Perceptions

THE GUEST HOUSE

Guest rooms were always hiding things. No one starts out wanting a guest room. It's usually an office first, but then you got fired and can't look at it anymore, so you throw a bed in it that you'll never sleep in. Sometimes it's a kid's room, but they've moved out into a college dorm room. It used to be storage but then the divorce happened leaving it depressingly empty. A studio for recording music but the bass player was in a car accident, and the band broke up.

Guest rooms are rarely ever intentional. It's more of a ritual. Something society has deemed necessary. The presumption that someone wants to stay with you and your new husband is one of the perceptions. The poor friend grits their teeth trying to pretend they can't hear you having sex, trying to make the stiff pillows into something they actually want to lay on, trying to breathe through the Yankee Candle Vanilla Wafer air freshener that's plugged into the wall. The window sticks after an inch and they can't get it up all the way. They unplug it after everyone is asleep, but the smell has been cloistered in the room for so long that it will never smell like anything else. They put the pillow on top of their face and try to sleep.

I stood in the doorway to this guest room without entering it. Untouched rooms give you answers. They offer secrets. This one had last been occupied by a dead girl, lying face down in a pool of blood.

*

I found out about the case through the police.

That never happened.

We didn't get along.

"Yeah?" I barked into phone, a landline I had installed myself. Cell phones bothered me.

"Is this Alma?" It was Detective Herbert Ross. He knew it was me.

"What'd'ya want?" I said, trapping the phone between my ear and shoulder as I took a kettle of hot water off the stove and poured it in my favorite chipped mug with my favorite raspberry tea. If this was about the parking tickets I'd never paid, I still wasn't going to pay them. If this was to call me in about the robbery I solved before them, I wasn't going to tell them how I did it.

"A girl's dead."

I set the kettle down a little too hard. Hot water sloshed around inside. I stared at the swirling steam coming up from the cup. I wouldn't be able to drink it now and I frowned. The cops never called for my help. I usually embarrassed them by figuring their cases out for them. As a PI, it was rare to get a call like this.

"You need me?"

"Yeah. Can you come?"

I hesitated for only a moment.

"Yeah. What's the address?"

"325 111th Ave, Blaine."

"I'll be there in half an hour." I hung up and reached for the tea, hoping I could snag one sip, burnt tongue be damned.

The tea bag had broken.

*

Blaine was a little forgotten neighborhood thirty minutes from Minneapolis where I lived. The town used to be nice and neighborly where kids biked until dark and people shoveled driveways for the elderly. Now it was dirty. Every house had this gray dinginess to it, like everyone had collectively decided one year to stop taking care of things. Lawns were overgrown, cars were rusting away, big lilac bushes and weeping willows were being taken out or cut down.

It was like an anti-Homeowners Association. Uglifying until everything was up to code.

I showed up to the house where only one police car remained. There was yellow tape in front of the door. A crowd of people stood a few feet away, muttering. I looked the crowd over quickly, but no one stood out.

I lifted the tape and went into the house. Herbert was standing right inside, apparently waiting for me.

"Body has already been taken." He grunted.

"That's fine." I didn't get much from dead bodies. I knew Herbert would tell me anything I needed to know because he had called me. Still, this was awkward. We both were uncomfortable, and it was obvious by how we refused to make eye contact, our hands shoved in our pockets.

"Husband found her face-down in the guest room having been stabbed multiple times. He said that the doors were all locked with no sign of forced entry."

"Have you asked the neighbors if anyone has seen or heard anything?"

Herbert nodded. "Nothing out of the ordinary. It seems like everyone keeps to themselves."

"What did she do?"

"Who?"

"The victim. What did she do for work?"

"Oh. Her names Noelle Sharp."

"The writer?" I asked, bewildered. She was known for gritty romance novels-turned deadly. Not my thing, but I knew her name.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know she lived here."

He nodded again. "They moved here a few years ago."

"Jeez. Why?"

Herbert shrugged. "Husband was called Magnus and worked for a painting company. She seemed to make more money."

"Where is he?"

"Already down at the station. Guy's pretty numb. Couldn't say much."

"Yeah, well. His wife was murdered."

I wondered if Magnus had convinced Noelle to move here. If he had done that thing that men do when they feel like their wife – or any woman really – was doing better than them, so he tried to put her in a box, make her talents and abilities small and manageable. Easy to swallow. How many shouting matches had they been through before Noelle had conceded to move into this small box in the middle of nowhere.

"Can I have a few minutes?" I asked.

Herbert nodded.

I surveyed the entrance area. Stairs right in front of us leading down into a dark, wet-smelling basement; a tiny hall leading into a kitchen. Living room to the left, dining room to the right. I gave the first floor a once over. Dirty dishes in the sink, magazines on the coffee table. The trash was empty. No bag. I went up the stairs and found the main bedroom, bathroom, and the guest room.

In the middle of the guest room was a huge blood stain. It was flecked around the room, on the walls, on the bed. The stain was dark against the gray of the carpet. I surveyed the room. One bed, one desk with a small lamp and wooden chair, one plush armchair near the window, overhead light fixture/fan. There was a closet, and a nearly empty bookcase, short and pudgy – maybe something that one of them had been dragging around for years, couldn't bear to get rid of. Some furniture held onto you. I walked in and thought about the room. The carpet was gray, the walls were white, but it was off-white. It was like the white had been darkened by something. I sat down in the armchair and looked around, pretended I was staying there. I went over and turned the light on. The fan spun slowly above me. I sat back down in the armchair and looked some more.

I realized; it had been blue. The walls had been blue, but they had been poorly painted over, once, in a hurry. I got up from the chair and went over to the closet.

