Edie
Thomas snorts in laughter as the comedian on TV finishes his joke. I smile and pull the sweater tighter around me. Honestly, I'm not that cold, just trying to get cozy and wind down for the evening. The two of us sit on opposite sides of his plush couch, him with his bare feet on the hardwood and me with my legs tucked under and to one side of my butt. Keeping his feet on the floor made Thomas feel safe. I don't get it, but I’m not blind either.
His grin makes his already wrinkled face look like a road map. He'd taken his sunglasses off hours ago and his unseeing eyes were a milky white. I could see how they would be startling against his dark face. But he just looked like my Godfather Thomas. It was Thomas who took me in when my meth-head neighbors nearly burned down my apartment building and moving home wasn't an option since my parents turned my bedroom into a library. And it was Thomas who cheered me on in every Judo and Aikido match. As he patted my head, he would always say the same thing: “I could see the fear in her eyes.”
He put his hand out, feeling the cushion and finding my toes. "Edie, You aren't laughing. Do you want to watch something else?"
"No," I reply. "This guy is hilarious!”
He smiles again, giving my big toe a squeeze. “Lil’Bit, will you hand me my scotch?”
I stand up and grab his glass. With exaggerated motions, I playfully rattle the ice. “I’m going to have to pour a new one for you. This one’s mine.”
Thomas blinks and gave an arch look. "Edwina Benjamina Beckett, you best not be drinking my good scotch. Your dad will never forgive me for letting you drink underage.”
“I’m only underage for another, like, 6 months.” I giggle. Thomas and my dad had been best friends since they were in elementary school. My godfather was decided before I was even born. I can't imagine anyone better. Thomas is my second father and I love him dearly.
“Here,” I say, cradling his outstretched fingers with my left hand and push the glass against his palm. He curls his fingers around it with his thanks.
I give him a playful, "incoming!"
The sound of my voice brings a smile back to Thomas's face. I place my hand on his shoulder before hugging him. He chuckles as he pats my back. He shifts against my embrace and I notice that he takes a sip of his drink around me. Priorities.
I stand with a stretch. "I'm going to go to bed. I'm just nervous about tomorrow." I've never qualified to compete in an archery tournament before and anxious excitement curls in my stomach. In my senior year of high school, I took up archery because I'm a total fantasy geek. Sure, I may have started because of Lord of the Rings, but I kept with it because it was fun and made my arms look shredded.
Granted it’s an SCA (or society for creative anachronism, AKA nerdy Renn Faire) event. But they only let the best of the best archers in the region compete. For four days I get to run through the campsite dressed like a medieval peasant, eating giant turkey legs and competing against the SCA’s best archers.
My stomach flutters with a giddy rush of anticipation. I have to calm down if I want to sleep. I'd be up at six am on a goddamn Saturday. The clock says it’s nine and I need a little quiet time to wind down.
I give Thomas one more hug. "We have to get up early tomorrow."
"That we do, Lil’Bit. Get some rest. I'll head off to bed after this is over."
The comedian on the TV caught my attention again. He’s deep into a story about his kids. I want to sit down again and spend some more time with my Godfather. But that gold medal beckoned to me. It was real gold; the moniers guild made them. I’ve never owned a real gold anything in my life.
“Edie?” Thomas calls after me as I cracked the window to let the cat out.
“What’s up, dad?”
He beams at that. “What about Denny’s if we wake up late?”
“We won’t, but sure. Should the impossible happen, yes, we can go to Denny’s.”
I pull the elastic from my shoulder-length brown hair as I close the bedroom door behind me. Even with the door closed, I can hear Thomas laughing at the TV. My favorite part about living with him is helping when he needed it. He didn't like people seeing him struggle. But we’re family and he takes care of me too. I imagine that he must have been lonely, living in the huge house, just him and his cat before he asked me to move in. One man and one house cat didn’t need a full three-bedroom house to themselves.
I changed for bed, anticipation bubbling in my stomach. Taking deep, calming breaths, I lay down, closing my eyes, and trying to relax. I visualize the pull of my bowstring, hitting my target shot, after shot, after shot. I visualize the judge putting the medal around my neck. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough. But when I wake up the next morning, I know there’s something wrong. Some part of me feels like it's still asleep. The house is unnaturally quiet; a held breath before getting bad news from the doctor.
It’s late morning, given the slant of the muted light through the window. Damn! I slept in. Still, I’m groggy, as if I can sleep for the rest of the day. Groaning, I drag myself from bed, already in a bad mood. I forfeited the tournament. I want to cry. My first tournament. Damn it!
