Pod (28 page)

Bathtub Man

It takes me a few heartbeats to figure things out.

I’m in the Camry. A bright light streams in through a side window in the garage. It’s so intense I have to turn away. My mouth feels like I’ve been sucking on cotton balls. My legs are covered with the green blanket from my bed—how did that get there? All this information is confusing enough, but it doesn’t come close to answering the two questions that are burning a hole in my brain.

Number one: Why am I alive?

Number two: Why am I alone?

Last thing I remember, Dad and I swallowed a boatload of pain pills. In fact, the now-empty glass that we used to wash down the pills is still on the dashboard, right where Dad put it. I remember feeling numb, drifting off, Dad mumbling all that emotional stuff you expect to hear on
your deathbed. But here I am, alive and alone. Alone in my very own 1997 gunmetal-blue Toyota Camry with 197,000 miles and a brand-new kick-ass stereo in the dash.

I can think of only two explanations. Well, three, I guess. Either I’m dreaming—but you don’t have headaches in dreams, so that’s definitely out—or for some reason the pills didn’t work. They sure
felt
like they worked. Explanation number three, that Dad secretly owns and knows how to operate a stomach pump and wasn’t too drugged to use it, is about as likely as me growing a second head. I’m going with the pills not working, which means Dad is still alive. Which also explains why I’m alone. So where the hell is he? In the house, probably fixing breakfast. Oh yeah, there is no breakfast. So he’s in the kitchen counting PODs and drawing graphs. Or equally productive, cleaning the counter.

I walk into the house. The shades are down, so there’s none of the blinding POD light in here. Only a soft yellow glow filtering in through the beige cloth.

I yell, “Yo, Dad! Nice job with the pills!”

I wait. No answer. Okay, be that way.

I follow that up with “Next time, read the bottle!”

Still nothing. He could be upstairs taking a nap, but this isn’t a big house, and I yelled loud enough to wake the dead. A voice in my brain is whispering PODs. Like, he went to them, or worse, they came to us.

My heart speeds up a beat. This is beginning to feel like the horror movie where you want to scream at the guy on the screen, “Get out of the house, you idiot! Get out of
the house!” Only in this case I’m the idiot and exiting the house is not an option.

I check out all the usual suspects: Dad’s black leather chair in the den, the couch in the living room, the dining room chair facing the window, the kitchen.

All spotless, all empty. My eyes drift to the wooden block of butcher knives. Something seems wrong. I look closer. The biggest knife, the one Dad uses for carving a turkey, is gone. He has a hissy fit when someone doesn’t put it back in the block. This isn’t making any kind of sense. I whip out the meat cleaver. I mean, that’s what the idiot would do, right?

I walk up the stairs that now seem to have an eerie squeak. And of course there aren’t many windows, so it’s darker than downstairs. The meat cleaver makes my shadow especially big and menacing. I’d laugh if my teeth weren’t chattering.

“Dad,” I say, in a voice barely more than a whisper, “whatever it is you’re doing, it’s time to stop.”

I’m at the top of the stairs. The hall goes left, to my room, or right, to the master bedroom. Dad’s door is wide open. Nap or no nap, he should hear me. My door is closed, so that’s where I go first. Even though it’s my room, I feel the urge to knock.

I tap my knuckles on the white wood and say, “Dad, you in there? Dad?”

He doesn’t answer. I turn the knob and step inside.

All my stuff is put away. The bookcase is organized, my desk is clear, my clothes are folded and stacked on the
dresser. My shoes are paired up and in a tidy row under the window. My bed looks so perfect it could be in a Marriott ad. And on top of that perfect, wrinkle-free bed is a white envelope with my name on it.

I put the meat cleaver on the windowsill, knowing that this is the point in the movie where the psycho jumps out of the closet. Strange thing is, I’m more afraid of this envelope than I am of closet psychos or POD storm troopers. My hands shake as I tear open the flap. There’s a letter inside. I recognize Dad’s meticulous engineer-style handwriting. His voice echoes in my head as I read.

A tear falls on the paper. It makes a dark, wet stain.

The
meat
will spoil?
Carcass?
Just thinking about those words makes my stomach flip. I’m crying so hard I can hardly breathe. But maybe he’s still alive. Maybe I can stop him!

I crash through the doorway, sprint down the hall and into Dad’s bedroom. More of that bright light is pouring in through the window. The bathroom door is closed. I yell, “Dad!” and kick my way in.

He’s in the bathtub, naked except for his black boxers. There’s a skylight in the ceiling above him. A rectangle of sunlight stretches across his motionless face. I can tell he’s dead. The chalky white skin, the stiffness, the silence— I just know it. There’s no point in taking his pulse. My father is dead.

I drop to the floor. I’m not crying now. Whatever I was feeling when I read the letter, when I was running down the hall, crashing through doors—it’s been replaced by something else. Like I’m freezing from the inside out.
I focus on a blue towel hanging on a hook. The toilet seat, a toothbrush on the sink. Anything to keep my eyes from the awful, silent truth that fills this room.

My father is dead.

I’m not.

Now I’m all alone.

Those three sentences seep into the silence and fill the cracks. They repeat themselves in an endless, building loop. My body starts to shake. Tears come again, this time in long, shuddering waves. Then it passes like a storm and all is quiet again. I take a deep breath. Slowly turn my head.