Inside there was a plastic bin full of wrapping paper. There was a broken vacuum, a box of empty bags to be used for gifts, and a stack of towels and blankets. For guests. I reached out and touched the unused things, linens that had never been unfolded.

So, no guests.

Or maybe guests slept on the couch and this room, like many guest rooms, was useless.

I leant down at the carpet in the closet. I took a small pair of scissors I kept on me and cut off some of the carpet threads, slipping them in my pocket.

I sat on the bed and it dipped, like it was trying to swallow me. The room smelt of dust and the duvet was covered in butterflies.

I lay down and stared up at the ceiling. What was missing in this room?

And then I bolted upright and stared at the blank walls and realized, there was less dust in a few places, sections where things had been removed. Pictures. There were no pictures.

*

Herbert was standing outside, trying to get the crowd to leave.

I stormed out. "Are you sure this wasn't a robbery?" I asked.

Hebert looked over his shoulder, annoyance on his face at my outburst. It made the dispersing crowd turn, new interest compelling them to stay.

"Nothing has been taken."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Husband confirmed."

"You don't think – just maybe – he's a little fragile at the moment?"

Herbert shrugged. "I'll have him do another walkthrough."

I told him I was going to need to come back to the house again. I needed to think. He told me to call him first before he did. We both knew I wouldn't.

*

I looked up Noelle Sharp on the internet. I found relatives and close friends and I called and talked to them. Everyone had lovely things to say. I asked about her writing and her hobbies. When I brought up the husband, people also had nothing but good things to say. The mother was the only one who sputtered on and on about how that low life tricked my daughter into marrying him, worthless career, no family money, she could've married a Rockefeller.

I didn't tell her Rockefellers didn't spend time in Minnesota.

I found their bank information, social media accounts, insurance. He had taken her name. Previously had been Magnus Brown. He had a brother named Leonard.

I called and talked to some more people and asked if they ever had parties. Who were the best friends? Who stayed in that guest room?

No one had much to say. There had been a housewarming party but never another party after that. I called Leonard and asked him about Magnus and Noelle. Leonard was still shocked about Noelle's murder, kept going on and on about how Magnus adored her.

"Noelle was such a sweet girl. She was so kind to everyone, great cook. I never read her books, but I knew she was good. Magnus just loved her."

I told him to call me if he thought of anything else.

I could see from their joint bank account that there was money trouble. There always was.

I carefully read through credit card statements, but nothing interesting sprung out. Not even a transaction from a dirty website.

I sat by the window in my apartment smoking until daylight.

*

I waited a few days before going back to the crime scene. I called Herbert on the way to the house and he told me basic things that I could've guessed. "Death due to blood loss, internal injuries, no fingerprints on the knife or around the house. Doors locked, nothing broken. Husband staying with a friend."

"Husband's alibi checks out?"

"Yeah, he was painting a town over, I have the address."

"I'll take it." I said.

I could hear the frown over the phone. "I already cleared it with the homeowner."

"You called me." I said with a shrug that I knew he could hear.

He rattled off the address and I wrote it on a Walgreens receipt.

*

I stopped at a Home Depot and stood in front of the paint chip wall. I stared at the colors, the Veri Berri purple and Derbyshire green. I took out the carpet clippings and held them up over the grays.

The carpet color was Rock Candy.

*

I was at a shabby, buttercup-yellow, run-down house that had not been painted in a long time.

An old man in an old red sweater answered the door. He was hard of hearing and his eyes were swallowed up so far into his face that I figured he couldn't see well either. I told who I was, Alma Savage, Private Investigator, and asked if he had made an appointment to have his house painted. He talked about how this nice fellow had painted his house, how they had drunk beer and talked about baseball. I was confused for only a moment before a young woman with a pixie face and curly hair interrupted us.

"My father has Alzheimer's." She explained. "The house was painted a long time ago."

I asked her if either of them had talked to the police. She looked confused. The old man had been the one on the phone with Herbert.

*

I parked in front of the Sharp house and called people again and asked them to tell me things they remembered about Noelle and Magnus. Memories were precious and often wrong, but sometimes they were the only clues one had to go on.

Cathy Green was Noelle's best friend. She hadn't been able to talk to me the first time I called. Now she was somber, and her voice wobbled, but she talked to me.

"I had dinner with them every month. Magnus cooked the best meals."

"Magnus." I repeated. "What about Noelle?"

"Nope. Noelle didn't like cooking. Whenever we were alone, we always ate out."

Cathy kept talking, clearly happy to have someone to talk to. "They wanted kids so bad, but Noelle had a miscarriage and they never tried again. Magnus couldn't bear it. Had a vasectomy."

I asked her when this happened. She said four or five years ago. I hung up and went back into the house, walking into the guest room and staring at it, realizing it was perfect size for a nursery.

The Schooner Blue walls that had been painted over with Acadia White.

The missing pictures.

Rock Candy carpet.

*

I lay on the couch in the living room and determined it was too uncomfortable for someone to sleep on overnight. No one stayed with the Sharps.

I called Herbert, still lying on the lumpy couch. "I need you to check something for me."

"Alma?"

"Yes. I need you to tell me if she was pregnant."

"Noelle?"

"Yes."

"I'll call you back."

*

I went into the main bedroom and looked over the dresser, where receipts and change and dollar bills and earrings lay. I looked in their closet at all of Noelle's comfortable writing clothes and Magnus' paint-covered clothes.

I found photo albums and thumbed through them. Nothing but happy smiles. I looked for medication in the bathroom – nothing.

I dug into drawers and looked through cabinets.

Finally, in the garage, I found boxes – unlabeled. I knew it was what I was looking for.

I opened them. There were seven boxes, none matching, all different sizes. Each one had bright pink or bright blue toys, blankets, onesies, pacifiers. Each one contained a cross-stitched rectangle, homemade.

