Always a Price

What's life? Short. Hard. What's it worth? Everything.

I scribbled my name down on the receptionists desk for the five thousandth time. I don’t know why I counted, at first it was celebratory, 'I’ve been an oncologist for ten whole days!' I’d think to myself. Then the two year mark rolled around; 'I’ve been watching people die for seven hundred days.' Sharon smiled at me for the five thousandth time, it was less sincere than it was on the first day. Her pearlescent dentures stood in contrast to her impossibly black hair. Her finger reached for the button to buzz me in with the all the joy of a ferryman on the river Styx.

              

  The loud klaxon rang out and the door popped open, my day began. I scarcely read the clipboards handed to me, my brain could do most of my work these days without having to bother me. If I looked at them and actually saw what was on them, I’d just see time left. Stage three lung; less than a year. Stage four colon; I’d be shocked if he was here next month. This woman, I thought dully as I held another clipboard, how is she still walking? I had the grim task of telling her she had roughly two weeks. I’d bump it up to a month, just to make her happy.

               

 I slid into the room, dutifully, the five thousandth day of fighting a tireless enemy.

“Hello, Janice.”

“Hello Dr… I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

I told her.

“Sorry about that, my mind skips things these days.” She said, slightly flustered.

She had the look already, the deep sunken eyes and polished hairless scalp. It was more than her body dying, her shoulders slumped and her posture seemed intent on submitting to gravity. I sat down next to her, a comforting gesture, I’m told.

“I won’t sugarcoat this, Janice, it’s not good news.”

Her back seemed to give up the fight a little more. Her eyes darted left and right in their pits, like trapped animals.

“Just say it, days? Weeks?” She rasped, her voice suddenly raw.  

“Little more than a month, I’m afraid.” I said in soft tones, calm and soothing.

“How do you feel?” I have never asked this so soon after a death sentence, my carefully chosen mentally script was being hurled through the window.

“How do I feel?” She asked, anger flashing across her skeletal face.

“I feel like a pincushion that got used up and thrown away. I feel like I died days ago, and got buried just now when you walked in here, you… you b***h!”

She looked ready to spit in my face, as if I was the one killing her.

Then the anger was gone, quick and fierce as a tropical storm.

“I’d… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, this is a difficult time. I understand completely, Janice.” Like a record needle I was back on track, relaying the same words to her as I have been saying for five thousand days.

The day passed in a blur, another face. Another death sentence, I was the grim reaper in a white coat and a practiced smile.

In the middle ages they put leeches on wounds to get the bad blood out, they thought it was groundbreaking. In five hundred years we will be just as barbaric for unloading mountains of radiation on dying men and women and children in hopes of making them live longer.

They did, though. For every few death sentences, I got to tell someone they were going to make it. That the darkest days were over and there were no more shadowy buzzing coffins that make their lungs tickle and their stomach burn.

Those were the patients that made the job bearable, they were the balloons on the lead anvil that pushed down on my stomach ceaselessly.

The day was over, I had survived five thousand days of death, sadness, and tears.

                Without memory of sleep, my irritated hand silenced the alarm clock on my bedside table. I threw aside my pillowed duvet and silken sheets, emerging from my comfortable cocoon to live another day. Coffee made itself downstairs via timer, but the bacon and eggs required a more personal touch.

                My companion, Art, padded downstairs on greying legs. He looked up at me with soulful eyes and silently demanded a piece of bacon.

                “This stuff’ll kill you, you know.”

                His eyes seemed to widen to the size of dinner plates and moisten. My heart broke as if a careless waiter had dropped it in a crowded bistro.

                Two strips of bacon fell onto the floor, and Art munched on them loudly and happily.

                “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?” I asked the feasting canine, who gave no answer besides a snort of approval.

                I had gotten so caught up on the five thousandth day that I forgot it fell on a Friday. So here I was, in the midst of my morning work ritual, with nowhere to go. I ran a hand through my blonde hair and wondered what to do.

                The curtains blew open, and a smell of freshly cut grass wafted into the house, it mingled with the coffee and made a bittersweet harmony of scents for a single fleeting moment before the curtains sighed back onto the walls.

                “I’m going to go out today, Arty boy.”

 

The bike hadn’t been ridden in two weeks, so a small layer of dust coated it as it hung from the ceiling like a sleeping bat.

The tires gripped the road with the tenacity of a returning lover. The soft hum of rubber and asphalt sang out. “I feel like I died days ago.” She’d said, “and you’ve buried me just now.” A newsboy had a burlap sack slung over his shoulder; a practiced hand reached in and threw the rolled paper three feet from my neighbor’s doorstep.

