Of course I remembered. I always already did. The memory was etched on my body in permanent ink; it was my body, a constellation of scars all purple, pink and numb now. When traced, as I had done before in front of a mirror out of curiosity, the seven clusters of dead skin cells took the form of a sideways figure eight, an infinity of regret that could only be broken by way of a ninth scar. Maybe that was today.
“Gloria,” I rasped, “I know you believe the vision hasn’t come true yet, that I didn’t save your life when I fell on the glass. That fate could still intervene here. But…I’m so sorry, I don’t see it that way. I almost died that day. I don’t know, I don’t know…” I wiped my bleeding nose and winced, as it was still tender from Oliver’s blow. Gloria’s nosebleed trickled down along the curvature of her upper lip, falling and disappearing into the blackness of her jumpsuit.
“What I see,” Gloria slurred, head lolling, “Right now. I make a choice.” Then her knees buckled and she slumped. I caught her and looked around to make sure our drama wasn’t attracting any unwanted eyes. But no, everyone’s attention was elsewhere, and it struck me that what Gloria had told me was true, that no one here was her friend.
“Gloria?” I whispered, holding her head up and slapping her cheeks with not nearly enough conviction to wake anyone up, let alone reel them out of the k-hole. “What did you see, Ol’ Cow Eyes? I need help.”
“Eight of hearts!” the host announced from his elevated spot in the gazebo, leaning over the railing and waving his arms with exuberance. “Whoever is holding the eight of hearts has won tickets to the Los Angeles Museum of Modern Art! Congrats, congrats!” Oh my god, the raffle was still going on. An uncomfortably long time passed as the uncommitted crowd lazily searched pockets and purses for their stupid card. When still no one fessed up, the host whined, “Please everyone check to see if you have the eight of hearts! We don’t want to hold up the proceedings, especially as we’re so close to our final, most exciting prize; the one we give out every year!” Finally a man and a woman shouted together “Brian’s got it!” and there was laughter and applause as the guy who must be Brian, a thick-headed gentleman with a light beard and tall hair, made his way to the front while playfully shaking a fist at his friends who had called him out. The host clapped along, a pathetic smile plastered to his face, blissfully unaware that all the humor of the event was at, not with, him. I couldn’t be here anymore.
“Holyshitholyshit,” I repeated to myself, “holyshitholyshitholyshit,” mantra-like, as I guided Gloria away from the assembly and towards a bench near the entrance to the garden. The air was rich with the scent of hundreds of flowers I couldn’t identify and knew nothing about. I was reminded of the Valentine’s Day I gave Gloria a plastic rose that I thought was alive. I lay Gloria down so that she took up the whole bench and knelt beside her. Gloria’s chest rose and fell erratically and her eyes wouldn’t open.
“Gloria?”
No response. I wiped a bit of drool from the corner of Gloria’s lips and clasped her left hand in both of mine. Noticing her skin was cold, I breathed into my grasp like there was a tiny creature in there needing resuscitation.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I apologized to her, voice cracking as I recognized the truth in my words. The escalating insanity had gotten the best of me, driven me to a dead end with a dying girl. Gloria’s mouth moved, making the shapes of words without making their sounds. The soft breeze of May had never stopped moving through the night, but it wasn’t until I was there, watching Gloria fade, that I noticed it again, how the strands of wind combed through my tangled hair, how they brushed against my cheek in their preoccupied way while passing from one side of my awareness to the other.
“I’m sorry I wasted your time,” I whispered right into her ear. “You wasted your time on me, and it was my fault. Now we’re here and I can’t help you. I can’t do anything.”
“THERE HE IS!”
That wasn’t Gloria. With difficulty I rose and turned to look in the direction of the bellow, which had come from Oliver, barreling towards me and parting the sea of people like Moses twelve drinks in. Chloe walked in his wake with more composure, long legs taking decisive steps and her expression promising no nonsense. This authoritative air, I knew, laid the groundwork for the final, front-facing phase of Chloe’s plot: To frame, then bury. Oliver reached me and exhaled in a manner I thought would preface a vomiting, but he instead took hold of my wrist with an inappropriately weak grip. I noted my edge and stayed put.