Flora Sharp.

Theodore Sharp.

Maisey, Cooper, Rachel, Kevin.

There were photos of the finished rooms. Walls different each time. Pinks named Azalea Flower, Teaberry; blues named Gentle Aquamarine and Breathtaking.

I looked down at the boxes, at all the attempts. All the miscarriages. Cathy Green didn't know about this. Her best friend status was weak, watered down because Noelle was too broken, or embarrassed, or just didn't think it was anyone's business. No one slept on the couch. No one slept in the guest room.

I surveyed the rest of the garage, and saw some large framed photos shoved in the corner, behind a lawnmower that was covered with a tarp. I went over and pushed the lawnmower away. They were prints of Noelle's book covers. The missing pictures. And there was a bloody thumbprint on the edge of one, her third book, Dangerous Illusion.

My phone rang. I answered it, hands shaking. "Was she?" I asked, throat dry.

"She was pregnant."

"Shit." I muttered.

"What?"

"Magnus had a vasectomy a few years ago."

"We'll confirm that on our end."

"And if you do?" I asked.

We both knew the answer. If he'd had the operation, it meant Noelle had cheated.

It was motive.

*

I found Leonard's apartment the next day. When he opened the door, he was in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. His eyes were red, and his hair was unkempt.

I told him who I was, and he let me in. He gave me a beer. It was warm. I chugged half of it in one gulp.

When I swallowed, I asked, "So how long were you sleeping with her?"

Leonard pretended to look confused. I waited. Then, after four and half minutes of silence, he put his face in his hands and started crying.

"I loved her. So much. Magnus was always complaining and I – she would come over and vent, and we'd drink, and – we never meant to –"

"Noelle was pregnant." I told him.

His teary eyes grew smaller, beadier.

"Noelle had found out, that day." I pushed on. "She left the pregnancy test in the trash and Magnus found it. You know he had a vasectomy – " I didn't wait for him to confirm. " – Noelle was in the guest room, looking at the nursery she never got, hoping it would work this time. It could be you. And Magnus found her, killed her, and took down the photos of her books, couldn't bear to see them, all her accomplishments. She had money, her name meant something, and now his own brother was fucking his wife."

"How did you know that…that we –"

"Magnus isn't staying with you; he's staying with a friend. He hates you."

"No." He choked out, shaking his head like that would shake the words out.

"She only cooked for you. When she came over here to vent and drink and fuck, she'd cook for you. She never did that with him."

"What do I do?" He asked, drowning in how much he hated himself.

I looked around the drab apartment before turning my eyes back to him, shrugging. "Ever thought about painting the place?"

*****

HANDLING DEATH

Hugo-

Day one, the hottest day in July! The kind of hot that makes the neighbors forego their dresses and plant themselves in front of oscillating fans. Feet planted in small kiddie pools filled with tepid tap water, topped off with bagged ice from the corner market. The breeze from the fan casting across the iced pools does nothing to diminish the warmth from their radiating bodies. Instead it pushes the sweat further across their faces and thighs until they are all shiny with sweat.

It's nearly impossible to forget day one. You try, yet day one is the day you'll scramble for breath. You'll put on the bravest of faces to give your daughter Thea oxygen as you hold the side of her head to your chest. She will appreciate the firm pressure you apply to her quivering body. The grief inundating from her youthful frame, forcing you back- one, two, three, steps until you both collapse onto the couch. Sweat and tears, they're all the same.

How can a girl live without her mother? How will I breathe without her modeling what a strong exhale looks like?

It will be all she can say.

You wonder in your emotional greed, where does she keep all of the passwords? Thea's birth certificate? Is she allergic to anything?

Raeann-

Their day one is polar opposite of your day one. The body that carried you through life for the past four decades decided the narrative of living a nice long life is a lie. To find out that you're going to die is far less painful than hearing that you are dead. The dead don't hear pain. The dead don't feel it either.

Its terminal, you have weeks at best Raeann. I'm so sorry.

You are sent home with instructions of getting your affairs in order. Pamphlets titled, "How to tell your loved ones that you are dying," as if there is a simple bullet point plan to button up all of your affairs before you go.

Step 1, I'm dying. But I left a few lasagnas in the freezer for busy nights.

Hugo-

Planning a funeral is foreboding. The weatherman says to expect more heat hazes. You don't know exactly what that is, but you've already spent hours on the internet searching for a cure. What's another few minutes?

Heat haze: also called heat shimmer, refers to the inferior mirage observed when viewing objects through a mass of heated air.

Relief floods your body, panic eases up. This isn't the end, it's all a mirage. It has to be.

Raeann-

Everything after the first day is now called the in between, and that's just how you've come to accept it. Call your mother more, but not so much that she suspects that there is something to be worried about. Mothers know.

Revel in the fact that the word hug happens to be the first three letters of your husband's name, as he is the best hugger you've ever met. Hugging him a little bit longer feels like a possible cure for the incurable.

Forget the pamphlets since your family deserves a better send off than that. The blogs online say to leave a video diary for your daughter because she might forget the way the dimples tucked into your cheeks are deep enough to hold a cat's eye marble in each of them.

Don't let her forget.

The idea of a camera taping your face not looking like your face is unsettling. It is then you decide on cassettes, they're the happy medium. Even if cassette tapes are "so out of style," they might be even more treasured due to the rarity of them.

Nothing screams a mother's legacy like antiquated methods of communication. Might as well break out the typewriter and ribbon of ink.

Hugo-

In-laws, they're a mixed bag. Naturally they have known your beloved Raeann for the longest. They created her so there is ownership there.

Let them visit and call and video chat.

It's all that they will get of her.

