Brian Keene - Terminal

With a lot of effort, I stepped into a pair of sweats, picked up the can, and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and filled the can, then dumped it, watching as little pieces of myself swirled down the drain. After I rinsed it out, I sprayed it with disinfectant. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw wasn’t fucking pretty. I hadn’t turned into the thing in the dream, not yet, but Michelle was right. I really did look like shit. I looked old. Not twenty-five but thirty-five. Forty even. The skin on my neck and chin was swollen and puffy, and my eyes were two sunken brown circles. The stubble on my cheeks looked rough and spotty—almost as if the cancer was killing the hair follicles in some places, like somebody had sprayed patches of my face with Michelle’s hair remover. The same thing was happening on my chest. The hair that was left was turning prematurely gray. I followed the silvery trail down to my navel, and noticed just how loose the sweats were around my waist. Michelle had been right. I’d definitely lost weight.

I wasn’t going to be able to hide what was really going on for much longer. Michelle was smart, and soon she’d figure out for herself that this wasn’t just the flu. And when she did, she’d know I’d been lying to her. Then the truth would come out, in all of its ugly glory. I hated myself for lying to her. She wasn’t just the love of my life. She was my best friend, too. I trusted her, and remained faithful to her in a town filled with cheating spouses. I respected her, and she did the same for me. This just wasn’t right, and it hurt me in ways the cancer couldn’t. I showered and shaved, and by the time I finished up, Michelle had my coffee and the first cigarette of the day waiting for me. The combination of the hot water, nicotine, and caffeine took care of most of the aches in my back and sides, and the headache was reduced to a low rumble.

“You look better,” she said, while I sat on the floor with T.J., watching Yu-Gi-Oh. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, I better not. My stomach’s still a little queasy.”

“Okay.”

I tried to concentrate on the cartoon but I couldn’t. A commercial came on for a hair loss cure and I wondered why the hell they were advertising that during the time of day when kids watched television. T.J. stirred next to me.

“Daddy, can we go to the park today?”

“I don’t think we’d better, babe,” Michelle told him. “Daddy’s still not feeling good.”

“I feel better,” I insisted. “That shower helped. It’s just my stomach now. Tell you guys what. Let me have a few more cups of coffee and then we’ll go to the park. Sound like a plan?”

T.J. cheered, then his cartoon came back on and he was completely absorbed. I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of coffee. Michelle wrapped her arms around my back and nuzzled my neck. Her breath tickled my skin, and I breathed her in: vanilla-sugar and shampoo. Clean. Healthy. She gave me goose bumps.

“You sure you feel like going out? I can take him by myself. Let you get some sleep…”

“No,” I turned, kissing her on the forehead. “Seriously, I’m all right. It’ll do me some good to get out. It’s springtime. Can’t stay cooped up in the trailer watching TV all day. Especially these Japanese cartoons. They all look the same.”

“I love you, Tommy O’Brien.”

“I love you too, babe. I really, really do.”

She pulled back a little and stared into my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled in concern. I wanted to tell her, felt overwhelmed with guilt for not telling her, but I couldn’t.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just…”

I struggled for the words, something I’d never said to her before in all the years I’d known her.

“…Just hold me, okay? Just hold me and don’t let go.”

She did, and she loved me enough not to ask me why.

We went to the park, and I pushed T.J. on the swings and seesawed with him and played horseshoes and told Michelle to quit worrying about him falling off the monkey bars. We bought ice cream (thank God Michelle had cash and we didn’t have to use the ATM) and sodas, and we brought along a loaf of bread to feed the ducks. We tore the slices into little pieces and the ducks converged on us as we tossed the bread into the pond. T.J. and Michelle both laughed when a swan got brave enough to take the pieces right out of their fingers. Then T.J. played with some friends from day care while Michelle and I curled up on the blanket together. We didn’t talk—we didn’t need to. We had that comfortable vibe where both partners are happy just to be together. The sunlight felt warm on my face, and it caught the highlights in Michelle’s hair, making the strands shine like spun gold.

After his friends had scattered and gone off with their parents, T.J. ran up to us.

“Daddy, do you feel better now?”

“Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Will you play with me then?”

“Sure, little man. What do you want to play?”

“Cops and robbers! Cops and robbers!” He jumped up and down.

“Okay,” I stood up, joints popping, trying to hide the pain in them. “Who do I get to be?”

“You’re the robber and I’m the policeman. You have to rob a bank, and I get to put you in the jail.” He pointed to the monkey bars, indicating that they were the playground’s version of prison.

“Rob a bank?” I paused as something twisted and uncoiled deep down inside of me. “How about I just kidnap Mommy and give her a spanking instead?”

“Noooo,” he stomped. “If you’re gonna be a robber, then you have to rob a bank. That’s the way you play it.”

I looked at Michelle for help but she lay there on the blanket, smiling at me.

“He’s got a point, Tommy. Bad guys don’t help old ladies across the street. They rob banks.”

The unease grew.

“Maybe Mommy can be the bad guy,” I suggested.

“Girls aren’t bad guys,” T.J. fumed. “Only boys. That’s why they call them bad guys, Daddy.”

“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll be the bank robber.”

The words seemed to hang in the air after they left my mouth, but T.J. was cheering and started giving me instructions. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.

“This tree is the bank. Mommy can be the person who works at the bank. When you rob it, you have to say ‘Stick them up’ because that’s what they do on the police shows.”

“I told you he’s watching too much TV,” Michelle whispered, getting to her feet.

“Okay,” T.J. shouted impatiently, “let’s go!”

Michelle leaned against the tree, and said, “Welcome to O’Brien Savings and Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?”

“Ummm, stick ’em up,” I mumbled. “Give me all your money.”

“No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like this.” He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.

“How can I help you, sir?” Michelle asked again, giggling.

“Stick ’em up,” I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my head began to hurt again.

“Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!”

“Come on, Tommy,” Michelle hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being a spoilsport?

Make him happy and play the game the right way.”

My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.

“STICK THEM UP!” I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle’s nose. “Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!”

“That’s more like it,” she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled, “Oh no! We’re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!”

This was T.J.’s cue and he didn’t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass, shouting “WHOO