Forgetting something isn't that bad, is it?
~~~
“The presents!”
“They’re right by the door. Can’t miss ‘em.”
End of every year, like clockwork. The rigmarole of the Big Trip®! Suspend the mail and — you can pry it from Manny’s cold, dead hands — the paper. One week of clothes (anticipating a single encounter with a washing machine), phones, chargers, laptops, toothbrushes and floss, fourteen days’ worth of seven different pills, indispensable foods, exercise items, and…
The gifts!
Load it up! Don’t neglect snacks for the ride. Last, switch off all remaining devices in the house, lower the thermostat, plug in the security lights, and, finally, set the alarm.
What else? Because this was the worst part.
The forgotten something. Without fail.
Way back when, Manuel had reconciled himself to it — whatever it turned out to be. Phoning his doctor from across the country for… missing pills. Heading to a local Marshall’s for a week’s worth of underwear. Borrowing his wife’s deodorant. It didn’t matter what — Manny’s freak out would be legendary. Over the years, his agitation at these oversights, even at the anticipation of them, attained stratospheric heights. When his hysterics progressed to panic attacks, his wife Hazel bade, “Enough is enough!” Manuel refused her command to see his doc, but did teach himself to let that shit go.
Well, maybe not entirely. But Manny was proud of himself. He’d mastered the art of the fake smile well enough not to ruin everything for Hazel and whomever they were with.
Manuel wedged the shopping bag full of presents between the running shoes and his laptop, slammed the trunk, and nestled behind the wheel. Then he tapped the memorized destination in the Honda’s navigation app while awaiting his wife’s arrival.
Hazel turned on the house alarm, locked the front door, and squeezed into the passenger seat.
“Wallet, purse, phone?” Manuel asked without a glance. Concentrating.
“Got ‘em. Don’t forget to close the garage door.”
Manuel pressed the button under the rearview mirror and studied the door as it dropped. He memorized the memorizing of it and then eased out of the driveway.
“Book to read?”
“Check.”
“Umbrella?”
“Check.”
“And the toys for the baby.”
“Yeah.”
“And…”
Back and forth they quizzed each other, as they dove into the stream of highway traffic heading south toward New York City. The weather was perfect. The interstate was moving at a beautiful clip, and ten miles on, the couple’s mutual interrogation hadn’t yet produced an ‘uh-oh.’
“I’m sure we forgot something,” said Manuel. “But, whatever.”
Magic words. Hazel was well acquainted with Manny’s composure-fostering technique. The man tagged his agitation in order to discount it. The mutual interrogation was about to end.
“We always do,” answered Hazel, nodding in well-rehearsed harmony.
“Binoculars!” Manuel exclaimed, vexed at himself for perseverating after the almighty “whatever.” That hadn’t happened in quite a spell.
“We’re not planning any excursions,” said Hazel, surprised but steady. “And Greta keeps a bunch, anyway.”
“Sorry, Haze.”
“It’s okay. We good now?”
“Sure,” said Manny, composing himself with the words doesn’t matter repeated inwardly like a mantra. But he couldn’t shed the sense that everything was off-kilter. A tingling in his occiput. A fog in his ears. Assuming this was simply a recrudescence of OCD panic over forgotten things, he tried one more time to put it to bed.
“But can’t we say that’s the bins are the thing we forgot?”
“Not really,” said Hazel, her exasperation evident. “Binoculars are not an always item, and no hikes on the agenda. You could as well say we forgot the ICBM.”
“We own binocs. Bins are a real thing. You can’t—”
“So, did we forget the air conditioner? The snow plow? The bathing suits? A thing that doesn’t fit the contours of the trip doesn’t count as ‘forgotten!’”
“But there’s gotta be something!” Manny paused, nodded ostentatiously, and then said, “I got it!”
“Got what, Manuel?”
“Why I’m flipping out. It’s not my fault! The reason is, we’re thirty miles on, passing Kingston, and we forgot nada!”
“Great! Now let’s forget it and enjoy the ride!”
But Manny’s disturbed perception endured. Matters remained askew.
“False! Not great. Impossible. Literally impossible, I mean. Haze, something’s wrong.”
Fussing immoderately. Manuel lost track of their speed. When the needle on the speedometer tickled eighty-five, he finally eyed it and braked down to seventy-five. He hit the cruise control.
Hazel lifted an eyebrow.
“Neglecting something or other is not a law of physics, Manuel,” she said, like a therapist attempting an intervention. “If we can forget multiple things, then it stands to reason we can as easily remember them. Even everything, once in a while.”
