My mind wanders past dreams of running through a wooded area. The trees swaying, their branches scrape the top of my head and make me run faster. A twig snaps beneath my feet, sounding reminiscent of a deadbolt. Babies cry, having been awaken by the sound; their voices shatter the quiet calm. Jean barks in the background, and I see her run past me with a vigor I have not witnessed before. I try to catch up, but her body bolts between trees, until she disappears altogether from my view. I figure she probably hears a cat, scratching at the linoleum for another quick fix of sweet tasting glue. I stop for a moment to catch my breath; a hand brushes my cheek. The rush and chill of the fingers against my warm skin jars me awake.
Sitting up in the bed, I notice Denise, my wife, looking down at me. Her right hand drawn up towards her face, the other placed squarely on her hip. She laughs a little, her ponytail jostling from side to side of her head. Her eyes of blue sapphires trace mine without one word escaping her lips. I glance at her belly remembering the slight swell and how I used to slide my fingers across her stomach trying to feel the kick of a baby that was never born. However, her thoughts are probably on why I am still in bed. I pull the sweat-stained sheets away from my body as if they were saran wrap. Boxer shorts and my white t-shirt hug my body as I stand, my face inches from hers.
“It’s Tuesday. Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asks backing up towards the bedroom door.
“Shouldn’t you be at Patrice’s?”
Her eyes narrow probably in an effort to squish me between her lids. Similar to the way people use their thumb and index finger from a distance to imagine crushing the heads of others.
“Don’t change the subject. You always have a routine. At least you did. Every morning out the door by seven-thirty.” She says while looking at her watch. “And look here it’s nearly ten past eight.”
It’s been a three days since I’ve been to work. If she had called me back, out of the hundred times I called her, she would have known. If she hadn’t been staying at her friend Patrice’s, after another fight over losing the baby, she might have an inkling it was affecting us both. Instead, I just feel like walking away, hoping that she won’t smell the desperation on my breath. The desperation of alcohol, penetrating my pores and nostrils every night, reminding me every morning for the past two weeks that she wasn’t there. And the one tiny life that no longer grows, but in her words got a free pass to heaven.
“What concern is it of yours?”
“I am still your wife and I still technically live here.” She says, using her fingers to make quotes in the air, then jiggling the key in her hand.
She is ‘technically’ right, but considering she hasn’t been here in over two weeks, I don’t see why she is so adamant now. I remember when we moved in here about a year and half ago. Newlyweds ready to take on the world. She was picking out all the things we needed for our new place. The bedspreads and china sets, the ones with delicate and ornate patterns of a cross or Italian design etched into the natural white ceramic. Most of which were hand-painted in some Tuscan village no one could name. I fumbled with several designs in my hands at the store feeling the sheer weight of each, before one slipped and shattered on the floor. The whole set was ours, minus one dinner plate.
“As if my opinion matters to you.” I respond.
“It always mattered…to me.”
A laugh escapes and I wave it off as if I coughed.
She leaned on her own instincts. A few times I picked the things I hated to see if is she would pick the ones I liked. Pulling out the ugliest towels I could find with birds or frogs bordering the bottom edges or kitchenware twisted into odd shapes that no one could use. Four out of five times I was right and all she did was pick the opposite. That was until we ended up with a bedspread made out of some medieval tapestry inlaid with golden thread. I blamed myself for that mistake, having taken the game a bit too far. One of the things I should’ve thrown at her when she stormed out the door screaming. Like a comment or gesture, that I would have quickly taken back the next day, feeling the regret of not meaning it, except in the heat of the moment. Especially when I called her a “bitch” and wished it could be retrieved, and crumpled into a wasted sheet of paper. I watched her lips pucker as she turned without another word, which made the fight taste so much sweeter. Then the door slammed shut and echoed that it might never be the same.
“Let’s take into account everything shall we? You never wanted to listen to me that we could try again.” I say as Denise hugs her stomach tightly. “But you didn’t want to stop thinking it was some divine intervention that we lost the baby. You still lean so heavily on what your mother instilled in you.”
“Don’t you dare say that to me. She wanted to save your soul Phillip, to save…”
“More than likely to save your soul, so that we wouldn’t plummet to hell together.”
“What’s the difference? Is it wrong for me to want to give you something more in life than work and family?”
“A family! You were content to never want to try again. To want to get pregnant a second time.” I say stepping away towards the bathroom door.
“You tried to replace it with her.” Denise replies pointing her slender index finger at Jean.
“Funny that you would consider her a replacement. You ever think that maybe she was a gift to help us move on.”
Denise stops and looks down in front of Jean, then back at me puzzled.