Sunlight filtered through a child’s sprinkler, and their laughter added to the song of my tires and the birds singing from unseen perches. Her eyes had looked dead, sunken. I waved to a high school friend as he lay out on his front lawn, basting himself in liberal amounts of sunblock. He waved back with a dripping white hand.

I turned onto a small gravel path that took me through the woods, sunlight warming my skin through my tee shirt. A cacophony of birds erupted into a violent love song like an orchestra after a nearly lethal dose of caffeine.  Her polished head had shone just like a skull. I tried to smile at the sound of the birds, but it came out rictus.

I pedaled downtown, feeling slightly ill. Three teenagers on skateboards thundered past me, laughing at some joke I didn’t have time to hear.

‘The Fig Tree’ declared a sign above the old bike shop. I raised one eyebrow at the new development. I’d heard they were making a pub of sorts downtown, but this was the first I’d seen of it.

I tucked my bike into the rack, unlocked. I knew everyone in this town by name, it was unlikely I would come back to an empty rack. I pushed open the dark stained mahogany door, it had a bronze handle and an engraved lion’s head knocker. The bike shop used to have a glass door with a broken pane. Inside was dark, and soft jazz played from somewhere unseen, in the moments before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I heard a soft voice call out “Welcome to the Fig Tree, stranger.”

I didn’t recognize the voice, I started blinking faster, trying to adjust to the low lighting.

“My name is Cameron; I’m the proprietor of this establishment.”

His voice had an accent I couldn’t place; it reminded me of Shakespeare for some reason.

“Nice to meet you” I told him my name and shook his hand, still trying to see.

“’That is quite the beautiful name you have there, miss.” I nodded, not sure what to say to that.

Small images began to appear out of the dark and fading violet afterimages in my eyes. There was a mock fireplace, with two stuffed leather chairs surrounding it.

“I’ll take whatever’s good.” I told Cameron, sitting at one of the barstools. They were dark brown, the same color as the elaborately carved bar.

“How long have you been in the bartending business?” I asked as he poured an amber scotch into my glass.

“I’ve been doing this a long time.” He said, he pushed the glass towards me and it slid with the sound of a soft exhale.

“Where I come from, I prefer to talk of the larger things.” He said, with his strange unreadable accent. “This… small talk, it doesn’t satiate me.”

I nodded, taking a sip of the scotch. I wondered if I was his first costumer.

“Tell me of your real troubles, if you’d like a filling conversation.” He said with a wicked grin. I could finally see well enough to look at his face, his skin was a light olive, and his eyes were almond shaped and understanding. He had a finely maintained shock of black hair and no trace of sideburns.

He had a face you could… I looked down at my drink. What did he look like? I glanced back towards him as he began stacking glasses in a rack, he was tall, and had copper colored skin, of course. How could I have forgotten that? His dark hair seemed to shine in the half light.

“My troubles?” I asked, before taking a long and slow drag from the glass.

Cameron’s lips jerked into a delighted smile.

“I’m going to die, for starters.” I said, not sure where I’d left my inhibitions, it was much too early to blame the alcohol.

“Aren’t we all, my friend?” He said, polishing a crystal wineglass.

The inside of the Fig Tree smelled like firewood and roses, and I felt oddly at ease.

“Yes. I told a woman today that she was going to live for month, but she’d be blessed to see two weeks.” I said, feeling like a pressure was being relieved from behind my eyes.

Cameron gave a quick nod, as if he had done the same not two minutes prior.

“She’s lucky, in a way. She knows her time, she knows the secondhand is against her. These next few days will be provocative, she might go to museums, travel, I’ve seen people do some bizarre things.”

At this Cameron’s eyebrow slowly lifted.

“You think these are bizarre?”

“Well… uh,” I stumbled. “Not quite bizarre, just… bucket list kind of stuff, you know?”

“Why don’t you?” Cameron said, slamming down the wineglass.

“Why don’t I what?” I asked, surprised.

“Do these things. You speak of a person dying, but she sounds as if she’s going to live more than you.”

I could feel my face tighten. “No” I breathed.

I felt on the verge of a profound thought. “They aren’t even really alive; they’re just clawing at the coffin lid.”

                I suddenly felt a tidal wave of guilt, had I said those words? Surely I must have felt them if they came from my mouth.

                I felt more of them coming.

 “It’s not fair, to have so much beauty in the world and watch it all wither away. To see yourself wither…” I said, still feeling on the precipice of something.

“But you are going to wither, my friend, one day you will be as dead as her.”

“I’d do anything to live endlessly.” I said suddenly.

At this Cameron smiled ear to ear, nodding, I blinked, and for a fraction of a second I could have sworn I’d forgotten his face.

“Let us say, as a game… you could live, as you say, endlessly.”

“Alright.”

“There would be a price, as all things have in this world.” Cameron said rhythmically, polishing another crystal glass. Where was his accent from? It sounded so familiar.