For naught.
“I don’t buy it,” answered Manny heatedly. “It’s never happened and never will. Just wait.”
Hazel glanced out the window like she was gazing through the bars at San Quentin.
Time flew. They crossed the Rhode Island/Connecticut border. Manuel wracked his brain without letup, searching for that One Neglected Item. Hazel rolled her eyes every time she furtively glanced at Manuel’s knitted brow. Finally, her face brightened, and she blurted a rejoinder, as if her husband were susceptible to reason.
“If we did forget anything,” she offered with triumphant force, “it had to have been something truly minuscule. We covered all the biggies. Clearly, Manny, that means you can drop it. Don’t you think?”
Her smile instantly vanished when Manny sparked like an overtaxed wall socket.
“No!” he said. “It could have been a pill. You know. A. Pill. Or some other personal item I imagine I remembered but actually left behind. That’s happened before!”
Hazel retreated and shifted against the passenger door. She studied the scenery for a while, likely praying her husband would regain his sanity. But her eyes suddenly widened.
“We’ve passed Mystic already! Man, that’s crazy!”
“Mystic? Really? How did that happen?”
“Got in the car, drove on the highway—”
“Hardy har har.”
“Just sayin’, Manny. The clock says ten o’clock. So it kinda makes sense.”
“I’m not driving eighty, Haze.”
“Obvs. If you had, it’d be a quarter of, or something.”
Manuel blinked.
“Right. I wasn’t thinking. But doesn’t it feel wrong to you? I mean, how is it even past nine-thirty?”
“Time perception is unreliable.” Hazel sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.
“But your perception is the same as mine, is it not? I mean our sense right now — that we’re way farther along than we should be?”
“I admit—”
“Ah, ha!”
“So what?” said Hazel, reddening. “All to the good, Manny.” Hazel rapped her knuckles on the dash. “It should stay like this, God willing.”
Manuel glanced at Hazel’s smoldering visage and realized he’d gone too far.
“Can’t argue,” he said in a peace-making voice. “Gotta pee?”
“No. You?”
“Nope.”
They flew through New Haven like nobody’s business. Manny kept his misgivings to himself. Eventually, and to his boundless relief, Hazel’s face relaxed, freeing the car of its disconsolate vibe. Meanwhile, outside the car, the tide of good fortune never ebbed. Not a cloud in the sky. Not a cop on the road. Manuel reset the cruise speed to seventy for a fifty-five zone, then back up to seventy-eight. Not a soul even needed to be passed.
“Traffic’s amazing for three days before a holiday, no?” said Manuel, bopping to an inner tune.
But Hazel was out for the count. Mouth wide, snoring like a drunk.
Manuel sniffed and flipped on the satellite radio. Every song a favorite. By the time they zipped through Bridgeport, they were a mere thirty minutes ahead of schedule ⸻ but the two hours had zipped by like a commercial break.
Hazel had slept enough. He nudged her.
“Hey, Haze? A little nosh, please?”
His wife jumped as if electrocuted.
“Geez, Manuel. What the hell?”
“Snacky. Please.”
Hazel took her time retrieving her book, removing a scarf, and checking her phone. Then she reached into the back seat for the pretzels.
As Manuel munched, Hazel reported her texts.
“Greta’s good. She can’t wait to see us. Eddy is preparing a feast, and the munchkin is going nuts about Santa. Like, Greta isn’t sure if she can distinguish between us and Santa Claus.”
“Great. That’s how it should be. Anyone sick?”
“No colds going around. That’s a plus, huh?”
“You said it!”
“Where are we?”
“Approaching Stratford. I mean it, Haze. The clock hands are spinning like a dervish for me.”
“Me, too! I can’t believe we’ve made it this far already. Ain’t complaining!”
By now, Manuel had embraced their good fortune and was giddy as Tiny Tim in a field of tulips. He inched the cruise control up to eighty. They crossed the New York State line.
“I never, Hazel. This drive wouldn’t be any easier if we were in one of those autonomous vehicles.”
“You want to rest? I can deal with the bridge.”
“Fresh as a daisy, and the GPS is telling us to stay on 95 the entire way. The bridge is probably a breeze today. Let’s get to the other side before we stop.”
“Famous last words. Do you realize we haven’t had a pee break since we left? It’s been over two and a half hours! And yet, I don’t have the slightest urge! Isn’t that amazing?”
“Yeah. I’m good, too.”
“We’d still better stop at the Lombardi Plaza.”
“Agreed. Gotta eat, though I’m not hungry, either, truth be told.”
