it with a look like he’s caught me in a lie.

I hold up my hand and wave my swollen, scarred fingers in his face. “I know what happened to me, Doctor. I ripped those fucking things out myself. I don’t give a shit what kind of cells are in them, I know where I got them from. Don’t tell me I dreamed it. My fingers, my mouth, my toes. What, I’m biting my fucking toenails in my sleep?”

“Calm down, Casey, it was just an idea. If you’re willing to pursue that possibility, I can prescribe a strong sleep aid that might help. Otherwise there’s not much I can do until I can run some tests on the tissue you brought in, or get a look at one of these growths while it’s still attached.”

“What’s it going to change if you see it attached?”

“Two things. I’ll be able to establish a better idea of exactly what the situation is, and we’ll be able to start running some tests to try to find the root of the problem.”

The two things he really means are jack shit and fuck all. Son of a bitch even works the word
root
into his sentence to patronize me.

“Forget it. What about my eye?”

“What about it?”

“Bark from the tree by my house got in my eye. Now it’s itchy and uncomfortable and… if one of those things grows out of my eye I’m probably gonna lose the eye. What do I do about it?”

“Your eye is fine,” he says. “No sign of infection, no scratches to the cornea. The discomfort should pass. If you get any irregular build-up of fluids or the pain escalates, come back and see me, but I really don’t expect any trouble.”

“And if a tree sprouts out of it?”

There’s a little pause before he answers and I half expect him to say “Join a circus,” but he ends up coming out with, “Come see me.”
The smile on his face is a hell of a fist-magnet.

I knew it wasn’t medical anyway. I don’t even know why I came. If it was medical a tree wouldn’t be telling me I’m selfish.

But if it isn’t scientific, then it’s supernatural. And if it’s supernatural, then of all the mediums in this town, all the mediums in the world, all the conmen and cheats and bad fathers, I keep asking myself why me? I can’t be the worst, so how was it that I got picked to be made an example of?

* * * * *

Elaine still doesn’t know. Is that why it hasn’t stopped? I can’t tell her. Not yet. Not until I can figure out how to do it without ruining what we could have.

Or is that the point? That I don’t deserve her. I’ve lied to her and manipulated her and I have to face her wrath for what I’ve done. I have to accept that I stumbled across a woman who I could love and I ruined it by being the person that I was. I can change, but it has no meaning unless I accept the place I’m starting from.

“Hello?” she answers her phone.

“Hi, Elaine.”

“Hi, Casey. How are you? I’m just on my way to work.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to… talk to you about something.”

“Yes, I do want to set up another appointment, I just don’t know exactly when yet.”

I have to tell her. This is wrong. If I’m worth forgiving, I can convince her to forgive me, but I have to tell her how I got here.

I could tell her tomorrow though. Or the next day. If I can lay enough positive foundation, the negative won’t break us. Right now I can’t save myself from the hole I’ve dug.

How do you take a business relationship built on lies and turn it into a personal relationship built on devotion? Is it even possible?

It must be. Surely a client has fallen for a lawyer at some point. A criminal for a cop. Stockholm Syndrome is so goddamn common it’s a household name. It’s a big world. You’re hardly ever the first to do something crazy. Even when plants sprout from your body, you’re still not the first.

No. The question is one of ethicality, not possibility. Stop asking what
can
be done and ask what
should
.

“Are you still there?” comes that elating tickle in my ear. “I can’t hear you.”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m here. Um… That wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh. What did you want to tell me?”

“Elaine, I… I’ve done a terrible thing…”

It’s a conveniently structured version of the truth, but it is the truth. Strap me to a polygraph and I could pass. The truth is if I have a gift, it’s in seeing how people are hurting and in knowing what to say to help them cope. I’ve been extremely dishonest in how I’ve used it, but I always thought I was helping. Well I’m starting to doubt it. I can’t talk to the dead, I just understand pain. I know what I’ve done is terrible and I know you’re probably furious and I understand, but if you’d let me, I’d love to keep talking and to do it honestly this time. I’d love to try to help you, for free, in a way that isn’t a lie.

Not a word of that comes out.

Instead what comes out is, “I’ve gone and become attracted to you.”

“…What?”

I force a laugh. “This is going to sound forward. Actually, no, it’s going to
be
forward. Elaine, I wanted to tell you I’m attracted to you and I wondered how you’d feel about going to dinner with me sometime soon.”

“I see.” There’s not enough in her voice to detect discomfort or excitement or anything other than surprise. This is where a lot of guys panic and backpedal and the whole thing gets ugly.

I don’t know what happened here. This isn’t what I intended when I dialed. I have no control over my own actions.