You'll be left with the daughter you share, and the smell of her lilac shampoo on the bed linens you agreed to buy at the big box store. The in-laws won't get to smell her again, but you will, at least a little longer before the next load goes in the wash.

Raeann-

To make a mixed tape you have to consider two things:

Who you're making the tape for and the occasion.

Remind yourself that this isn't a John Hughes movie, and Thea won't be walking away with the love of her life but rather losing you. Of course there are times when you hear a little melody on the radio and think to yourself, Thea would love this song. Then, add bits of wisdom and sayings to the playlists, for days when she needs advice but you aren't there to give it.

A mother knows exactly what kind of music will make her daughters eyes sparkle, even if it is followed by a tiny eye roll. It's some kind of magic to possess this kind of knowing about a teenager even if she is your child.

You wonder if anyone else will ever know your daughter this way.

Hugo-

She told you that there'd be tapes. That you'd have to give them to Thea, maybe one morning as you sip your coffee black and dark roasted the way that you like it.

It's important Hugo, it's all I have left to give her. Well, and you of course.

Those dimples, you won't be able to say no to her and so you agree with a gentle head nod and deep hug.

Through sickness and health was the vow? What about death and grief, what's the vow look like after that?

More haziness.

Raeann-

Your last day comes twenty-nine days after your first. Cliche, that's what the last thirty days will be. Like a film reel, memories click and spin for one last viewing in your mind's eye. Not in black and white, but in vibrant colors of finger painted construction paper and alabaster hydrangeas in wedding centerpieces.

Wait until Thea nods off in the corner chair of your room, wrapped in the blanket you both sewed together out of your old shirts. Absorb the tiny bit of warmth from Hugo's hand wrapped around the frail fingers on yours. These hands spent many hours laced together over the years and now his hands will spend hours pressing play for Thea.

It's time for your strong exhale.

Hugo-

Pull the old cassette player down from the attic, blow off the decades of dust.

Imagine the look on your daughter's face when the carefully curated tapes are placed in her young hands with three freckles alongside the edge of her knuckles. The freckles lightly kiss her milky skin, and you breathe out a little in relief knowing that they look ordinary.

She won't want the tapes. Her eyes might brim with orbs of salted water. A sense of begging will slip past her lips, Please daddy I'm not ready yet.

You stare at the dimples she inherited from her mother, pressing your warm thumb into one of them as you hold gently to her chin. Picturing the future, you wonder who will take her wedding dress shopping, and who will take her phone calls if she loses a baby.

It will be you of course.

Press play.

***

WRITING A STORY

Once upon a time...there was only war. She leapt up in triumph, blood dripped from her sword as she swung it down on the beast's neck, hacking in a frenzy. She laughed. The taste of blood and sweet revenge urged her on in her manic slaying of the creature that had…

No, no that wasn't right.

Once there was a girl who…

…who had a monster in her, clawing at the surface every waking moment she…

No! Not that either.

There was once a little girl who…

Who what?

Tearing the page away and crumpling it into a ball, he threw it over his shoulder to join its growing mass of brethren on the floor. It was dark in the office, the curtains shut to block out the intrusion of the light. He worked by a single lamp, its artificial brightness casting shadows about the room. Shadows were better than ghosts, he supposed.

He licked his dry lips, ignoring his thirst and the beginnings of a headache. When last had he drunk anything? No, that wasn't important. This was.

On the book shelf behind him, the row of his best sellers stared down mockingly at him. They were not stories like the one he was trying so desperately to write. These were horror retellings of traditional fairy tales. Stories where the wolf ate the girl, the evil queen became the fairest in the land and giants ruled the world below. There were no good endings there.

'Why can't you write a happy story?' a childish voice whined in his ears.

He turned, almost expecting her to be standing behind him, but there were only the shadows and his books. Those books that had taken so many hours. So much time. Why had he wasted so much time?

"I'm trying," he whispered, pushing the thoughts of wrath and pain away.

A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a girl who…

He got up, reaching for the first book on the shelf, his first novel. The snarling face of an undead Cinderella stared up at him. What had he missed writing this? Her first birthday? Her first word? He couldn't remember just now.

Opening it, he peered down at the dedication, the only indication he had remembered her at all. Who dedicates a horror book to a baby? He was such an idiot.

He tore the page out and then the next…and the next….and the next. One by one, they fell to the floor like snow until his movements became erratic, gripping handfuls at a time and ripping them out. He grabbed another book, a cannibalistic Gretel greeted him, her brother's severed head grinning at the reader. This one too joined the flurry of paper on the ground.

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" he chanted to himself, almost screaming the words out.

Book, after book, was torn apart, helping him vent his rage in that dark room. He finally collapsed on the floor, exhausted to his bones. The blank pages of his notebook waited for him. He put his head back and closed his eyes.

~.~

The world was bright. Sunlight dabbled down through the leaves of the trees in the forest as he road out on his white horse. It had been a long and treacherous journey. He had faced dragons and monsters. He had climbed mountains and ventured deep underground. His adventures had taken him far and wide; he had seen places he couldn't have dreamed of, but it was worth it. All to get to this point.

He had finally found her.

The princess had been stolen away from them suddenly by a wicked fairy who cast a terrible curse on her. The cure to this curse was almost impossible to find and many times the brave king had come close to giving up hope.

The path led him deep into the forest, past whispering trees and sweet song birds that heralded his coming.

A gilded, glass coffin lay in the centre of a clearing. As he approached, he could see her sweet face through the opaque glass, gently dreaming. He got off his horse and approached, the cure, a magical flower in hand. He stepped forward, his boots sinking into soft moss as the perfumed scent of the forest hit him.

Lifting the lid, he laid the flower, its golden petals gleaming, onto her little chest and waited.

And waited.

"Darling," he whispered, "it's time to wake up."