The bridge was a piece of cake. They rolled into the Lombardi at twelve-thirty.
“Lunchtime,” said Manuel.
“I know, but I’m not hungry. You?”
“No. Eat anyway.”
The couple hopped out of the car and sauntered into the rest stop. Strangers were all smiles. When they emerged from their respective bathrooms into a thinly populated food court, Manuel and Hazel grabbed a couple of wraps and drinks and sat at a table.
“It’s almost too weird,” garbled Manuel between bites of chipotle chicken.
“What is?”
“We’ve driven a hundred and eighty miles without a single hiccup. I mean, I didn’t even dribble my pee.”
“Too much information, Manuel.”
“Sorry. I mean, I think we’ve even used a lot less gas than makes sense.”
“Smooth sailing will do that.”
Hazel nibbled chips and studied her husband in that singular way that drove Manuel nuts.
“I’m not crazy, Hazel,” he said, annoyed. “I’m not claiming anything spooky, alright? Cut it out.”
“Sometimes stuff works out,” Hazel answered. “Knock on wood, eat your wrap, and let’s blow this clambake. I’m driving.”
Manuel cast his eyes about as he bit into his wrap. And his sense of unease returned, rising in his chest as he took the measure of those around him. The number of people entering and leaving through the front doors never varied. Same went for the restrooms. No one walked faster than anyone else. Lines never formed at the concessions, either. To all appearances, the oddity of the ride had followed them into the rest stop.
Manuel put it all together, and his face went white as milk.
“Out with it, Manuel,” said Hazel, with a deep breath. “I’m not sitting in that car with you for another two hundred freaking miles while you work yourself into a frenzy, piecing together some bloody paranoid delusion. Let’s have it now. And it had better be something better than ‘it’s weird.’”
Manuel cleared his throat and folded his hands.
“Hazel, this may sound insane,” he said. “But listen. There’s something bizarre about these people.”
“What people?”
“All of them.”
Hazel’s expression was flat as a pancake.
“Don’t be that way!” he went on. “Look at them! They’re too…regular.”
Hazel rubbed her forehead, then theatrically scanned to plaza.
“Yes, Manuel. They’re regular. Which is, hmm, what’s the word? Normal. Normal, Manuel. Regular means normal.”
“False! There. At the Pret counter. That guy. Now get up and go there like you’re about to buy something. Go ahead.”
“I’m full.”
“Pretend.”
Hazel shook her head.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Manuel stood up and headed to the cashier. The person opposite the clerk, a nondescript, middle-aged fellow wearing a flannel shirt and slacks, moved on before Manuel could arrive. Manuel spun back and returned to his seat.
“See? The dude didn’t even buy anything!”
“He changed his mind.”
“Please, Haze! Watch closely. He didn’t exchange one extra word with the cashier! Not one. Look! Now there’s someone else there, because I changed my mind. I tell you, something is seriously messed up in this place.”
“You’re working yourself up into a lather, Manuel. I’m done.”
Hazel gathered her refuse into a neat pile and readied to depart.
“Wait one more second, will you?” asked Manuel, who fell silent until another traveler sidled up to the Pret cashier. “Watch closely this time,” Manny said, as he once again pushed away from his half-eaten wrap and made for the counter.
That new customer, a young man with a beard and rumpled coat, moved out of the way, expeditiously but unhurried, as Manuel approached. When Manuel returned to Hazel, he was nothing less than triumphant.
“Try it yourself,” he insisted and sat with crossed arms.
Hazel left the table to throw out her garbage. She glanced back at her husband, who was glaring at her. They locked eyes. Hazel blinked first and turned with a groan toward to the Pret a Manger counter. Manuel grabbed her arm as she passed.
“Wait until someone’s there. Okay, now.”
Hazel clenched her jaw and marched stiffly toward the back of the sandwich shop. A couple stood together at the register. As soon as Hazel approached — at about twenty yards distant — they departed, exchanging idiot grins. The cashier stood like a statue through it all. Hazel froze. She pirouetted and rushed back to Manuel’s side. She didn’t sit.
“Yeah, ‘weird’ works for me. What else have you seen, Manuel? Spill it all.”
“The numbers. How many, I mean. In and out of the place. In and out of the bathrooms.”
Hazel stared at the restrooms for a spell. Her disquieted expression morphed into one of dread.
“You’re not wrong, Manuel,” she finally said. “Let’s go.”
“Agreed.”
The couple made a beeline for their vehicle. Hazel took the wheel.