“Don’t worry, everyone! Everything is under control now,” Chloe called to her peers, most of whom actually appeared totally unbothered, as she rooted herself next to her brother. “We regret to inform you all that a rogue member of ‘ANTIFA’ has infiltrated our party.” Some heads turned lackadaisically towards us, some people didn’t even look away from the fellow directing the raffle, whose brow was wrinkled in confusion and disappointment at having his duties shelved. The faces assessing me were unconcerned, thoughts elsewhere. There was no precedent for anything bad ever happening to these people, and they all knew that wasn’t changing tonight, or ever, regardless of how things played out for me in the next few minutes. This fact wasn’t at the top of my mind, but it still made me unhappier.
“Yes, it’s true,” Chloe continued, “His name is Seth and, sadly, Oliver and I were too late to stop him before he took the lives of two innocent, good people.” Sensational violence proved a more effective draw than terrorism for this particular crowd, and pockets of murmuring sprung up here and there. “It is with heavy hearts that I share the news of the passing over our beloved head of security, Julius, who had worked with our family for years to protect the Mockingbird Support group. You will be glad to know his death was not in vain: Julius died protecting me and Oliver from Seth. His service will not be soon forgotten.”
“Uh-huh,” mumbled Oliver.
No one at the party seemed quite sure of how to respond to this development. Sensing that direction was wanted, Chloe started a commemorative applause. There was a smattered response. Meanwhile, Oliver was barely holding it together. Every so often while Chloe was speaking, he would nod off, his forehead bumping into mine and making him wake with a soft snort.
“And now we face the greatest loss of them all…”
With all the gravitas she could muster, Chloe solemnly gestured to where Gloria lay on the bench, her lips still working rapidly to produce noiseless nonsense. “Our Sister; Gloria, poisoned! It is too late to save her. All we can do is make sure she is comfortable in her final moments,” Chloe explained, voice trembling with great sorrow, clear regret, really selling it.
“Who is that?” somebody shouted, which got a few laughs. Chloe’s second revelation had landed with no more impact than the first. People were starting to get bored, leaving to get another drink or relieve themselves. Chloe looked back at me and Oliver with an exasperated look, eyes rolling.
“Don’t look at me,” I hissed. “I don’t know how you fucked this up. You can still bring up my ANTIFA-associated shirt, if you need. That’ll really rile them up.”
“You shut up!” she barked, but doubt was cast on Chloe’s normally opaque visage, her electric-blue eyes darting about like a sparrow in a cage. I could tell she and I were asking ourselves the same question: Were we not important? But we needn’t have worried. Out there amidst the throng, inside some slow-yet-impressionable mind, a switch finished its journey from ‘off’ to ‘on’, and the individual was moved to cry out in a shrill, female voice, “Execution!”
It took us all a moment to register the suggestion, just enough time for my heart to sink to the pit of my stomach. Chloe herself looked taken aback at this vigorous turnaround, but gathered herself quickly to capitalize on the moment. “A brave suggestion. Thank you, Chelsea, for voicing an option I think many were feeling,” she said encouragingly, nodding and making eye contact with as many people as possible, “that we must take justice into our own hands, to make a statement against this personal attack. It’s not easy to consider, but doing the right thing rarely is. We all know this better than anyone. That is why we are strong, strong enough to do this, to do what is right.”
Over the course of Chloe’s speech, the orderly gathering turned into a mob so quick I was afraid of whiplash; just a second ago I could have walked out without anyone noticing. Clearly, then, between the two reactions, neither was about me and what I had purportedly done. For the offspring of opulence, it could be afforded to forgo logical sequences and base their actions on whims. And whims never make sense. Select white guys in white polos were uprooting the tiki torches standing nearby and hoisting them above their heads, starting a chant of “Punishment! Punishment!” and I took that as my cue. Taking a deep breath, I brought Oliver’s limp wrist up to my mouth and bit down hard, sinking my teeth into his salty skin and tasting the warm iron of his blood, fancying that I could detect the slightest strain of booze within the crimson ooze.
“Oyuh?!” Oliver roared, and let go of me to nurse his wound. I stumbled back and, not wanting to waste my advantage, stepped behind Oliver and rammed my foot straight up his ass. Oliver yelled in pain and fell to the ground. I wanted to take no half measures, so when I saw an empty beer bottle nearby on the lawn, I briskly grabbed it by the neck, spun, and pegged Oliver right in the noggin. The bottle bounced off his head and flew, end over end, into the crowd, making one particularly frail soul scream. Breathing heavily, I went over to Oliver to check his status. He was fast asleep, snoring like a baby, with dreams of fish, chips, and his naked sister dancing ‘round his head.