Her angelic face, framed in the golden halo of her hair, remained impassive. He bent down, pressing his lips to her cool forehead and feeling his eyes sting.

"Please princess," he begged, "Please wake up."

The gilded coffin faded to crisp white sheets, the forest to the stark walls of the hospital room. The sweet smell was the acrid scent of chemicals used to clean the floors and the gentle bird song became the slow beep of the heart monitor.

He sat crouched over her bedside, holding her cold hand in a death grip, eyes red from crying all night. His little girl lay still on the bed, her usually plump cheek sallow and the glow lost from her skin. Her beautiful, golden hair was all gone now and she wore a cap to keep her head warm. She was connected to more wires and tubes than he thought possible for such a tiny human being.

Her eyes remained closed, trapped in her dream world forever.

"Please," he cried, "Please wake up!"

'Why can't you write a happy story, Daddy?'

~.~

"Paul? Paul!" the voice was coming to him from far away, slowly dragging him out of the dream, "Honey, wake up!"

His eyes opened blearily. Someone had opened the curtains and window, letting the sunshine leak in. A mess of paper covered the floor and his wife was peering down at him, her gaze worried.

"You need some water," she said softly, coaxingly, "And some food. Come on, love."

She tried to pull him up, but he gripped her by the arm, gaze searching. She looked so much like their little princess, with the same golden hair and sweet face. There were bags under her eyes, betraying how tired and sad she was, a mirror of his own face. His heart clenched painfully.

"I said I'd write it," he mumbled out, it seemed important she know, "I was trying to write a happy story. I promise."

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him and bringing them close together. He shuddered in her arms, letting himself get pulled in by her warmth. Hot tears found their way down his face as he clutched close to her.

"I know," she soothed, "She'll really like that."

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a little girl…

…who was loved, very, very much.

*****

THE BLESSED HOME

I am spinning slowly in my tank, suspended in doped-up air, buoyant, bobbing. Piano music (Beethoven?) plays softly in the background. My eyes are closed, but if I opened them, I would see only pale yellow light enclosing me in a warm glow.

I like the piano music. It makes me feel calm. That, alongside the sedation. The Facility keeps mine light, because I prefer it that way, and because I am well-behaved. The Facility knows my ways, knows I don't misbehave. I have been here for a long time now. It must be years, though there is no sense of time. No calendar, no clock. Only the pale light washing over me, keeping me warm.

This morning, the Facility reminded me that my son will visit me today. He came every week, at the same time. While the staff prepared me for his visit, they told me he is good to me, compared to most of the others in here, at the Blessed Home facility, whose families have forgotten them. I nodded and smiled gently, murmuring the right response. They thought that my mind was feeble, like so many in here. I could not see outside my tank, but the Facility could mind. In my mind, I was not suspended in a tank of gas and air. I could often go away, far from here.

Where do I go? I go home, to my sprawling house in the countryside, with a red-tiled roof and ivy-covered archway, the mishmash of furniture and ornaments, collected over a lifetime, heavy with memories. For sixty years, my wife and I lived there, raised our child and grew old. We had a black cat with a white tummy called Cat Stevens. But then my wife died and my only son accused me of going senile.

The bell that signalled that my sedation had stopped had stopped chiming. Soon, they will come to collect me. I stopped spinning as the air thinned and I floated to the bottom of the tank. I waited.

A pop of glass opening, bright light seeped inside. A gentle hand the length of my body picked me up from under my arms and seated me in a dollhouse armchair. I watched as the giant girl in the Facility's uniform scrubded her hands in a sink as large as a swimming pool. She was a kind of nurse, I think. My wife was a nurse, though in our day, the Facility didn't exist. I am handed a pair of sunglasses while my eyes adjust to the natural light.

"How are you feeling today, Mr Donnelly?" her voice boomed.

I mumbled something as she dressed me. When I first arrived, I was embarrassed by foreign hands touching my body, stripping me bare, clothing me in strange scratchy Facility clothes. But now, I am apathetic. Maybe it's the drugs.

When I am presentable, she brings me to the visiting area. I sat in an armchair, more comfortable than the last, watching vast visitors speak to their doll-sized relatives. I once heard a story about a family who brought home their shrunken grandma from the Facility, only to have her chewed up by her once beloved dog.

My son came into view, striding towards me with confident steps. I used to walk like that too, before I came to the Facility. He plants himself squarely in the visitor's chair, launching into a nervous segment on his drive here, and the audacity of other drivers, and how isn't it ridiculous that with all the technological advancements in the world, we still don't have cars that drive the middle class from A to B?

While he talked, I let my mind drift. I used to be angry at him for forcing me to come here. Of course, he needed consent, but the pressure, financial and emotional, forced my hand. He threw all kinds of arguments at me; overpopulation, nursing homes etc. I used to wonder if he wanted to punish me, if I was a bad father, if I shouted too much, if I hadcpushed him too far, if he resented me.

I don't wonder anymore. I don't do anything much. The end is coming soon; I can tell by the way my body submitted to sedation. I asked them to lighten it, because I know I will sleep for a long time, soon. I want to comb over my memories of home, before I go on to whatever lied beyond. I wish I was going home. But I'll never go home again.

***

The thirty-minute drive to my father's facility is the most inconvenient part of my week. I swear as I swerve around incompetent idiots, blaring the horn and flipping off scandalised old ladies who surely shouldn't have licenses anyway. It's amazing with all the advancements in technology, I still have to drive myself to get where I need to go. I take my anger out on the road, so that by the time I get to Blessed Home, I am wrung dry of emotion.

I first heard about it when my father was getting too senile to live at home, and we were looking at nursing homes for him. But the demand was competitive, the prices obscene, the facilities bad. I didn't want him to be abused and neglected, and he always refused to go to a nursing home. Pulled the "what would your mother think?" line too.