“Explain it, Manuel,” said Hazel as she pulled out of the parking lot with a wariness excessive even for her. “I know you have a theory. You always do.”
Manuel observed impassively as his wife guided the Honda onto the expressway. Everyone around them, six car-lengths apart, cruised at Hazel’s chosen sixty-five. Manuel finally answered.
“It’s fake.”
“What’s fake, Manuel?”
“Everything. It’s a program.”
“Ah. Like one of your dumb books. The good, old simulation garbage again. I thought you had debunked that shit last week with Donnie and Clara.”
“Did, yeah. But we were all drunk.”
“Try again. That shit’s ridiculous.”
“I know, but I don’t know what else, Hazel.”
“That’s not like you. You’re usually brimming with lunatic ideas.”
“Thanks?”
“Well, you are. Anyway, are there experiments we could run?”
“Need a hypothesis to run an experiment.”
They sat in silence for the next thirty miles. That took a few minutes. Finally, Manny popped off.
“If we weren’t real people, we couldn’t die. There’s your test.”
“We could be deleted.”
“Wouldn’t matter?”
“Would to me!”
But Manuel had a new theory at the ready. A few more minutes and another thirty miles passed before he could spit it out.
“Entanglement,” he said. “We’ve been transported to another universe.”
“When did it happen?”
“This morning.”
“And the distinction of this universe is…what?”
“Some kind of force field.”
“Simple aliens could do that. That’s more reasonable than alternate universes.” Hazel snorted. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“No. You’re right.”
“Either way. There’s your hypothesis. A force field. Now, how do we test it?”
“Speed up. You can’t get pulled over. Can’t crash, either. Go ninety.”
“Back to square one, huh? I could crash, Manny, and this is a gussied-up ‘no way we’re dying’ experiment.”
“Maybe it is. But it makes sense, don’t it?”
“No. I’m worried.”
“Start simple. Speed up a little at a time.”
“I dunno⸻”
“Look around, Haze. Everyone’s a pace car. Please! Just do it!”
Hazel drew a deep breath and floored the accelerator. The Honda growled. The traffic all around kept up ⸻ exactly. No cops appeared for the next five miles. Ten. Fifty. Hazel grinned ear to ear.
“Deranged!” she said as the steering wheel vibrated beneath her hands.
She changed lanes willy-nilly. Racing to catch other parties on the road, she found it impossible. A demonic look in her eye, she pushed the Honda toward a hundred miles an hour, but the old beast was unable.
It lumbered along at ninety-three, however. Made a lot of noise, but didn’t falter.
A few minutes passed.
“This is actually great,” she said.
“Point made. Ease up.”
“Why? We’ll get to Greta’s faster.”
“Fair. But I’m nervous, nevertheless. Do me a favor.”
Hazel let up on the accelerator. She hit the cruise switch a minute later, back at sixty-five.
“So, an omnipotent force-field,” Hazel said.
As she beat out a merry rhythm on the steering wheel, she glanced at her passenger. Her husband didn’t share her enthusiasm. His jaw muscles danced a dismal jig, and Hazel frowned.
“What now, Manuel?”
“What now? A force field following us everywhere isn’t disturbing enough?”
“Well, it isn’t exactly bad, is it?”
“First of all…I mean, do I have to explain it?” Manuel scoffed. “Hazel, some power is controlling us, some being or force or agent or something, and you’re all hunky dory? Our lives have been stolen!”
“I don’t understand why this bothers you, honestly. Whatever’s going on, it’s to our benefit. We’ll have gotten to Greta’s faster, we’ll have a great story to tell that they won’t believe, but whatever, we’ll have saved gas, we won’t have forgotten anything, and…what a spectacular drive! So fun! Right?”
Manuel eyed his spouse. She smiled and glanced back and forth between him and the road.
Manny’s intensifying rage was killing any remaining risk aversion.
“Look at me, Hazel. Since apparently it doesn’t matter if you look at the road.”
Hazel laughed nervously, stopped glancing at Manuel, and glued her eyes straight ahead instead.
“Why don’t you try to drive off the road, then?” he asked.
“Umm. Because we already did the reckless thing. No need to test it further.”
“Test what?”
“The force field, of course!”
“I thought we were in the land of sunshine and lollipops. What’s the problem with ‘testing’ anything as much as we want? Next step, Haze.”
“I just don’t want to rock the boat, is all. Why mess with it?”
Manuel reached for his wife’s chin and yanked her face his way. She struggled to keep her eyes on the road.
“Cut it out, Manuel! Want to get us killed!”
