Rene Gutteridge - Listen

The glass doors swooshed open, creating a short breeze against his face. Lisa Yaris, now Lisa Hall since getting married two weeks ago, was working the desk tonight, and she always had a smile for him. “Hi, Frank.” She checked her watch. “Cutting it close tonight.”

“Just throw me in a wheelchair and toss me out when you’re ready for me to go.”

Lisa laughed, stretching over the desk to pat his hand. “You know we love you.”

Frank signed in and walked toward the third hallway, room 412. He knew she’d be done with dinner, done with her bath, and would have her nightgown on.

The door was open and he walked in. She sat in her specially equipped wheelchair, strapped tightly in, with her back to the door. A silent, flickering television played an old variety show in black and white. The tiny Christmas tree he’d brought two weeks ago, with its miniature ornaments, still looked in its place and untouched.

He came around to face her, pecking her on the cheek, then sat down on her bed, eyeing the room to make sure it was well kept and everything was in its place. For a while her gowns kept disappearing, but that seemed to have stopped.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Like always, there was no response. Her contorted face didn’t move. Her eyes blinked every ten seconds. Her mouth gaped open as if it were in the middle of a bloodcurdling scream. Her neck stretched and strained to the right, causing her cheek to almost rest against her shoulder, which lifted up slightly by an arm that was permanently twisted against her chest. Her hands were frozen, clawlike.

Frank took the brush off the bedside table and moved closer to her. Her hair, still long and shiny but gray now, gently waved against her cheeks. He carefully brushed it. The scar around her neck was still there, deep purple, after all these years. He lifted her hair and touched it.

“I’m trying to save this little town,” he began, continuing to brush. “I’m not sure it wants saving. I’m not sure it can bear to know the truth.” He pulled the hair away from her face so he could see her eyes… once a deep and sparkly brown. “Kind of like you. If you could, I know you’d tell me how much you hate me for saving you that day. That you wouldn’t want to live like this-” Frank cut off his words and set down the brush. He took her hand. It was cold like usual. “I just wish you had known your worth. That’s all I wish. That you hadn’t believed all the lies other people said about you. I wish this town could learn… would listen to one another instead of talking so much.”

Willie stepped in with a mop. “Oh, hi, Frank. Didn’t know you were here. Didn’t I see you this morning?”

Frank nodded. “Needing to see her a little more these days. Will you give me a couple of minutes?”

“Sure thing. I know Miss Meredith wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Frank smiled and watched Willie exit, then looked at Meredith, then at the floor. Every single day, guilt was like the choking rope he’d found around his sister’s neck. It was always there, squeezing the life out of him. He knew Meredith would not have wanted to live endless years like this, but this was how it all turned out. If he’d come home just two minutes sooner, it might’ve turned out differently. Two minutes later and he’d have buried her. If he hadn’t changed shifts at work, he wouldn’t have come home for another four hours.

Frank folded his hands together and slumped. “I wish you could tell me how to get over Angela. She’s moved on. Like it was no big deal. And yet I can’t ever seem to get her out of my heart. I can’t imagine being with anyone else. She’s the only one I ever wanted.” He wiped his nose. “I know you’d have good advice for me.”

He sat there for a moment. Sometimes he’d imagine that they were having a conversation.

Frank unbuckled her from the five-point harness that kept her upright in her wheelchair. Sliding a gentle hand underneath her back and careful to not knock her feeding tube, he lifted her. She seemed to be weightless, just like when she was twenty. Probably barely ninety pounds.

He laid her in the bed and pulled the covers up to her chest, turning her slightly and putting a pillow against the small of her back.

Frank stared out the window for a minute, into the black, cold night, then leaned over and, like he’d done every day for two and a half decades, whispered in her ear.

From a deep sleep, Frank sat straight up, trying to catch his breath, staring wide-eyed into total blackness. He clutched his chest, gulping down air, wondering if he was having a heart attack. Slowly, like moving shadows, the dark contents of the room came into focus. But the walls closed in like a groaning, hulking beast.

He threw back damp sheets and stood for a moment, trying to get a grip. The clock read 4:02 a.m. What had he dreamed?

In the bathroom he splashed water on his face, pressed a towel to his eyes, and leaned against the sink, his head propped against the mirror.

Something stirred inside him. Some sort of warning. Something unsettling.

But he had been sleeping. Was it just a nightmare? It seemed to have already retreated to the recesses of his mind.

He finished wiping his face, throwing the towel onto the counter. He intended to go back to bed but was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He pushed his feet into his old, ratty slippers and trudged to the kitchen.

As he opened the fridge, staring at the small selection of snack foods while letting the cold air hit his face, he again tried to remember what had caused him to awaken.

Maybe it was the stress. Angela had told him once that he didn’t handle it well. He thought he handled it fine. No, he didn’t break down and cry. He didn’t talk about it with people who didn’t care. He just handled it. He moved on. What point was there to keeping it around?

But this time, there was no denying it. A lot was happening. And it was very personal, getting more personal by the day.

He poured himself a large glass of milk and mixed some strawberry Nesquik in, then went to the living room and turned on QVC. He settled in for an hour-long infomercial about exercise equipment he swore he’d buy come January.

Noticing his cell phone on the table, he decided he should send Damien a text. He’d read it in the morning, then scold Frank for not having the courtesy to pick up the phone, regardless of the hour. Frank smiled at the thought as his fat thumbs struggled with the tiny keys. He finally got it all typed out: good talk w/ hunt-man. he didn’t admit it, but i think i sent him a clear msg w/out accusing him since we don’t know 4 sure. will try again next wk.

He’d just gulped the last of his milk when he gasped, which pulled the milk down the windpipe, throwing him into a fit of coughing that took him to his knees. As he coughed and hacked, struggling for breath, everything became clear. The fuzzy thoughts he’d been trying to capture came into focus.

He remembered. He remembered what had startled him out of sleep!

Still choking through every breath, he managed to get to his feet. He hurried to the basement door, scurrying down the cold concrete steps.

He sat down at his computer and shuffled the mouse, bringing the screen to life. Frank’s fingers flew across the keyboard. He typed in the address to Listen to Yourself.

Thanks to the early morning hour and the awful exhaustion he still felt, the words blurred for several seconds. Finally he was able to read. And reread. And read again.

“Oh no…,” he breathed. “Oh no. No. No.”

He flung himself out of the chair, taking two steps up the stairs at a time. Without turning on the light, he yanked open the drawer in his bedroom and grabbed his gun.