Someone told me about this facility. They had seen it on the dark web. I had brought my father here for a consultation. They welcomed us warmly, offered us coffee, spewed us with medical jargon. We toured the premises as they explained the basics of the technology, how it was possible to reduce the size of a person using extreme heat pressure to the size of a ragdoll, while preserving their body and mind. They showed us to a vault, where little old people bobbing in silver containers lined the walls, sleeping. They described the benefits - fewer drugs needed, less food, less waste, easier to manage large numbers of people, easy storage. They were sedated the majority of the time, woken at various intervals to eat, to exercise, to excrete.

He wasn't convinced. But because the nursing home was a no-go, it was easier to convince him to try. That was all we needed. Left with no other option, he signed his life away. I promised to visit him every week. I have never broken that promise.

The facility is spotlessly white. The receptionist flashes me an expensive smile.

"Welcome to Blessed Home, Mr Donnelly. Go right ahead."

They always have him ready to see me as soon as I arrive. During his former life, he was a big man, looming, powerful. A blue-collar labourer who wanted a better life for his son. His presence, hell, his shadow, used to scare me. Now, as I walk towards him, he is miniscule, deflated. He looks tired. He always looks tired.

I tell him about my week. He listens, or doesn't. I can't tell, because he nods and murmurs at the right times, but never asks me questions. I never asked him how he was doing. I knew he did nothing. He went back into the vat of drugged up air and bobbed around for hours, days, left with nothing but his own fading memories and medicated slumber.

Do I feel ashamed? I don't dwell on it for long enough to feel anything but relief. I don't have to sacrifice my life to look after him, or remortgage my house to fund his last years. I don't feel guilty, because I'm not alone. Thousands of families send their elderly, dying relatives to these facilities, which have sprung up all over the country. It's normalised now. So it must be OK.

At the end of our hour together, I always turn away, so I won't have to look at him being lifted like a baby back into the vault. I wonder if he ever misses his home, the old house with the rusty roof and overgrown garden, sold to pay the price to live in a tank. After drinking alone one evening, filled with morbid curiosity, I drove by. Bleary eyed, I noted a strange car in the driveway. The lawn was mowed, the roof replaced, the door painted a happy yellow. I wanted to stop and knock on the door. But I didn't. I looked away, eyes on the road, and kept driving.

He must know that he will never see it again. He will die in this godforsaken place I put him in. The irony of naming this little piece of hell "Blessed Home" makes me shiver. I wonder if his mind is past the point of knowing, or if he knows more than he lets on. I could ruminate on whether I did the right thing, but what good would it do?

The Blessed Home facility grows smaller as I drive away, and I forget, for another week at least.

*****

THE MEN AND THE LAKE

We could talk about the storm.

We could talk about the wind and waves.

We could talk about the boat.

We could talk about the life jackets.

We could talk about the men and the lake.

We could talk about why they went so far out from shore.

We could talk about the beer and whisky.

We could talk about how they ended up in the water.

We could talk about their struggle.

We could talk about what they talked about.

We could talk about friendship.

We could talk about luck.

We could talk about the storm

Like often happens

In Montana, it came on fast.

The conditions went from ideal to

"I don't know, man" in the time it took to down a tall can of Rainier.

Dark clouds gathered on the horizon like a herd of buffalo.

With a crack of thunder, the herd stampeded.

The storm trampled them in minutes.

Leaving them stunned.

It left them floundering for hours. And then, it passed on.

Across the lake and over the mountains.

Leaving the two men in its wake.

Swimming for their lives.

We could talk about the wind and waves.

Blustery doesn't cut it.

It truly went beyond bluster.

Wind blew water spray that stung like bees.

Waves grew to three feet, hurtling ever faster.

Rain fell in sharp angles, like shards of glass from a broken sky.

Beneath them, there was action of a different kind. The fish finder on their dashboard

Showed there were monsters lurking not far below. Huge fish on the rise.

The boat rocked in the waves, like a bronc rider.

Up and down, from crest to trough.

Did they simply wait too long?

To reel in their lines?

We could talk about the boat.

It was a small fishing boat.

Half covered with a tan canvas top.

A boat of white with black trim, named Calypso.

Twenty-two feet long with a fish finder and 200 HP Mercury outboard motor.

Equipped with an electronic fish finder and net.

Rented for seven days – Monday, Sept. 12 through Sept. 19.

Found abandoned on Wild Horse Island.

In the boat – one life jacket, one fishing rod (line reeled in), various tackle including

Lures and spoons, normally used when jackrigging for deep lake trout.

The boat was in working order. No engine failure.

And still with fuel.

We could talk about the life jackets.

As standard,

The boat was equipped with life jackets.

One for each person on board. Two.

One jacket was found in the boat when it was discovered,

Washed up on Wild Horse Island. Abandoned.

Authorities speculated that both men

At some point left the vessel.

In a raging storm.

With just one

Life jacket.

Why?

We could talk about the men and the lake.

Friends since third grade,

They grew up on Wyoming Avenue, five houses apart,

Throwing rocks and snowballs and insults at other kids, and each other.

And making themselves crack up.

Two friends. One serious and competitive, the other funny and who-gives-a-shit.

Connor and Mason. Also known by many as Connie and Mace.

After high school, Connor went to college and Mason joined the Navy.

They drifted apart for a decade, then nature (or fish, or fate),

Brought them back together.

They reconnected over a shared love of angling, drinking, and sports trivia.

It had been eight years since they last fished together,

on Great Bear Lake in Canada.

Mason wanted to catch one more big fish before he died, he said, laughing.

He wanted them to go back to the Great Bear.

Connor said it was a brilliant idea and wondered if Mason was sober. He seemed lucid.