Manuel lunged for the wheel. He latched onto it and tugged counter-clockwise. The car lurched leftward, into and over the concrete median barrier. It rotated a hundred and eighty degrees on its axis, landed on its roof in an oncoming lane, and was slammed head on by an eighteen wheel car transport with worn brakes. A split second later, gas leaking from the Honda’s ruptured tank contacted a shorted wire and exploded in flame.
Instantly dead from the collision, Manuel and Hazel burned to twin crisps.
An unknowable time later, they found themselves sitting at the side of the road, just off the shoulder, in the scrub. Manuel checked his pockets — wallet and phone intact. Cars and trucks whizzed by in the northbound lane. There was no sign of the wreck.
“What do we do now?” asked Hazel impassively. Her gray-streaked hair was undone and whipped about her face. She checked her purse, appeared satisfied, and gazed at the cloud splotched sky.
“I don’t know. Suggestions?” Manuel asked, nonplused.
“Well, given that we’re dead, Manuel—” answered Hazel.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“Oh, come on!” Hazel cast a skeptical eye at her spouse.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, is all I’m saying. Let’s deal with what we know. And what we know is what just happened to us was no damn fair. That’s the main thing.”
“Why not? I saw it coming, and I warned you.”
“Not knowing a blessed thing, you warned. Lucky guess.”
“Whatever. You pressed our luck — that’s obvious.”
“Fine. Maybe I did. Still not fair. Listen, I have an idea.”
Manuel called an Uber, which arrived without a hitch. Driverless. Only after getting in did Hazel venture a query.
“Thought these were limited to tiny enclaves out west.”
“Autonomous vehicles? Well, the tech must be advancing faster than we thought.”
“I suppose.” Hazel craned her neck. “The dash looks totally normal.”
“It’s all under the hood. Incredible stuff.”
They rode back around to the southbound lanes and then to the Lombardi. The lot was strewn with trash, and a man and a woman were screaming at each other on the sidewalk. Manuel and Hazel had trouble locating the Honda, sequestered as it was off to the side of the adjoining service station, but it was no worse for wear.
“Knew it,” Manny said. “I’m driving.”
He took the wheel, and they resumed their travels.
“Send a text to Greta. Tell her—”
“It’s tomorrow.”
“Wha’?”
“Yeah. Did you check out your phone? A day’s gone by. I don’t think we should try to call or text, Manny! Even if it works, they’ll freak!”
“Never mind about that! You send the damn text!”
“I said it’s tomorrow! They’ll know we’re dead!”
“I don’t even know we’re dead.”
“We were fried to ash, Manuel.”
“Yet here we are. That could have been another force field effect. Or something. Hazel, we’re headed to Annapolis! Don’t you think it’s better to give them a head’s up? I admit, they must be worried we could be dead. A day has passed! They’re probably at wits’ end — calling the cops and stuff. Poor kids! A text would lift them up easy-like, introduce the concept. Otherwise, Eddy’s gonna have a coronary when we get there, I promise you.”
“Being dead means we ain’t showing up anywhere, Manuel.”
“Dead, dead, dead!” Manuel shouted. “Ain’t gonna give up on the ‘dead’ business, are you?”
“Occam’s razor.”
“So, why are we still driving to Greta’s?” asked Manuel provocatively. “Tell me that. I mean, if we’ve shuffled off, why are we driving to Greta’s? Why not pull off to the nearest airport and travel the world, lie on a beach for a decade, climb a mountain! What are we doing on the New Jersey Turnpike?”
“There’s plenty of time for all that. I want to see my grandson, even if he can’t see me.”
“Well, that’s dumb,” said Manuel with a smirk. “Know why? Because if we’re dead, guess what — then they’ll be up at Rehoboth for the funeral.”
Manuel’s chuckle drew daggers from Hazel.
“You mean Brooklyn,” she said. “Our plots are in Brooklyn. But that’ll take a while, wise-guy, after what happened to us. And check out the time we’re making. I can still see my grandson before anyone goes anywhere. So, shove it.”
“Glad to see we’re still headed in the same direction,” he responded sulkily. “But for the record, not dead.”
They hit traffic that somehow cost them no time. Bumper-to-bumper up to and through the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel. Manuel browsed the satellite radio channels but found nothing other than inspirational and Christmas music. Which he hated. His mood soured further.
“Poor munchkin will never have her grandma and grandpa,” blurted Hazel.
“Waddaya mean?” said Manuel. “Not that we’re dead, mind you. But say we were. There’s Henrik and Maddie.”