Trying to reach for my phone, I find that it’s dead. My cord must have come out of the wall when I thought I had plugged everything in. I really need to get my crap together.
The sun filters through the window. It looks like a foggy morning at first, but there are directional beams of light. There isn't a cloud in the sky. So weird. Even though it’s the wrong season, I need to check that we aren't having a fire. What should be a vividly blue sky is sort of beige-like when there’s thick smoke in the air.
Still waking up, I make my way to the kitchen in bare feet, my mind barely registers the powdery feel to the hardwood. Large brown stains dot the counters from all the fresh food that rotted, molded, and dried.
The cans of food look fine if a little sun-faded, but the rice, the quinoa, the pasta, and the flour all have colonies of bugs. Bile burns at the back of my tongue. I try to open the fridge, but the stench of death makes me slam it shut. Nope. Meat isn’t supposed to go bad so fast. I've always prided myself on my iron constitution. The fact that I seemed like I was a hair away from vomiting the nothing in my stomach only added to the fact that something was wrong.
I ran a hand through my sleep-tangled hair, carefully picking the knots with my fingers as I tried to will my brain awake. There is something I am missing in the whole thing. First thing first, I need to check on Thomas. Maybe he knows what’s going on. I try to keep a list in my head of the errands we have to run for the day even though trying to hang on to thought is like grasping at smoke. We need to check the electrical box and possibly replace the fridge. Either that or pay someone to clean it.
"Thomas?" I called out, knocking on his door, "We slept in. You win. Let's go to Denny's. How about some Moons Over My Hammy?"
No answer.
Don't panic.
Knocking again, I opened his door. "Thomas?"
His bed was half made, but the room smelled musty. Unease started in my chest and I ran a hand over the spot as if I could squash it down. The thick layer of dust on everything only added to my growing apprehension. Thomas’s bedside clock was dark. The electricity was off.
I crossed the room to the bathroom. My fist beats on the door in three raps. "Thomas? Denny's? Yes?"
Still nothing. Anxiety shoots through me, intense and immediate. I throw the door open. More dust. Along with it comes the smell of mildew. Black mold climbs the walls. The mirror has age spots and I can barely make out myself in the dingy glass. My hair is dark enough that it frames my pale face, but my brown eyes are hollows. I look like a ghost. As soon as I think that, I can’t let it go. Did I die in my sleep? How would I know if I’d died? Why was my afterlife Thomas’s house?
Turning away from the bathroom, my anxiety morphs into dread. This can’t be happening.
Thick layers of dust cover the floor beneath my feet as I walk. A few small animals have left tracks in the dust. As I head to the tiny office, I look at them, fascinated. Thomas has an old-fashioned phonebook and a corded phone. I’d scoffed at him for being so retro. He’d laughed and said he wouldn't know where he left the receiver if he had a cordless phone.
I cringe at the thought of sitting on the dirty chair in the small office. What the heck? I just dusted the house on Wednesday. How can it have gotten so bad so fast?
Shaking my head, I try to focus. I need to talk to my parents. I flip to my dad's number, feeling silly for not remembering it. I don't need to remember; it’s on my phone. Holding the book open I picked up the phone. The line was dead in my ear. Like the movies, I push on the center button, not really sure what it’s supposed to do. My nervous energy has to go somewhere.
I guess I'm driving to see my parents. Even if they were out, I'd wait all day if I had to. I pull on my jeans and they feel…odd… brittle. My cotton tee shirts have been eaten by moths. A few cotton/poly blends are faded, but fine. I slide the fabric on, ignoring, or trying to ignore, the fear that eats at me.
That is until I step outside. The front yard is completely overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Weeds and vines grow through cracks in the concrete and climb the walls. The usually manicured bushes are so overgrown I can't even see the street.
My feet move fast as I rush through the foliage. There sits my green Jetta, or, rather, my used-to-be green Jetta. All four wheels are flat and the rubber cracked. The paint has peeled from neglect, causing rust spots. The dirt is caked on the windows so heavily that I can't see inside.
I scan the suburban street. All of the cars are in the same condition. I race to the neighbor's house, banging on the door. Silent. Up and down the street, I knock, bang, scream at people's doors. No one answers.
I can only conclude one inconceivable fact. Everyone is gone. And that leaves me with the question I desperately did not want to ask. Now it circles in my mind, malignant in its immediacy; exactly how long have I been asleep?