“Rest well, sweet prince,” I whispered, and it felt even better than cocaine to look up and see the shock and awe on everyone’s face, especially Chloe’s. “Alright!” I shouted in what I hoped was a terrorist-like way. “You all know what I’m capable of. Here’s the deal: I’ve got my agents posted up all around the perimeter of this party. If anything happens to me, they will not hesitate to kill you all. Contrary to what Chloe has said, Gloria is not dead,” I said, partly hoping to manifest the statement as reality, ”and I will be taking her with me for interrogation. So don’t try to follow us!”
I was pretty proud of myself for that one, and I shot Chloe a smug look to let her know I was. By appropriating her narrative, the only rebuttal Chloe had now was to say that I was, in fact, not ANTIFA, which she wouldn’t do. And calling my bluff about the agents on the perimeter wouldn’t work because then she would be putting the lives of the Mockingbird Support at risk, and therefore her position of power. I had it in the bag. The crowd looked sufficiently cowed, and I shot them one more menacing look for good measure before turning to where I had left Gloria on the bench.
Gloria was not there.
“Oh,” I said, “Oh, okay.” A hot flush rushed to my face and I turned sheepishly back to Chloe, whose reaction was forthcoming, mouth slightly open and eyes darting back and forth between me and where Gloria used to be. Was this good for me or her? Or neither?
“Can we kill the boy yet?” someone asked, trying to get us all back on track.
“Yeah, he must be bluffing,” another asserted. “These ANTIFA freaks are lone wolf types.” There was a chatter of agreement, others pitching in their own cursory knowledge of ANTIFA, and all of a sudden I did not feel as if I had this in the bag. These fucking people! Absolute hell on my nerves.
“It’s true,” Chloe said, looking at me triumphantly. “He probably is bluffing. And while I myself am not American, tonight we are in the finest city in America, and I know it is not the American Way to negotiate with terrorists!” That got a big applause and a wave of sweat drenched my back.
“Wait, no!” I yelped. “No, I definitely have gunmen at the ready. At the ready to, uh; shoot.” I waved my hand wildly at the garden, at the roof of the bungalow, both of which, even I could recognize, were not ideal coverage for people with guns. If just one brave skeptic actually went and checked those places for any evidence of these ANTIFA agents I kept screaming about, that would be it for me. But then I saw Chloe’s expression radically pivot, and at the same time, someone (Chelsea?) screamed:
“Oh my God, look! Look at his chest; can you all see?”
We all looked down at my chest. To my utmost confusion, there were at least a dozen little red dots pointed at my torso, wiggling and circling about like the most cheerful chicken pox you’d ever seen. Gasps and expletives filled the air, and tiki torches were lowered with disappointed grumbles. Oliver vomited in his sleep, so, with a sigh, Chloe turned him on his side so that he wouldn’t choke on it.
Ah, special girl ‘out of the machine!’ In my heart I knew this was a Gloria-thing, even if I didn’t know how. “Believe me now?” I roared, and the dots went away. “I told you all I wasn’t fucking around! So no funny business. Once Gloria is located, ANTIFA will be out of your hair.”
An awkward silence ensued as everyone watched me contemplate next steps. The pickle I was in had taken two steps forward and one step back. Under absolutely no circumstances was I leaving without Gloria, but the question of where she’d disappeared to was a doozy. My heart beat against its cage, desperate as the rest of us to break free of this uncertainty, and the stalemate could have gone on like that forever had it not been for one opportunist, so far forgotten:
“If I may be so bold…” The host of the raffle spoke with great delicacy, though with an unmistakable note of indignation. “It seems we have hit an, ah, organic pause in the action. We were so close to finishing the raffle, with only our final, and most exciting, prize to give out. Perhaps we could…?”
“Shut up!” screamed Chloe, her tone maybe more unhinged than she would’ve liked. “Shut the fuck up! No one cares about the stupid raffle, especially not during a terrorist crisis!”
“No, actually,” the host screamed back, equally, if not more, unhinged than Chloe; a girthy blue vein pressed out of his forehead and he strangled the microphone in his hand like it was squirming vermin. “You are the one who should shut the fuck up, Chloe! You said it was the American Way to not be compromised by terrorists, yet you want to cancel our annual raffle because of one? And weren’t you the one who was supposed to keep the members of Mockingbird Support safe from dangers like this? What right have you? What right?” The man was literally shaking as he spoke, and as stupid as I felt the motivation to be, his outburst had earned my gratitude. Onlookers cringed at the host’s passion and Chloe gave him a look hateful enough to not only kill, but erase.