“Pshaw! They’ve been down there maybe once.”
“They’ll be down there plenty after Henrik retires. Don’t worry.”
“You’re not? Worried? About Greta and Eddy and the munchkin?”
“I told you, I don’t accept the damn premise!” said Manuel through a clenched jaw.
“You’re ignoring the data, genius.”
“We’re walking, talking, breathing, and driving. Not dead.”
“Preconceptions. Cherry-picking.” Hazel crossed her arms and curled her lip.
Manuel hated when Hazel went all meta on him and sighed like a punctured Thanksgiving Day balloon. That prompted blowback.
“Your florid gestures do not an argument make,” she said, as decisively as a female praying mantis gnawing off her mate’s head.
“Okay, Hazel,” said Manuel, flinching but unwilling to retreat. “What if we are dead? Hmm? You realize that means someone murdered us in cold blood?!”
Hazel flushed, and her eyes narrowed.
“So that’s what this is about. You won’t accept blame for the accident! Listen to me, Manuel. You grabbed the wheel. You did the thing, and we died. That’s the only cause and effect here. And that’s the truth.”
“And I suppose you’d claim everything before — every nutso, diabolical circumstance yesterday morning leading to the crash — was just coincidence?”
“Of course not. But we had a choice. We could have skated along and enjoyed the beneficence of whatever or whoever smiled upon us. But you chose differently, and here we are.”
Manuel stroked the steering wheel and composed himself.
“Beneficent, you say. Beneficent… Listen. Yesterday morning proves a malevolent force had it in for us from the beginning. Indisputably malignant, Hazel. The crash was foreordained — I feel it. Something evil. I…I’m not admitting we’re dead. I don’t know that yet. Conflicting evidence…”
Hazel snorted.
“The only conflict is you with yourself. Victims of super-evil, but not dead after being roasted to cinders. Got it.”
“Whatever it is,” said Manny with a shrug, “is toying with us.”
Manuel knew enough not to take Hazel’s stony silence for submission.
“Let’s smoke it out, shall we?” he asked congenially. “First step is to communicate with Greta any way we can.”
“And you think our phones will contact hers.”
“The Uber came.”
“No driver. Maybe nothing…living responded.”
“Oh, I get it. You think—”
“Dead, Manuel. It’s consistent. The dead don’t converse with the living.”
“Then there’s no harm trying.” Manny smiled deferentially.
“You think you’re so clever, Manny. Well, no, because it might work, and if it did, then it would be evil. Wouldn’t be right.”
But Manny could tell his wife was softening.
“Nah. We’re good ghosts. No one will get hurt.”
“Now you’re just mocking me.”
“Just send the text.”
Manny won the day. Hazel hesitated, but as they passed an Annapolis exit sign, she pulled out her phone and tapped a message.
“What did you say?” asked Manuel.
“Hi Greta sorry we got waylaid we’ll be there this afternoon love Mom. Good enough?”
“Sure. You’ll see.”
Three minutes later, Hazel yelped. Manuel startled, and the car veered perilously until he reestablished his bearings.
“What the hell, Hazel!”
“It’s my phone!”
“Heh. Well, whaddaya know? Answer it!”
Hazel lifted her phone with a shaky hand and tapped.
“Well?”
“It’s Greta. She says she was so worried, and can’t wait to see us! This is nuts, Manuel!”
“We’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, we’re almost there. Relax.”
It was getting dark by the time the Honda pulled up to the Sanderson’s compact, brick-faced Cape Cod home in an Annapolis suburb. The three hours that passed since the Lombardi rest stop had been thirty minutes, tops, to Manuel and Hazel. Greasy leaves, undulating with restless things underneath, covered the frozen ground. Humongous, coal-black birds stared at the visitors from the power lines leading into the house. Broken shingles hung loosely, cracked windows visibly rattled, and stunted, gnarled trees swayed in the wind.
“Those crows give me the willies,” said Hazel, shivering.
“I think it’s an illusion. Help me with the bags.”
They emptied the trunk and rolled the valises up the steps. Manuel knocked.
The wind picked up. He grabbed the railing to steady himself.
“Heh, heh.”
Manuel loosened his collar. He knocked again.
“There’s no one home, Manuel.”
“She has to be! Check your phone again. Maybe she stepped out.”
“This house looks uninhabited. For a long time. It’s falling apart.”
“I said it’s an illusion. Whatever messed with us is still messing with us. Check your phone.”
Hazel retrieved her phone and scrolled.
“Zip.”
“Well, go on!”
Hazel tapped a message.