“Let us say your reflection, or the sound of your voice. These things would be worth living endlessly, would they not?”

I finished my glass and nodded. “Of course.”

“What else would be a fair trade, perhaps something less noticeable… something nobody would ever know you were without…” He said, his voice mischievous.

I didn’t know what sort of game he was playing, but my mind was pleasantly distracted. Janice’s specter had left me. I felt charged, a little drunk, and I was enjoying listening to the sound of Cameron’s strange musical voice.

“What about your name?” He said, smiling and setting down the sparkling glass.

“What about it?” I asked, perplexed.

“Would you trade it for all the years in the world?”

I smiled, this was a fun game. I didn’t remember asking for a second glass of scotch, but it was in my hand, already half empty.

“I would, I would trade my name for all the years in the world.” I said, proudly, as if I had just sung a beautiful song.

Cameron laughed, and bent below the bar. What fun part of the game was he doing now?

He came back up with a piece of paper and a long white pen.

I smelled the roses more strongly now, with the lingering aftertaste of the firewood not far behind.

“So sign your name here, my friend, for the last time. You will leave this place and never die, as only a nameless thing can do.”

The game suddenly seemed less funny now. It felt a little real, as if some consequence was upon me. I felt a little angry and afraid. 

“I don’t think…” I started, and then felt foolish. This was clearly a little play he was putting on for me. This was probably his guest ledger, and I was taking it too seriously.

I picked up the pen, it was light and felt like driftwood, or bone, I couldn’t tell.

I signed my name in big curling arches, more beautiful than I ever had before. Copperplate, that’s what they called it, an old calligraphy that fell out of fashion centuries ago, how did I write it?

“Well, I hope you get some more patrons, I like the theatrics.” I said, matching Cameron’s grin.

I decided to continue my bike ride, more than a little buzzed, but still, the day was young.

I stumbled off the barstool, I was hammered, I realized. I hadn’t noticed until just now. It was a strange sort of drunk, my hands shook violently and it felt like my chest was going to cave in, as if it were completely empty. The feeling passed as soon as it came. I was fine, I suddenly realized. It must have just been the weird booze.

I bid him farewell, but he didn’t seem to hear me. I thought it was a little rude.

I opened the door to the Fig Tree and braced my eyes for the bright noon sunlight, but there was none. It was dark, and a chilly wind blew across the sidewalk to gust me in the face.

How long had I been in there?

I turned towards the bike rack, only to find it empty.

My jaw dropped, a theft? I couldn’t believe it.

I picked up my jaw and began walking home, not sure what else to do. The stars shone like spotlights blazing against the dark. They shimmered as they only did in summer; an owl swooped from a high perch and screeched, the sound sending chills down my spine.

I felt sharp daggers rake my scalp, and I yelled as my hand met a mess of feathers. I felt something warm and sticky start to trickle down my head as I fought off the feathered attacker.

It took wing and left me crouched on the sidewalk, holding my shocked head. An owl attacked me, I thought dully.

My appreciation of the rest of the walk was hampered by the hardening shell of blood on my head and furious thoughts. Who had stolen my bike? That was unheard of, I would have to talk to those kids who were skateboarding today, their mothers would find out the truth.

                Finally I reached my house, my head throbbing in time to my heartbeat. I spun the doorknob, eager to take a long bath and wash my head in Neosporin. The handle held still, refusing to budge under its owner’s grip. I must have locked it, I thought distractedly, reaching for my keys. They weren’t there.

                My keys? I had put them in my pocket before I left. They must have slipped out at the bar or when the owl scraped my head raw.  I sat down on my porch, anger and terror building inside of me.

                “Can I help you there, miss?” Asked Ron, my neighbor from three houses down, he was walking his poodle, which shivered as if it was cold.

                “Oh, hey Ron.” I said, relieved. “I think I locked myself out of my house.”

Ron’s face took on a dark shadow. “I think you have the wrong block, lady. I know everyone on this street.”

                This was no time for games, I was having a bad night and now Ron decided to f**k with me?

“Look!” I said, standing and pointing. “I’ve just had my bike stolen, and my head hurts like a m**********r. Just give me the spare key and help me out!”

                Three years ago I’d given him a spare key to help with vacuuming and watching Arty when I went on conferences. He’d smiled and patted my shoulder, promising his wild parties would stop by dawn.

Ron looked terrified now, his eyes widened as he backed up.

He reached into his pocket for something and started walking away backwards; he hit three buttons in quick succession and raised his phone to his face.

“Yes, there’s a woman here trying to break into my neighbor’s house.” He muttered quietly. He spun around and started walking towards his house.

I stood there, aghast.