“So, why aren’t you at work?” she asks.
She decides to change the subject and I suppose that it will only lead to her storming out the door again. So I play around with the answer in my head.
“I just didn’t feel like it. I think I might be coming down with something.” I cough instinctively into my hand.
She scoffs at me, as I turn the faucet on in the bathroom and splash some water on my face. The smell of alcohol still strong on my skin and breath from yesterdays nightly drinking fest.
“I am curious though, why are you here?”
“You called me in the middle of the night. Don’t you remember?” She pauses playing with Jean next to the bed. “Guess you don’t. Probably in too much of a drunken state to remember anything.”
The thought of calling her in the middle of the night crosses my mind. Of mumbling something over the phone, laughing, then crying before hanging up and falling asleep. Though what I actually said feels vague—and I consent that what she heard must be the truth.
My cell phone on the nightstand beeps reminding me that the meeting at eight-thirty has already started. Denise is on the floor, Jean pawing at her for more attention. I bark an order at Jean but she doesn’t even acknowledge it.
“You want breakfast, Jean?” I ask. Her whole body tenses as she rushes over and sits just in front of me. “Bet’cha you couldn’t do that if you tried.”
Denise’s eyes thin. “Come on Jean, let’s get a cookie.”
Jean disappears through the bedroom door, her nails clicking and tapping against the hardwood floor, on her way into the kitchen. Denise smiles back at me proudly before leaving the room.
I change clothes, throwing on an old faded t-shirt and some jeans, and stumble out into the hallway. Denise is shuffling through the upper cabinets.
“Do you have any more food for her?”
“It’s under the sink, where it always is.” I reply.
“Since when has it ever been under the sink?”
I ignore the comment and grab Jean’s leash off the counter, jingling it my hand.
“She needs to eat first, then go outside.” She says.
“You left, we do it this way now.”
Her eyes narrow. This time I can feel her eyelids tightening their grip on my head.
“Come on Jean, lets show Denise the routine.” I reply.
Jean looks at her and darts around the counter, coming back with her dish in her mouth. She whimpers then drops the dish to the floor. She lowers her head slightly to imitate the gaze of the German Shepard puppy, but at five months old, the puppy façade isn’t working.
“Fine, you do it your way.” I say, relenting to the demands of the females.
I walk towards the couch as Denise empties the contents of the bowl into the dog dish. Turning the television on, I start to flip through the channels, and stop on the news about a newborn baby found next to a trashcan. Denise gasps behind me, her hand over her mouth saying, “how could anyone do such a thing, to such a precious gift.” I could say the same thing about Jean. You never expect to find a dog while jogging either.
A week after the miscarriage, neither of us wanted to talk about it or even acknowledge to each other anything had happened. I took up jogging, something I hated, just to get out of the apartment. As I reached down to tie my shoe, a mile from our building, there she was curled up next to a wet cardboard box. Her ribcage and bones visible through her fur, shivering violently against the cold. Her hair matted down to her head, with eyes that darted fearful of every movement I made. She had to be a month old and after a few minutes, I picked her up and pressed her against my chest as I walked back to the apartment, with the smell of wet dog filling the air. Jean became my little baby, and she whimpered the entire time I carried her back. Suppose she was my version of a replacement, though I would never tell Denise. She used to find the tiniest things to complain about, like the scuffs in the hardwood floors or dog toys lying everywhere in the living room. “She’s an outside dog,” she would say her hands at her sides with hair dangling in front of her face, voice exasperated.
Denise grips the back of the couch, her fingernails digging in and says, “You think that maybe we should try again?”
I turn off the television and drop the remote on the counter. I grab the leash on the table as I walk towards Jean. I should say anything that comes to mind. A “yes” or “we’ll talk about it later,” but nothing comes to mind as I just feel like getting out of here. I need to feel the open air on my face. I need to think.
“Alright time for a walk.”
Next to the counter I trip over Denise’s bible. Lifting it off the floor I notice that it’s opened to the Gospel of Mark. I read a passage, remembering that her mother tried to convert me before the wedding, and after, it seemed only fair that Denise take up the challenge. Her mom said, it was her mistake anyways for marrying me in the first place. So dragging me to and from church services every Sunday became Denise’s calling. To churches where the pastors tended to rant and rave for hours about no salvation equals eternal damnation. Their foreheads dripping with sweat as they pounded the covers of their bibles, hoping to drive the nail into the coffins of their messages. A lake of fire didn’t sound like a good place, but unless I saw it for myself, I couldn’t believe in it.
“You’re still invited,” she says standing next to the couch.