His hands are folded across his pale stomach. They’re holding a picture of the three of us, and Dutch, at Cannon Beach in Oregon. We went there for spring break last year. I remember the moment exactly. Mom bought a ten-dollar kite from a sidewalk vendor. The stupid thing just refused to fly. We ran up and down the beach like idiots, Dutch barking his head off every time it crashed in the sand. There was an old Chinese guy fishing in the surf. She offered to give him the kite if he took our picture. He took the picture but wouldn’t take the kite. It’s still hanging on a nail in the garage.

I sit on the edge of the tub and look down at him. For a second I get this feeling like he’s in a coffin and I’m at his funeral. Only his casket is white porcelain and has a drain. His eyes are closed and his face is calm, almost smiling. His nose is still a little bluish and puffy. I reach out to touch him but can’t swing the final inch. He looks
cold, so I cover his body with a towel. One of my fingers brushes his skin. I shiver.

On the corner of the tub is another envelope, one I’ve been avoiding. He wrote in big black letters on the front: INSTRUCTIONS. Under the envelope, the missing knife.

I pick up the envelope. This is nuts. Instructions for what? I can only imagine. I tear it in half, crush the pieces into tight balls, and heave them against the wall. With each movement I feel my body filling with that blackness. The PODs. They did this. They put my father in this tub. They made him lie to me. They made him write a letter with INSTRUCTIONS at the top.

Dad said there are more pills on his nightstand. Why put off the inevitable? Then I think, screw the pills. Even though he asked me not to, I’m going to settle this outside. I crave that one blissful release before it all ends in a flash of light.

But I have to do this fast, before the rage turns to stone.

I leap down the stairs two at a time, open the door, run outside, and scream, “COME AND GET ME, YOU MOTHER—”

It’s gone. The POD across the street is gone.

I look to the west, over the elementary school, where a POD has lurked since day one. Not there. The sky is perfectly clear. In fact, it’s a color of blue I’ve never seen before. Intense, not washed-out or hazy. Like a crayon fresh out of the box. I run to the side yard. The pile of waste is gone, like it was never there. The sky is clear of PODs for
as far as I can see. And I can see a long way. There are snowcapped mountains in the distance I didn’t even know existed.

The air smells different. I close my eyes and take a breath. Warm and earthy, like the middle of a forest after a hard rain. I can almost taste it. Thinking of rain reminds me that I’m thirsty. Suddenly all I can think about is the swamp. Even if it’s sewage, I’ll drink it. But when I look at the water, it’s clear. Like a mountain stream. Like water out of the tap, only way better. I drink until my stomach hurts.

I walk back to the front yard, make my way across the cul-de-sac. The pavement is so clean it shines. There are no cigarette butts, no scraps of paper or plastic grocery bags or pieces of broken glass. Jamie’s bike is still there, but her helmet and the newspapers are gone. Someone in the distance is calling out a name. Amy, Ashley, something like that. Another voice, farther away, joins in.

I reach the street, scan left and right. All that’s left of the apartment building is a few charred hunks of wood and part of a stairway. Alex’s house—nothing but the corner of a standing wall with a single blackened window. Way down the block a woman I don’t recognize is sitting on the curb, head in her hands. I shout, “Hey!” She lifts her head, spots me, and waves. I wave back. I start to walk toward her, then hear something that makes my heart stop. Muffled, almost not there. I know what it is, and I run toward it.

The Conrads’ front door is locked. Dutch is in there,
barking. I’m calling his name and slamming my shoulder into the door, but it won’t budge. I switch to the living room window, which is covered with plywood. It breaks on the second try. I climb in. Dutch is all over me. Licking my face, tail wagging at the speed of light. Beyond him is a mountain of dried dog food on the kitchen floor.

I call out for the Conrads. There’s no sign of them. If they were in the house I’d be seeing them by now. POD meat is my guess. But who knows. After the bathtub scene I just went through, it occurs to me that maybe they chose a way out other than being zapped or starving to death. Maybe they have their own stash of pills, or even a gun. I’ll save that discovery for another time.

I’m sitting in the yard outside my house. The grass is cool, the sun is warm. Tulips are starting to poke up like green spears through the dirt in Mom’s flower spot. A squirrel dashes across the grass. I glance at Dutch, wondering if he’ll go nuts, but he doesn’t. That’s a first. I hold him by the muzzle and stare straight into his eyes. I do this sometimes when I’m stressed. Maybe it’s the total trust I see there, or the absolute unawareness of how crappy things may be around him. Whatever the reason, it calms me down. I need to think. It’s time to process my new reality.

My father is upstairs in the bathtub. He’s dead. He’ll never see what I’m seeing now.

A wave of panic stirs inside me; the emotions start to
boil. At first I think it’s an episode, but that changes when one more tear leaks out. I wipe it away. Dutch nudges my hand with his nose. He studies me with those curious brown eyes. Whatever demons were rising in my chest are still—for now. Dutch nudges me again. I can’t help but smile.

“Well, you’re the only friend I have,” I say. “What are we going to do?”

I scratch the spot behind his ears. He rolls onto his back, begging for a belly rub. In his simple world, that’s all that matters. But the world I knew one month ago is smashed to pieces. What’s left is scattered like dry leaves in the wind. Will we ever put the pieces back together? Then I wonder about Mom. Is she looking out at the same amazing blue sky? Dad believed she’s still alive. I want to believe he’s right. Los Angeles isn’t that far away. At least it wasn’t
before
the PODs. But this is
after
. Should I go or should I stay?

“You feel like going on an adventure?” I say.

Dutch licks his nose and thumps his tail.

That would be a yes.