Terminal Read online

  And I screamed.

  Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it—that thing wasn't me. It couldn't have been. There was no way. It wasn't me. It wasn't even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn't show it.

  Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head—were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That's the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.

  Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they're growing. Growing at an alarming rate.

  Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren't just black—they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.

  “Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

  “The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.

  “I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”

  I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.

  “You're terminal, Tommy, so live like there's no tomorrow! Life's a bitch, then you die!”

  I opened my eyes again and yanked my arm away. It was covered with slime. The thing smiled at me through bleeding, ulcerated gums.

  “Watch this.”

  It exhaled something that smelled like the inside of a septic tank. Thin, weblike tendrils slithered out of its pores and twisted through the crowd, wrapping around the people, coiling around Michelle and T. J., Sherm and John. When the tentacles touched them, something black and inky began to worm its way through their veins, visible beneath the flesh. Immediately above the infected spots, their skin began to wither and turn brittle, large pieces flaking off and falling to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I choked.

  “I am you and you are me and they are we,” it sang. “You infect the ones you love, Tommy. You are a sickness. You are poison in their veins. What more could they expect from a white trash loser like you?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “You're no good, no good, no good,” it sang again, “Tommy you're no goooood! Come on and get down with the sickness! Open up your veins and let me flow into you . . .”

  I reached for Michelle and T. J. and they fell apart in my arms. I choked, breathing them in. Staggering backward in horror, I bumped into Sherm and he did the same. Then John disintegrated too. All that was left of them were piles of ash.

  I started to scream a third time, but the thing's stench grew stronger, overwhelming me. It continued to swell and pulsate. I turned away, revolted.

  Behind me, the thing in the coffin exploded, showering the room with itself. Something wet and reeking and grayish red landed on my head.

  I bent over and vomited on my shoes, still trying to scream . . .

  . . . and I was still doing both as I woke up with a view of the bedroom floor. I heard Michelle gasp in dismay as a plastic garbage can was shoved in front of my face.

  “Here baby! Hit the can! Hit the can, Tommy!”

  I convulsed, half-on the bed and half-off, and then I erupted once more.

  “Oh Christ, Tommy—hit the can! The can!”

  “GAAAAAHHHHH . . .” I replied. It felt like the lining of my throat was trying to crawl out through my mouth. I clenched my eyes shut as the spasms overtook me. In the background, I heard Michelle run to the closet in the hallway and grab a bath towel. I opened my eyes and saw blood in the trash can. Before Michelle could come back and see it, I wadded up some tissues and dropped them on top of the mess.

  “What's wrong with Daddy, Mommy?”

  “He's sick, baby. Go on back out in the living room and watch cartoons. Mommy will be out in a minute.”

  “Does Daddy have the flu? Is he going to be okay?”

  “Now, T. J.!”

  I gagged, tried to talk, to reassure him, and found the words cut off by another cramp. It was warm and foul; beer and tequila and the remains of what little bit I'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. It splattered into the can with a wet sound, and now Michelle was retching too. Without looking, she threw the towel at me and with one hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom.

  Blood, mucus, bile, and more of what looked like my insides followed it. Then came the dry heaves. My stomach churned and cramped, cramped and churned, but nothing more was left. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, gasping for air. The stench was overwhelming, and I rolled over again as a final case of dry heaves seized me.

  I threw more tissues into the trash can. The toilet flushed and I heard the water running. Michelle came out of the bathroom a minute later, wiping her mouth.

  “Long night?” she frowned.

  “I'm sick.”

  “No shit, Tommy. How much did you have to drink last night?”

  She wasn't shouting, but it felt like it. Her voice was shrill, cutting into my head like a power saw. Groaning, I rolled away from her and buried my head in the pillows.

  “How much?” she demanded, and pulled the sheets away from me.

  “I don't know,” I mumbled. “Not much. Few beers and a couple shots of tequila.”

  “You didn't get home till six—I'm betting you had more than that.”

  “Un-uh. Seriously, that was all.”

  “Then where the hell were you?”

  Well first, honey bun, John, Sherm, and I almost got into a scrap at Murphy's Place. Then we hatched plans for a bank robbery and took a drive out to York, where we visited the hood. I used the last of our savings to buy two guns, and we almost got our asses killed by the brothers when John decided to prove that he was down with the Rainbow Coalition.

  “We went to Murph's.” That wasn't a lie. “And then we just drove around. Went out to the lake for a while.” That wasn't a lie either. “Sherm broke up with this girl he's been seeing and he was a little depressed.” That was a straight-up, bold-faced lie and she knew it immediately.

  “Bullshit, Tommy. Sherm's a player. He probably just wanted to get into some mischief and dragged you two along.”

  I shrugged.

  She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

  “Anything happen at work yesterday?”

  I didn't like the way she was looking at me.

  “No,” I hesitated. “Why?”

  “I heard the foundry is laying people off. It was on the news this morning. Jenny Orosel told me they're getting rid of the guys with four to six years of tenure.”

  “Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that. It's pretty fucked up, isn't it? And the rest of us will get stuck doing twice the work.”

  “But don't you fall into that group? The group getting laid off? You've been there five years.”

  “No,” I lied. “I was worried about it, but the axe didn't fall on me. We lucked out, I guess.”

  “Tommy?”

  “What?”

  “You wouldn't lie to me, would you?”

  “Of course not, Michelle. Why?”

  “Because Jenny said that you were one of the guys that got laid off. You and John and Sherm.”

  I shook my head.

  “I don't know where the hell she h
eard that. We've all still got our jobs. We were sweating it, though.”

  “I'm worried. Money is already tight. If you get laid off . . .”

  “Don't worry. I'm going to take care of it. Take care of everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before I could lie to her some more, I belched uncontrollably and grimaced at the taste. Michelle did the same, fanning her nose in disgust.

  “God, Tommy, you stink. You stink but I love you.”

  “Love you too.” I leaned up to kiss her and she backed away, protesting, which was good, because my head began swimming and I had to fall back onto the mattress before I passed out. She didn't notice that, but she did notice how pale I was.

  “You really do look like shit, babe. Let me feel your head.”

  “I'm all right. It's just a hangover.”

  She insisted and I finally gave in. Her hand felt cool and dry against my forehead, and I closed my eyes.

  “I think you've got a fever.” The worry in her voice had gone up a few notches. “You're burning up.”

  “I'll be fine. Can you just get me some aspirin and my smokes, and maybe make some coffee?”

  “Okay. Why don't I get you an ice pack too?”

  “That's okay. I'm going to get in the shower in a few minutes. Just need to wake up first.”

  She hesitated, caressing my brow, and smiled.

  I managed to return the smile, but it felt like my teeth were going to fall out, just like the thing's in the dream had done. After she was gone, I forced myself out of bed, sitting up slowly and groaning in pain as I put one foot on the floor, then the other. My joints ached and it felt like somebody had kicked me in the ribs. I wanted to go back to sleep, to shut my eyes and forget about everything, just lie there dying in bed. But I couldn't. For starters, I needed to clean out the trash can before Michelle saw the blood in it—and the other stuff, the black stuff that had come from deeper down inside me. After that, I wanted to make the most of our day. We didn't have many days left and I wanted to enjoy every one of them.

  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. fu
med. “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 WHOO WHOO” in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.

  “All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!”

  “Don't shoot,” I hollered, warming to the part. “I'm dropping my gun. Don't shoot.”

  But he did anyway. He made the little “KA-POW” noises, then stopped, staring at me in frustration.

  “What?” I asked, perplexed.

  “You're supposed to fall down, Daddy. That's what you do when I shoot you.”