After the miscarriage, Denise stopped dragging me to church and went by herself. For four months she would come home in tears, and run to the bathroom while whispering a prayer under her breath. She believed so fervently that it had happened for a reason and still how can anyone believe that a god would do that to his people. I throw the bible onto the counter and move to unlatch the door. I check my pocket for the key, because the door locks automatically and I would rather not have to call my fat super to unlock it.
“No thanks. I just need to take Jean for a walk.” I reply. “Come on Jean, time for a bathroom break.”
In the hallway, I find Mrs. Peterson locking her door. She turns, smiles at Denise and I, and then finishes the last lock. Her hands shake as she drops her keys into her purse. She doesn’t look like herself today—not the confident woman she usually is. Her hair is tied back loosely into a bun with tiny white hairs jutting out in every direction. Her red rimmed glasses hang precariously on the top of her wrinkled, liver-spotted nose.
“You alright today Mrs. Peterson?”
She turns and smiles at me while fumbling inside her purse.
Mrs. Peterson talked to me for nearly an hour the night Denise and I had brought her dinner five months ago. I made the mistake of moving a porcelain cat of hers. She then proceeded to guide me around her apartment past old photographs, mostly black and white, telling me about each and every one. Then she pointed out that each porcelain cat had its own place. I guess it had something to do with where or when she’d gotten each one. I nodded as if it mattered. I would have been more comfortable to just have put the cat back and walked away.
“I’m doing alright, Phillip. How are you today?” she asks, her voice cracking. “Oh, Denise. How are you dear?”
“Good.” I try to say, Denise and Mrs. Peterson begin to converse over my reply.
Mrs. Peterson looks down at Jean as she walks next to my leg.
“You know you could train her to use a litter box.”
The thought creeps into my head. What would be worse, the fact that I have to clean it or have to smell it, because I refuse to clean it? I turn my attention to Jean as she rushes ahead of me and bounces in front of the elevator like a gazelle.
“Not so sure about a litter box, Jean...”
Denise interrupts with a wink. “He needs the exercise.”
Mrs. Peterson nods, rubbing her hands together.
Jean barks.
“You sure you’re okay today?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m fine. Really there’s nothing big going on. It’s just…I’m going to visit Daniel today, and bring him a cup of coffee for his birthday.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Her husband,” Denise whispers, elbowing me in the gut.
I mime an ‘oh’.
“Yes, my late husband, Daniel. Neither of you met him.” She says waving the words away with her hand. “So how’ve you been Denise? Don’t get to see much of you lately.”
I interject before Denise has a chance to say a word.
“She’s been fine. The baby’s fine. She has been working a lot lately,” I say rubbing her back. “And we don’t get to see much of each other lately, but well, you know how that can go sometimes.”
My eyes fall squarely on Denise, signaling her not to say another word.
“What are you talking about? What did you say that for?”
“Let’s not do this now.” I whisper through my teeth.
“What are you lying for Phillip?”
Mrs. Peterson stops, looks at me and says, “Is something going on with you two?”
“No, not at all. Everything’s peachy.” I answer.
Denise turns to Mrs. Peterson. “We’ve…we’ve been having some problems. I’ve been staying with a friend, because we lost the baby.” She pats her stomach softly, then turns to me. “A few months ago.”
I think that Mrs. Peterson isn’t one of our biggest friends. We only brought her dinner once months ago and I did not see a reason to share our lives with that old woman, but I guess who am I to say otherwise.
Mrs. Peterson walks over to me and hits me with her purse. Denise continues to rub her stomach, as tears trickle from her eyes. Mrs. Peterson gives Denise a hug. They both start to share their feelings with each other and I slip away towards the door.
“You say one wrong thing and they punish you for it. Don’t trust a female Jean.”
Jean barks as I push the elevator button.
“It doesn’t work,” Denise yells at me, wiping tears from her eyes.
“What?”
“The super was putting a sign on the door downstairs saying it was ‘out of order.’ It’s only four floors. Mrs. Peterson, Phillip wouldn’t mind helping you down.”
Mrs. Peterson smiles. “I am sure that he wouldn’t.”
We all walk to the stairwell door. I hold it open standing at the edge of the first step. Mrs. Peterson shuffles through and I take her hand to help her down the stairs. Jean bolts around Denise and bumps into my left leg. As it begins to buckle I try to grab hold of the railing, but it’s too far away for me to reach. My body starts to fall in slow motion, Denise is screaming and Mrs. Peterson watches in horror, until I feel something hard hit me in the head.