That rational selfishness shit though, sure, fine, it’s airtight and the sycamore wins. But what if Elaine needs this too? What if a father figure would help bring Macie back to a normal childhood? Even if I’m serving myself, am I necessarily the only one I’m serving?

“What would that mean for the sessions? Would we have to stop?”

Tough question, actually. Very tough question. “We’ll play it by ear, figure it out as we come to it. I’m not too worried about that.”

“Is it ethical?” she asks, plucking thoughts from the mind of the man I was five minutes ago. “I mean, there’s not a code, or…?”

“You’re mixing me up with a shrink. They talk to living people. I talk to dead ones.”

“Ah. So as long as you don’t date dead people…”

“Exactly.”

She laughs. It’s a pretty laugh. I believe it may be the first time I’ve heard it.

“Are you interested?” I ask. “That’s the only real question where ethics are concerned. It’s not very ethical for two people who think they might have a connection to dream up reasons to keep it from blossoming.”

“Well aren’t you a philosopher.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been on a date since Russell left. I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Neither have I.” A half-truth, I guess you could call that. Or maybe more like a quarter-truth. When Elaine says she hasn’t even thought about it, I have a hunch she means she hasn’t banged thirty-five guys and sent them packing when she finished, but we all deal with grief in different ways.

“The whole dating game is… I’ve been out of it so long.” Still making excuses.

“So have I,” I say. “But you know what? Better idea. Forget dinner. We’ll do lunch. Lunch is easy. You don’t have to dress up or act formal, you’ve only got an hour before you’ve got to go back to work so you don’t run into awkward goodbyes, and the kids are at school so there’s nothing to plan.”

She chuckles and sighs. I imagine she’s in the parking lot at work now, trying to get off the phone so she can go inside and punch the clock. I nailed the timing.

I hear her shaking her head and looking for more excuses.

“Sure,” she says finally. “Lunch it is. But just a trial date. Really casual. See if it’s weird and go from there.”

“That’s what a first date is,” I tell her. “You
have
been out of the game a while, haven’t you?”

Over the receiver I can hear the smile. “Bye, Casey.”

She hangs up.

It’s like being in high school again. I want to jump up and cheer. Brag to my mom. High five my friends.

High five. The thought makes me notice it. All of a sudden my fingers feel fine.

* * * * *

Dad died in a car accident, but that’s not really the truth.

The truth is he died of internal bleeding a few hours after a crash, but even that’s not the whole truth.

The whole truth, I think, is that he just gave up.

Those last hours in the hospital he kept saying, “God has a sick sense of humor.”

He’d gotten a big promotion that day, and he and Mom were coming from a charity event for church, helping underprivileged orphans or whatever good Christians do. At seventy miles an hour, metal crushes against metal and the car goes over the guardrail on a freeway overpass.

People keep telling Dad it’s a miracle he’s alive. That’s the word they use. Miracle. They say, “God was looking out for you.”

Dad’s not feeling it. Mom’s dead. The promotion he couldn’t stop thinking about two hours ago means nothing anymore. He can’t feel his legs.

The car that smashed into him, the driver who got distracted, was their fucking preacher.

I don’t know if Dad lost his faith in those last moments. I just know he kept saying, “God has a sick sense of humor. He can be a real tease. Makes you think everything’s gonna be perfect for you and then
bam!”

And he laughed and coughed and winced and cried.

I don’t agree with the God part, but Dad sure was right about the sick sense of humor.

I fall asleep smiling, giddy for tomorrow’s lunch date, and three hours later I wake up screaming.

All ten fingers are sprouting plants and so are most of my toes. Two are coming out of my gums, protruding from behind my upper lip and giving a twisted new image to the concept of a vegetarian vampire.

My left eye is red and ugly like I burst a blood vessel, but so far there’s nothing growing out of it. I know it’s coming though. Another day, two at the most, and whether I pull it out or not it’ll be a miracle if I don’t lose sight in that eye.

Yeah, a miracle. Like Dad’s last few hours.

Then it’s both eyes, my ears, my dick and my asshole. How long before they’re sprouting on the inside from my lungs or my heart or my brain? How long before my landlord opens the front door and finds a half-decomposed human flower pot sitting in a chair in the living room?

“What are you doing to me?” I scream at the sycamore from the window of my bedroom, but the tree just stands with its leaves in the wind.

I get in the car and drive. Eighty miles an hour on residential streets. Bare foot to the floor on the gas pedal because shoes aren’t made to fit creatures like me. There’s a Big and Tall Man shop, but no Half-Tree Freak of Nature shop.