We begin.
Nothing changed it: His simple demand remained disconnected from his power to be heard. The words stirred deep within, mired in some dark cavity, an urgent plea that sought release, a resolute command—
Go away
—constricted by inscrutable resistance, stoking fury…
“Calder.”
… righteous fury disrupted by a gouging pain he tried to ignore. He sat, hotel pillows propped up behind him, head craned forward like an entranced geriatric, eyes fixed on the far corner of the room. Luminous spheres materialized there from the darkness, shape-shifting into aloof grotesques before passing before him: an unending procession of clerics in an ancient frieze, the relic of a lost civilization, streaming into eternity.
But the ceaseless prodding intruded, sharpened, became insistent.
He strained to free the words, tormented by the unknown power that hindered him. His jaw clenched sore, teeth delicate from nightlong grinding, a feverish knot at the base of his skull drew tighter with mounting frustration as he fought to preserve the fragile words formed on his tongue, to gather the air to charge and release them.
“Calder!”
The distorted words began now to right themselves, becoming distinct and effective.
“You’re shouting!”
A single, merciless finger bored deep into his ribs.
“I’m awake.”
The dim silhouette of Hana emerged, raised on one arm beside him, gilded by the electric mid-town glow that edged the window curtains. His ever-present tinnitus reasserted itself, like the stifled hiss of concussed eardrums. Night sweat pooled at his sternum. He sensed the fierce heat of his wife’s body, the weight of her presence, waking to her rude immediacy in that hospital again, confined to that bed again—catheterized, monitored, mortal.
“What is wrong with you?”
He raised himself on the edge of the mattress, shifting his feet to the floor, his spine rigid, his worn body a warped, winched-up plank. The full weight of his head compressed the vertebrae at the base of his neck with a gristly crunch. He moved a thumb to his chin for support, pulled his shoulders up and back as much as his fused neck would allow.
“You’re scaring me”—a monotonic pronouncement. She sat up, swept her heels beneath her bottom, elbows locked, palms placed on both knees.
The digital clockface beside the bed displayed blurred blue numbers—4:04. “That’s refreshing,” he croaked through an arid windpipe. “I slept longer than usual.”
The incessant insectile buzz of the air conditioner emerged; its familiar stale odor—a kind of trademark, the same in every hotel in the chain—now too familiar, provoked him. He stood, paused, took a trial step, paused again before lurching forward, groping for the foot of the bed. Trembling, he stared into the tangled bedclothes as the walls of his skull collapsed like a degraded mine shaft, myriad multicolored specks of light discharging into darkness. His legs buckled. But with innate resolve, his arms held his weight.
“You’re really scaring me now.”
He breathed, intent on remaining conscious. His sight returned like blackout curtains parting from the center, his head saturated with the stubborn whir of his own overcharged power grid. He eased himself upright and pulled a wan smile. “I’m back in the room.”
“It’s getting worse.”
He lifted his chin as far as the radiated tissue allowed. “What was I saying?”
“You weren’t saying…”
He started toward the bathroom.
“You were yelling.”
“It’s important to be heard.”
“You probably woke up the entire hotel…”
In the glare of bathroom light, he sideglanced the mirror, reflecting a gaunt face marred by the otherwise successful treatment. He padded his bare chest dry with a hand towel, turned on the tap, and rinsed his mouth, the warm water filming over the desiccated surfaces—softened teeth, receded gums, swollen tongue. It was a worrying recent development. He wondered if he’d ever done it before, or how he could know if he had.
When he came out of the bathroom, Hana hadn’t moved, her posture poised, as if lying in wait. “Have you ever done that before?”
He sat on the side of the bed, his back to her.
“You don’t do that at home.”
It was true. And it surprised him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She settled deeper on her heels, her pose relaxed. “Is it your partner case?”
“No.” His abrupt response prompted him to reconsider. Although the decision to elect him was approaching, it wasn’t top of mind. “No.”
“Are you worried about your appointment with Klauber?”
“No.” That would come as his taxi approached the familiar medical building at East Sixty-Eighth and York.
“How do you feel inside yourself?”
“Fine.” His decline was scarcely noticeable, with adequate distraction, easily ignored. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” She had clearly tired of the guessing game. “What about that… thingy… the—”
“Roundtable?” Faint irritation vibrated the word, non-specific irritation; irritation at being asked to join last-minute, without explanation—a substitution, he imagined, considered a favor, but suspect. He had never been the beneficiary of any favors before. Careful that the lie be inconspicuous, he half-turned to face her and tempered his voice: “No.”
“What is it then?”
Facing the wall again, he scoffed: “Roundtable discussions… Inane presentations… Introducing myself. You know I don’t do that stuff well. It’s the kind of thing I’d hoped to avoid.” He was tempted to say, “It almost feels like a setup.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them no?”
“I needed to see Klauber. I have that interview. And you wouldn’t be here now.”
“I don’t need to be here now. I mean, it’s nice and everything. But I didn’t need it.”
“I thought it might be nice for us.” It just came out, and he regretted it.
“Don’t feel like you have to do these things.” She shifted on her heels, her upper body rising, rigid, erect. “I don’t want it. I don’t need luxuries like this, like jewelry… or a house. It’s anyway too big.”
“You keep telling me.”
“We don’t need it.”
“Let’s go back to sleep.”
“We could sell it. Come back to New York where we don’t need a car.”
Clanton was better for them financially (a bulletproof argument), better for Darwin—their oversized Weimaraner had proven unfit for any apartment—and better for him. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Can’t we talk like normal people?”
“Can’t we go back to sleep like normal people?”
She slid beneath the covers with a faint aura of resignation. Minutes passed. He knew she was still awake, her eyes open.
“Who do you want to go away?”
Ashamed to have been heard, that she had deciphered his strangled, pathetic plea, his impulse was to be flippant, to say, “ghosts.” But that triggered the thought of his parents. “Random ghosts” would be better. But in the end, he said nothing. He switched off the light and lowered his head into stacked oversoft pillows. “Let’s go to sleep.”
But the visions, their vivid, tangible intensity inked indelibly now in memory, had overstimulated his unguarded brain and left him frayed, fearful of the coming day.
“You can’t be screaming at night in hotels.”
He closed his eyes, opened them again to stare at the ceiling.
“Something’s causing it.”
Anxious thoughts swarmed now like sticky flies, collecting on the roundtable. “Please.” He expelled a quiet sigh. “Go back to sleep.”