“Let’s wait in the car,” she said. “I’m getting the creeps out here.”
They left the bags on the stoop and huddled in the Honda. Manuel ran the motor for heat. Hazel’s phone rang. The Bluetooth was active, and a Taylor Swift snippet resonated from the car’s speakers. Hazel picked up. Greta’s voice boomed inside the vehicle.
“Hi! Mom? Is that you? Where are you? Still in traffic? We’ve been so worried!”
“We’re here, baby! Did you step out?”
“What do you mean, ‘here?’”
“We’re at the house. Parked out front.”
“Harriet Drive?”
“Yup.”
“Hold on.”
There was some fiddling over the line and the sound of a door opening and then the wind. Greta said nothing for a minute.
“I’ve looked up and down the street. Don’t you remember the house? How could you be in the wrong place?”
Hazel and Manuel glanced at each other.
“Damn it!” said Manuel, slamming the steering wheel.
“Was that Dad?”
“Yeah, that was Dad.”
“Hi, Dad. What happened? Wrong street?”
Manuel stared out the window and didn’t speak.
“Your father will figure it out, baby,” said Hazel, tearing up.
“Okay. But hurry up. Eddy’s got dinner warming in the oven. We’re hungry! Elly especially!”
A toddler babbled in the background.
“Greta!”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Greta, what day is it?”
“Huh?”
“You’re worried we’re late. Normal late. What day is it?”
Greta laughed.
“It’s Saturday, Daaad!”
“December twenty-second. And what time?”
“Huh?”
“What time is it?”
“Four-thirty. What’s this about?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
Hazel moaned.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Ye-e-s, baby. Don’t worry!”
Hazel curled up into a ball against her door. She sobbed silently.
“What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Greta,” said Manuel. “But I think we may have gotten waylaid. Umm, don’t worry about us, okay? The weird thing is, we’re fine. Anyway, you eat dinner without us. Go ahead.”
“Oh. You got lost? How could—”
“Yea! Lost! A couple of old fogies, right? Pathetic! Anyway, we got turned around and…you eat dinner and check up on things tomorrow, alright?”
“Sure, but—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
Manuel clicked off the call from the dash.
He regarded his wife, who now let loose great, heaving sobs. At first she resisted all entreaties, but Manuel eventually wrapped her in his arms. They sat silently like that for nearly thirty minutes. Thirty minutes Manuel and Hazel time, that is. Eventually, Hazel sat up straight, wiped her eyes, and spoke to the dark windshield.
“She’ll have a nervous breakdown when she finds out what happened.”
“She won’t. Not my daughter. She’s tough as nails.”
“I’m sure as soon as she hung up she described her conversation with us to Eddy, and they were just disappointed we couldn’t make it for dinner. But after they get the news, they’ll put two and two together, and Eddy will tell her she has a screw loose, to think she texted us three hours after we were dead. And she’ll believe him.”
“Nah. She’ll rationalize it. It’ll be fine.”
“If I hadn’t texted her, she’d have found out in the normal way. Tragedy, grieving, etc., and that’s life. But no, you had to insist we contact her. First you get us killed, and then you fuck up our daughter with a — what do they call it? — visitation! If we weren’t dead, I’d divorce you!”
Manuel was only half listening. He stared out his window at the sky above the house.
“Is that the sun already?”
“How long have we been here?” asked Hazel.
“Not ten hours, that’s for sure. This is part of it, Hazel. We jumped a day ahead, and the clock wherever we are right now is haywire. Racing way ahead. Remember, we didn’t just speak to Greta from the great beyond, we spoke to her from the future.”
“Very interesting. Fascinating. How does that help us?”
“Doesn’t. Hurts us. As time speeds up, we’ll lose the ability to talk to the living altogether.”
“We’re not doing any more of that, anyway.”
“Fine. Just saying. This split in time is ripping them and us apart. We have very little, ahh, time to do anything about it, too.”
“Do? Do what?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Uh oh.”
“You don’t want to stay here, do you? Stay in this shithole world for eternity?”
“The last time—”
“I know. But we have to try, Hazel! Shake it up! It might change direction.”
“Direction?”
“Yeah. Like not deeper and worse every time. Like a switchback. Could be. We could climb out of this cesspit universe.”
Manuel threw the car into drive and headed back out to the highway as a sallow sun rose in the east. Shadowy, wormy things fled the light, leaving slime trails on the sides of houses and across lawns. Local roads were cracked, potholed, deserted.
“What if the direction doesn’t change?”