I choke to life as water begins to fill my lungs. My eyes shoot open to find nothing but sheer black. Waves bounce off my chest; hypnotic swells sending chills up my spine that burn and calm at the same time. Where the hell am I? I was just in my apartment.
Denise. She can’t be here too, wherever here is. I try to yell her name, but my voice is void in this place. No sound, the waves are even quiet here. No subtle whoosh or flutter as the water moves over my shoulders. It’s quiet and black, until a hum begins to reverberate all around. It sounds like television static. It’s getting louder from every direction as if something is closing in on me. I turn around, my legs kicking harder trying to keep my head above the water. It’s only been a few seconds, but the burn of my muscles is increasing the harder I try to fight it. I don’t see anything in the distance, instead more void beyond my eyes. Still the sound grows louder. My heart paces faster and faster, my legs trying to follow suit.
“You need some help?”
I turn in the water and before me floats a rowboat with a figure cloaked in black, a hood covering his face. His deep voice rumbles the same question again.
“Where am I?” my voice shakes from the cold sting of the water.
The figure leans forward, extends his hand and repeats the same question. I grab onto the edge of the boat and his hand grips mine. With one smooth motion he pulls me into the boat, my head bangs against an oar. He pulls a blanket from behind him and thrusts it into my chest. I hurriedly throw it over my shoulders and try to warm up.
“So where am I? What is this place?”
I search for the man’s eyes, but only blackness penetrates his hood. His hands are a bleached white, and his fingernails are crusted green and brown. I look up again towards where his face should be, watching as he starts to row the boat through the void.
“You know I am grateful for all the hospitality and all, but I really would like to know where the hell I am.”
His head turns towards the side of the boat and then back at me.
“You are here.” He says, his voice echoing in my ears.
“What?”
“You are here. Just here.”
After a few minutes of trying to figure everything out, I lean back and feel a sense of frustration wash over me. Standing up in the boat, I throw off the blanket and grab the man by both of his shoulders. I shake him, and ask, “Where am I?” His head tilts up as his hood falls away. All at once I see his face. His chalky skin is tattered and torn, bruises streak one way across the right side of his face and then up the left. Faded blotches of un-oxygenated blood clots in his cheeks and deep red swirls travel down from under his eyes. His stiffened joints pop and contort, as I realize he is more dead than alive. His receded eyes stare back at me from his skull. He breathes softly as I stumble backwards and fall towards the end of the rowboat.
“What the fuck are you?”
“I am the ferryman.” He says, his ominous voice echoing across the empty ocean.
A few minutes pass before I find the courage again to sit up in the boat, let alone want to talk to him. I watch him carefully, his hands, his face, and anything else that I can notice about this man—the ferryman. I must be hallucinating. There is no way that I am being ferried to the afterlife. My heart beats harder against my ribcage, and I somehow muster the courage to ask him another question.
“Why am I here?”
His neck cracks as his head twists to look at me.
“You are dead.”
“How?”
“You were there. Were you not?”
I sit up in the boat and pull the blanket around my arms.
“I’m not dead.”
The ferryman smiles at me. The skin around his lips cracks and falls away. My eyes widen at the sight, not noticing as he pushes a book into my face. I take the book and turn the pages. It’s filled with names. Flipping through, I notice some of them to be famous people, others that I have never heard of and then at the bottom of the last page—my name, Phillip Barnaby. Yelling at the ferryman that I am not dead does little, but make him turn away and continue to row. I sit down, my back pressed against the side of the boat. From behind me a dim light begins to brighten the darkness. Turning around I notice that it is not a sun. It’s an island on fire. It stretches from one side of my vision to the other and is engulfed completely in flames. In the distance the faint resonance of screaming begins to grow louder as the rowboat approaches the shore.
“What is that?” I ask in desperation.
“This is where all the dead go. Those who at least have not been taken up.”
“What? What is that supposed to mean?”
The ferryman remains silent.
“You mean to tell me, that is hell?”
He does not answer, but smiles, as he stops rowing to pull the hood back over his head.
“Take me back.”
He laughs and says, “I cannot take you back. I take those to their end, not from it.”
“There has to be a way back. People have died and returned.” I scream and turn away. “How do I get back?”
“There.”
I look back from the island and see his finger pointing into the darkness. The same direction we came from, I think.
“So take me there.”
The ferryman shakes his head and repeats that he can only take people one way.