“’Where am I?’” He said into the phone, suddenly calmer, his back was to me now.

“Why do you ask?”

 

 

                I turned back to my door, I wanted this nightmare to be over. I slammed my fist against the wood three times, hard as I could. I saw a light go on upstairs, someone was in my house. I heard muffled voices and footsteps descending the staircase.

“I don’t know!” said a woman’s voice. “I wasn’t expecting anyone either… you open it.” She said softly. A young man with 5 o’ clock shadow opened the door. “Yes?” He asked. The furniture behind him was strange, it wasn’t mine. They couldn’t have had time.

I walked away, a lump growing in my throat. “Wait!” The man called, “what 's wrong?"

I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t know my own name.

“They couldn’t have had time.” I muttered.

The man suddenly seemed to forget he was talking to me, he looked at his wife and said “was somebody knocking?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“They couldn’t have had time.” I whispered to myself again. “No time.”

I walked.

For how long I couldn’t say, I walked until I felt like I was going to throw up, and then I started running. The scabs that had hastily formed on my head broke open now, fresh blood dripped into my eyes and stung.

I found myself at the Fig Tree again, but there was an aged yellow paper hanging on the door. It said “closed” in large swooping copperplate. I banged on the door, screaming.

“Cameron!” A powerful rap of my knuckles made the lion’s head knocker move.

I hit the door again and again, and the lion seemed to laugh with every strike to the solid wooden door.

I fell to the ground, laughing and crying. They didn’t have time. They couldn’t have taken my things and put their own in. Why didn’t Ron recognize me? What… I suddenly inhaled sharply. What was my name? I opened my mouth, to assure myself I was being silly; despite all the strangeness of my night, I still knew my own name.

“Mmmh.” I tried.

“Ron. Art. Lion.” Words floated from my mind to my mouth, but none of them were my name.

Cameron had taken it from me. That olive skinned b*****d was going to die.

The next few days passed in a blur. I stood outside on the street corner, by the entrance of the Fig Tree. I didn’t feel the need to sleep, and when I reached up to touch my bleeding scalp, I realized it had healed completely. People walked by me, sometimes they’d stare for a moment, wondering who I was, but as soon I was out of their field of view, they seemed to forget I existed.

“Lana!” I called out after my sister had walked by me.

She turned around, smiling. Thank god, I thought, at least she knew me.

“Oh, I thought you were someone else. Can I help you?” She said, her smile slowly fading. “And how did you know my name?”

 

Cameron never came back. The copperplate “closed” adorned the door for two weeks. I didn’t eat, or sleep, nor did I feel the need to. I didn’t get bored, either, which should have bothered me. Instead I just stood guard outside the pub, waiting for the owner to return. Nobody seemed to care I was playing statue; they’d always glance at me as if for the first time.

Eventually, on the 15th day of waiting, I walked. For five hundred thousand steps, I walked. I didn’t care where. The counting reminded me of my old life, and made me smile.

------------- later

 

 

“Come onnnn mom! I just want to spend some time in the real world, is that so much to ask?” Her son pleaded, holding her hand.

Caroline sighed, “Alright, let’s go.”

She took off her dark sunglasses, and the colorful VR world was left on the kitchen counter. Her book club would have to wait.

The drive to the library was short, and the car knew the way. Caroline had time to check in with the ladies on her phone, and apologize for leaving so abruptly.

The library had a giant billboard that proclaimed: “The history of printed information!”

Her son loved this place, something about the books made him excited. Caroline remembered when she was his age, and paper was being phased out of everyday life, it was a relief, no more paper cuts, no more buying pens and pencils... good riddance, she thought.

He sauntered off to the fiction section, you couldn’t take the books home anymore, but you could read them on the giant leather couches in the lounge; although these days most kids just played on their tabs.

He sat down next to a blonde haired woman, who gestured towards a book with medical illustrations on it. For a moment Caroline was worried about stranger danger, kidnapping and murderers, she looked down at her phone to check the crime history for the last few days.

What was she doing again? She couldn’t remember what seemed so important a moment ago. She texted her friends about the book club, saying her son was nuts about the old ones. They were too distracted ranting about the latest Kindle.

A few hours later, Caroline looked up from her phone. The library was closing. Why was she here again? She honestly couldn’t recall, she never liked printed books.

“Alright mom, let’s go.” Said a fourteen year old boy behind her, she turned around.

“Sorry, I think you’re looking for someone else.” She said politely and prepared to leave.

She turned around to go home and take a nice long bath.

“That’s not funny” said a fourteen year old boy behind her.

“What’s not funny?” Caroline turned around; confused by this stranger telling her what wasn’t funny.

A smiling blonde woman walked by the two strangers, a pen and paper tucked under her arm. She whistled as she walked onto the street.