“Then we do it again! And again — until it does! Come on, Hazel!” Manuel shook his fist. “We’ve got to try!”
Manuel drove them back onto the B-W Parkway in time for the morning commute. Suddenly, cars were everywhere — stop-and-go. The other cars were a motley collection of vehicles from every era of the internal combustion engine. Neither Manuel nor Hazel considered the motor menagerie comment-worthy.
“Can’t we do this in some more civilized way?” asked Hazel.
“What do you mean?”
“You mean to crash again. Why? Can’t we down some pills from a pharmacy, crawl into a bed somewhere, and go to sleep?”
“It has to be definitive.”
“We could slit our wrists. Drown ourselves.”
“Both are harder than you think, and this is fastest. I don’t think we have much time.” Manny grimaced. “Just let me do this, will you? I’m good at it now.”
“Hell of a thing.”
Manuel said nothing. They rode for another forty-five seconds — meaning seven miles.
“Damn it!” Manuel declared, veins bulging.
“What’s wrong?”
“Traffic’s too slow!”
“What did you expect? Don’t worry. Everyone will be at work and off the road in no time.”
Two shakes later, it was ten o’clock, and the traffic was cruising. Manuel relaxed.
“Ready?”
“Maybe,” said Hazel, unconvinced but resigned.
“Got a better idea?”
She did not. Manuel hit the gas pedal. A decisecond later, they were doing eighty. Manuel searched for a likely spot to careen into a new eternity. Flashing lights appeared behind them, and Manuel jerked the wheel. He and Hazel flew off the highway and down a ridge. The car flipped. The cops followed them through the air and landed upright beside them. Two police officers lackadaisically exited their vehicle and approached the overturned Honda and its crushed passengers.
One cop crouched for a better look. His bones — sticking out beneath his raggy uniform — creaked with the effort.
“Another pair of time shifters, Van.”
His partner, Vanessa, tipped her cap back on her skull and yawned.
“I’ve said it again and again—”
“So don’t bother, okay? It’s obvious.”
“Well, it’s making our lives miserable, and I’m sick of it, Jake! Aren’t you?”
“They’ll figure it out. It’s more work for Them, too. Moving folks from one abyss to another.”
Jake snapped himself upright and cinched his pants around his sacral spine.
“All for a pretense about ‘informed consent,’” said Vanessa, following her partner back to the cop car. “‘Informed consent’ by bony tochus!”
“Everyone’s got a boss, Van. Even Them. Compliance, sister. Compliance.”
“Well, someone better wake up and realize these schmoes are just getting spun around by dope they can’t understand. Before you know it — bam! — they imagine they’re masters of their own destinies, or something. It’s cruel, I tell you. Excessively, I mean.”
“I hear you. I’ll call in the disposal squad.” Jake tapped some buttons on his radio. “And it is sad. More than it needs to be. Will you just look at these two?”
“Pathetic. And all the others, too, I’m saying. By the boatload, Jake! Must be getting damn crowded down in the Deep.”
***
Manuel and Hazel stood back to back on an endless, storm-swept plain. The mucky terrain oozed with mucus that bubbled in thousands of sulfurous pits. The sky was dark gray, and a stinging mist nipped at their naked torsos. Nothing grew, though an occasional shrunken, dead shrub clung to the ground. Disembodied cries of agony pressed upon them from every direction, despite their new domain’s comprehensive emptiness. They themselves were bloated and sallow, their eyes sunken, their skin crawling with maggot-infested sores.
It was freezing cold.
The sky rapidly lost what limited luminescence it had, as if a hidden sun crossed it at lightning speed.
“Another outrage!” cried Manuel through chattering teeth.
Hazel plopped her derriere into the mud and screamed.
Manuel regarded her with contempt.
“Hazel!”
She closed her mouth and squinted up at him.
“Manuel, you look like shit.”
“So do you, dear. Listen.”
“Yeah?”
“I have an idea.”
Hazel leaped to her feet and pummeled her husband to within an inch of his life — whatever that meant in this place. Only when Manuel promised, hope to die, that he’d stow any more ideas, permanently, did they undertake a journey across the ghastly flatland. Shivering. Sick. Weak. Terrified.
“Greta will be fine,” said Hazel wistfully.
“Of course she will! And the munchkin. Don’t forget the munchkin.”
“I haven’t. No worries. None.”
“That’s my girl! And this won’t last forever, either.”
“It might.”
“Not with time blazing by like an F1 Ferrari. We’ll wait it out, I tell you.”
Eons later, Hazel is still noodling how to respond to that one.
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