I can already feel the flames creeping up my back, the heat piercing and prickling across every inch of my skin and we are miles off. I look back and forth between where the ferryman’s finger points and the island of fire. Taking one final deep breath I jump past him and dive into the water. The waves surge around me, millions of tiny bubbles tickling my skin as I struggle back towards the surface. My arms strain to pull me along as my feet and legs desperately thrust harder. I can hear the ferryman’s deep voice laughing, egging me to fail. I will not fail, I tell myself. There is too much that I don’t want to give up. Waking up with Denise and getting to listen to another of Mrs. Peterson’s porcelain cat stories. Thoughts of wanting to try for another baby crosses my mind as my whole body struggles to keep from drowning. The ferryman’s laugh begins to disappear, the more I will myself to want to live. Maybe I won’t yell at Jean when she barks at three in the morning. Water splashes off my face, in my attempt to mimic professional swimmers, the taste of salt water thick on my tongue. Suddenly every part of my body weakens, my legs stiffen, along with my arms, and I begin to sink. I thrash once more before I feel the chill of the water engulf me. My lungs gasp for air, but they find nothing except water to breath. I choke releasing the last air in my lungs into the water and then I wonder if you can die, when you are already dead.
There is a sudden rush, as my whole body feels light and warm. My eyes clench shut and I can’t seem to open them. I try harder to open my eyes, my mind must be awake while my body is still sleeping. The thought of opening my eyes to see the ferryman standing over me with that cracking smirk on his face scares me.
Slowly as my eyes begin to open, I am blinded by the brilliance of the room. Light all around shines, burning my eyes as if I were staring into the sun. The faint noise of voices whispering drifts into my ears and I listen to the unfamiliar sound. Then I hear voice that keeps echoing softly and sweetly, “Phillip, Phillip Barnaby. Can you hear me, Phillip?” For a moment, I almost don’t care and tighten my eyes shut to absorb the sensation of rest. The thought of not having to swim anymore awakens me and I feel content to take whatever happens. Then a pressure on my shoulder jars me out of my comfort.
“Phillip?”
My eyes shoot open, and I try to turn my head but I can’t move. I heard my name one more time before a face appears, a woman leans into view. She’s blurry. I see a light glow around her short brown hair.
My voice cracks as I try to speak, forcing nothing but air and a shallow cough past my lips. The pain in my arms and legs is gone. A sudden sense of regret washes over me as I start to remember all the things I did not do. Denise was right, we don’t have all the time in the world to waste. A single tear breaks from my eye and rolls down my cheek.
“What’s wrong Phillip?” she questions.
“I let things slip away.”
“Well, suppose you’ll have to hold on tighter now. You can come in now if you like. But only for a few minutes.” She says.
Denise walks into the room with a coffee cup in her hand. She looks disheveled. Her eyes bloodshot, mascara streaking her face in faded lines while her blonde hair covers the left side of her face. The nurse smiles at her and walks out the door scribbling on her clipboard.
“You alright?”
“Not exactly sure. I think I went swimming for a second there.”
“What?”
“I must have hit my head hard on something. I woke up in an ocean.” I reply.
“It was the stairs you hit when you fell.”
“Must be the drugs, because I feel great.”
She pauses and sets her coffee cup on the rollaway table next to the bed, then sits down picking up my hand in hers.
“Phillip, you almost died three times while they operated on you.”
“Operated on me?”
“They had to stitch up your head. You were…” she tries to say choking back tears. “Were bleeding everywhere. I was so scared.”
I grip her hand, feeling the IV grinding into my vein.
“I’m alright now.”
“I almost lost…”
“You didn’t lose me that’s more important.” I reiterate.
Denise pats my hand softly while using her other hand to wipe away the tears and mascara on her cheeks.
“I want to try again.”
“Try what?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Then we will try and get through it together no matter what.”
Denise smirks. I pat her hand again, feeling the IV in my hand. I lean back while the stitches pinch the skin on the back of my head, but the pain is inconsequential. My eyes are just fixated on Denise and the thoughts of a family again, fill my head. The bicycle rides down the cracked sidewalks outside our apartment, Denise yelling that dinner is ready while we play hoops in the front yard of our first house, and me, trying my best to keep my little girl away from all the bad boys in school. Though the memory of the ferryman creeps his way into the picture, I know that I would rather drown a thousand times than have to face his chalk white face again. I keep patting Denise’s hand, my smile growing brighter as I start thinking of names for the baby.
“Denise, what do you think of the name Mark for a boy?”
She looks at me curiously and takes a sip of her coffee.
“Where did you come up with that name?”
“From a book. That I think I need to start reading more carefully. Or maybe Mary, if it’s a girl.”
Denise laughs and I try to as well, but the stitches tug against the back of my head. Who knew that when you hurt yourself the easiest things to do, becomes the hardest. I situate myself against the mediocre hospital pillow and close my eyes. The Ferryman’s laugh begins to creep back into my head.