Mason assured him he was. Connor responded that the proposal was sound,

But Great Bear Lake was not possible. Not this year.

He flashed on an alternative instead.

How about Flathead Lake? Northwest Montana instead of Northwest Territories.

Go in mid-September when kids and fish are back in school.

There are huge lake trout in Flathead, Connor told him.

Mason had never fished Flathead.

He bit and the trip was booked.

Flathead Lake is an

Immense, breathtaking body of water,

Just forty miles south of Glacier National Park.

Born out of the ice age from the glacial waters of ancient Lake Missoula.

Near 30 miles long and 17 miles wide, with a depth of up to 370 feet, Flathead is one of

The largest freshwater lakes in the nation. Home to millions of fish.

Lake trout, bull trout, pike, whitefish, yellow perch.

And, according to legend,

One monster.

Sightings of a strange, undefined creature have

Been surfacing since the late 1800s. It looks like a dark, elongated eel crossing the water,

Those who claim to have seen it say. Others think it's something else.

A huge, rare white sturgeon.

Never before caught.

The week Connor and Mason

Were at Flathead was sunny and warm.

Days in the low 80s. Water hovering around 60 degrees.

Warm enough to swim in, which they did off their dock

In mid-day, when fish took a siesta.

The conditions were perfect.

Until they weren't.

Turns out,

The monster wasn't in the lake.

It was in the sky.

Lurking.

We could talk about why they went so far out from shore.

They say,

If you want to catch the big ones,

Or the monster, you have to go out farther.

Out where it's deeper, into the heart of the lake.

On the evening of Sunday, Sept. 18, the last day of their fishing week,

Connor and Mason decided to do just that.

They went out beyond other boats,

Casting their last call.

Hoping for luck.

We could talk about the beer and whisky.

Found in the boat,

Sitting undisturbed on the dash,

Were two open cans of Rainier beer.

One half full, the other with just a few swallows left.

Behind the captain's seat was a cooler containing four unopened cans of the same beer.

And a pint of Bushmills, three fingers left.

Whether the two men

Were impaired,

Is unclear.

We could talk about how they ended up in the water.

Connor saw it first.

The monster of a storm,

Forming on the horizon, coming their way.

Wind whipping, Connor yelled to Mason to reel in and hurry up.

And put on your life jacket. Connor was wearing his.

Mason looked at the storm blowing their way and said, Aww, shit! My damn luck!

They began reeling in their lines.,

Connor told Mason again to put on his life vest.

Mason said he would once he had his line in. He stood mad, disconsolate, downcast.

Suddenly, in a jolt from the blue, came a strike to Mason's line.

A hard yank that pulled line zinging out,

Causing a startled Mason to lose his grip on the rod.

It flew into the lake ten feet from the boat. Mason, eyes wide,

Leapt into the lake and swam three strokes

To his pole and grabbed it.

He tried to swim back,

But was too weak for the waves

And made no progress.

Connor leaned out

Over the boat

And yelled at the top of his lungs,

Drop it! Let it go! Get to the boat! Swim!

Mason paused, then let the rod and fish go and swam for the boat. The Calypso.

But it was no good. Waves carried him out farther.

On instinct, Connor dove into the lake to save his friend.

He reached Mason in five seconds.

Told him to hang on and Connor would swim them to the boat.

But the waves were too much. Mason too heavy.

Connor realized he must swim to the boat himself.

He gave Mason his vest.

Said he'd get the boat and come back.

Then Connie struck out for the boat,

Head down, swimming and kicking furiously.

But as he rose upon the crest of a wave and strained to see, he saw the boat,

With its canvas top acting as a sail, carried by the gale, getting further away.

Connie stopped, turned around and saw Mace,

His face white as sea foam,

Both hands holding onto the life jacket around his neck,

Bobbing in the waves, thirty feet back.

He swam to his friend and said it was no use.

Boat was gone. But rescue would be coming, he told Mace.

Search boats will find them soon.

He tried to make himself believe it.

Mason had taken on water

And was coughing.

Trying to keep his head up, treading water.

Connor struggled as well, dog paddling, facing into the waves,

Riding them like an aqua roller coaster. Neither said a word. Mason in shock,

Connie gasping, trying to grasp the enormity of the crisis.

Two men in the water in the middle of Flathead Lake.

One life jacket. Sun sinking.

Caught in the jaws of a

Snarling storm.

We could talk about their struggle.

The rain and wind lashed their faces.

Thunder boomed and lightning ignited the sky.

They each held on to the life jacket and

Struggled to stay afloat.

They realized it wouldn't hold them both up. Only one at a time.

Connor was the stronger swimmer. He let Mason have the life jacket.

He stayed within arm's reach, treading water.

Without the life jacket, Mason would have soon sunk.

His face was a ghostly pale.

They held on,

Talking about options,

Ways they might survive this,

If they could last through the night, and be seen

The next day, when a search boat or plane would find them. Alive.

And they would be in the news, go on TV, have drinks bought for them.

Yes, it could happen. No, it will happen. They were sure of it.

Within an hour, the storm and thunder rumbled off

Across the lake and over the mountains,

Leaving in its wake two shaken,

Shivering men.

The waves had dropped a foot,

But the lake still heaved and they felt seasick.

Connor was cramping a bit in his left calf.

He reached down and massaged it.

It was near 8:00 p.m.

Darkness was about two hours away.

Water temperature was about 56 degrees, not low enough

To risk hypothermia, but their body temperature was dropping.

Mason couldn't stop trembling.

Connor tried to keep him engaged.

Hey Mace, should we swim for it?

Nice try, Con. You know I'd never make it. You'd hold me back too much.

That's it, buddy. Gimme some shit.

I never shoulda listened to you. We shoulda gone to the Great Bear. How far is it to shore?

About eight miles I'd say. Piece of cake.

I can't do it, but you could. Swim for it, I'll wait here.

I'm not leaving ya. Stay together, our chances are better.

We're dead men floating, you know that.

No, I don't! We can survive this!

Don't lie to me, man. Not now.

Float on your back, breathe easy.

I can't. I never could float.

Yeah, you can.

How long?

Until they find us! Idiot!

You're the idiot.

Am not.

We could talk about what they talked about.

At first they shouted.

Yelled back and forth as loud as they could.

Just tread, just tread, face the waves, keep your head up!

They kicked, swam, and swayed arms to stay upright.

Then came the cursing. Then the crying. Then the apologizing.

I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry. It's my fault. My bad.

Shut up, Mace!

Why did I have to do it?

Go after that damn rod and fish. You shouldn't have come after me, Con.

Remember asshole, it was my idea that got us in this spot. My idea to come here.

Yeah! It's all your fault. Flathead. Great idea, friend. I feel better now.

Good! It's nobody's fault.

But ya gotta admit it was a sweet-ass fishing rod.

They both laughed.

And cried more.

As night fell,

They talked less,

And dealt with their own feelings. Sadness. Remorse.

Connor kept looking toward the shore, searching for a light.

The water was colder, but the wind had died down for the night.

They both knew the key question and debated it.

Could they last until tomorrow?

Or would they disappear?

Out of sight.

Forever.

True to his nature,

Mason tried to joke about their plight.

I never would've guessed I'd die doing something I loved.

Who knew fishing for monsters was bad for you? I didn't. Did you?

This wasn't in the brochure.

Shut up, we're not gonna die.

I always thought it would be something boring like cancer.

Stop it. Or I'll strangle you to death. Quit talkin' like we're goners.

Soon enough, my friend. Don't worry.

I'm not gonna spout some cliché claptrap,

Like I'll see you on the other side.

Thanks. That might kill me.

They recalled memories, old friends,

And the early days on Wyoming Avenue.

Loved ones were almost too painful to talk about.

But they did,

And made promises

To each other.

Sometime in the middle of the night,

Mason asked Connor to sing something. Anything.

When Connor asked why, Mason told him of a quote he'd read.

Something Voltaire said: Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.

Connor thought for a moment.

Mason went on.

Sing me a song, Con.

Weakly, Connor began to sing.

It was unclear at first, but then got louder.

Let's go bears, let's get on the ball, let's show them, we're the best of all.

It was their high school fight song. Mason finished it with him.

With spirit, and with royalty, we'll go marching on to victory.

They laughed and tried to high five.

Mason joked,

Seriously, dude? Our fight song? God, you're lame to the end.

The insults warmed them both.

Later, past midnight,

Over four hours in the water now,

With the moon beaming down like a flashlight,

They got a little deeper. They discussed life and death, faith and prayer.

Mason mentioned their boat, the Calypso.

He told Connor about the name's origin.

In Homer's Odyssey,

He wrote of a sea princess named Calypso, a child of the gods.

She was immortal, would never die. It made her deeply sad.

She envied mere mortals who knew

They would perish.

Their lives had more meaning.

Every decision was huge.

Life was more significant because time was limited.

Calypso wanted to feel that. But she couldn't.

Her life would never end.

Mason said he'd hate to live forever.

He said from now on he'd quit taking life for granted. Appreciate it more.

Connor said me too, buddy. Me, too.

But I'll miss you.

We could talk about friendship.

Around 4:00 a.m. now.

Connor was spent. Legs cramping. Muscles burning.

They had been in the water for over eight hours.

The moon was descending over the mountains and they could hardly see each other.

They had been trading the life jacket, to give Connor some rest, but Mason could no longer

Keep himself afloat so he wore the vest most of the time.

Connor tried to conserve energy floating on his back.

He knew he couldn't last long, treading.

Not without a life jacket.

Mason was worse off.

He began to cough sharply. Over and over.

Are there sharks around? I'm spitting up blood.

Connor saw blood and mucus on the life vest. Said to hang on. Sunrise was coming.

But Mason was done. His face gray. Eyes half mast.

He knew he was dying.

You take the life vest. You can make it. I can't.

No, Mace! Keep it on! Just a few more hours! Sun will be up and we'll be found!

No. I'm finished, man. Done. I want out.

Stay with me, Mace!

In the dark,

Mace began to unclip his vest.

He slipped out of it and pushed it toward Connor.

Connor yelled to put it back on. Mace began to swim, toward the mountains.

Connor swam after him and tried to put the life jacket over his friend's head,

But Mason went under. Connor pulled him up holding him tight, the vest between them.

Mason pushed free and vigorously shook his head. Tears dropped into the water.

Love ya, man. See ya on the other side.

And with a slight grin he said,

Sorry.

And then he closed his eyes,

And his body went under the waves,

Into the dark.

Connor could only watch.

He had no more energy. Couldn't move.

He let his friend go and put on the life jacket.

Then, lay back, looked at the stars,

And let it all be.

We could talk about luck.

It was a fluke they say.

How he was found.

Floating almost unconscious.

In the center of a vast 200-square mile lake.

Once their fishing boat was discovered on Wild Horse Island,

A search was launched. A plane spotted his orange vest and alerted Search & Rescue.

It was late afternoon when he was pulled from the water.

Still breathing after 21 hours floating.

He considers himself the luckiest man

On earth. And water.

When questioned, Connor said,

It wasn't fate,

Just luck.

I had it this time.

Mason didn't.

But my luck was because of him.

He's the reason I'm alive.

I don't know

What else to say,

Other than we all have our

Fair share of bad luck and strife.

In fishing as well as

In life.

We thank him for the interview that led to this account.