“Well, why don’t we just finish the raffle,” someone sighed. “The party’s ruined anyway.” After a brief discussion, there was the general agreement that, yes, the party was ruined, so we might as well make somebody happy. And I heard it said more than once that the final prize, same year to year, was too valuable to be wasted. I thought about making a break to search for Gloria, but intuition advised me that there was no finding Gloria until she was able to make herself found. So I stayed put. On a sarcastic whim, I dug in my pocket for the playing card given to me at the door and found it was still there. I couldn’t remember my card’s suit or number and didn’t check.
But that would be funny, I thought.
Chloe apparently reached her capacity for effort. She pinched the bridge of her nose and gave up. “Whatever.”
“Thank you very much,” the host sniffed, glowing with the thrill of justice. He collected himself, straightened his suit, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, marvelous to watch. When he opened his eyes, he was back. “Let’s get to the moment we’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen, the first place prize. One lucky winner will receive the gift of the promise of our slogan!” He gestured at the audience with the mic, prompting us.
“‘To living the dream,’” came the scattered reply, monotoned by impatience. My interest was piqued. What was this?
“Yes! ‘To living the dream.’ This is what we strive toward in our collaborative therapy, to bring each other to a point of serenity, where we have made peace with our circumstances which ask so much of us. While Mockingbird Support emphasizes the importance of buckling down and doing the hard work of self-actualization, our leaders also thought it would be fun if, for just one person a year, all that work was done,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.” An earnest hush fell over the crowd as the host spoke. They knew what he was talking about and they wanted it. I paid attention, but also used the time to mull over my possible paths forward. I was unsure of whether to write Chloe off as a threat. I made a sidelong glance in her direction; she was on her phone, which could mean anything. If nothing else, the night had taught me that ambivalence is the most dangerous temperament.
Then, in the corner of my vision, I saw Gloria. I really saw her out there, out of sight out of mind, out amongst the flowers, lips bloodstained. Naked. Gloria was naked, which was moving to say the least, but my overriding reaction to her appearance was a poignant anxiety, for the strangeness of it led me to believe that this was probably not Gloria actually here, but instead Gloria just haunting. This made her return felt hollow, which made me sad. With all my being I wanted Gloria close, back as herself, a tactile and lovable companion, not this figment whose eyes were latched to a point a million trillion miles through me.
I was reassured a bit when her lilting voice, possessing all the adjectives of honey (warm, sticky, golden) spoke between my ears: “You know Jesus?” Watching her far off, Gloria’s mouth didn’t move and her eyes didn’t find mine, but that was her voice in my head, no doubt. I cracked a smile despite it all.
“I know of Jesus. Are you on a Jesus kick?” I thought in return.
“Sure. The only difference is that Jesus died for their sins.” Here she jutted her chin towards the crowd. “But not ours.”
That’s when she looked at me; at the same time I blinked, missing her subsequent re-disappearance. The host had continued to regale the crowd while we had this exchange, so I missed everything until he announced: “Four of diamonds. Who is the lucky winner holding the four of diamonds?”
And then I remembered the face of the crumpled card in my pocket and laughed out loud because luck had nothing to do with my winning and because I was so exhausted and relieved to have received another chance at life. I glanced over to where I had seen Gloria standing. She wasn’t there anymore, and I wished the k-hole would stop displacing Gloria, or whatever it was that was happening to her. But for now, there was only one thing to do, and I did it, slowly raising my golden ticket above my head and declaring, “I am.”
Everyone checked their own cards again to be sure, cursing and glaring at me in jealousy and complaining how unfair it all was, incredulous that ANTIFA could stoop so low. Chloe was indignant and enraged, like the director of a children’s play might when all the players didn’t learn their lines. “Un-bee-lievable,” she said loudly. The host was thinking hard, staring at me like I was the chessboard he’d just been checked on, hand to his mouth and brows furrowed.
I repeated myself: “I’m sorry, but I’ve got the four of diamonds.”
The young man studied me for another beat, then replied, “Alright. Come here,” and beckoned from where he stood in the gazebo. “Come here.”
I was fearful of the reaction from the raffle’s intended contenders, figuring hell hath no fury like the privileged made disappointed. But once again, this crowd proved impervious to my expectations, for they subverted it again by taking the news in a curiously subdued manner, collectively gasping before turning to each other to confer in business-like tones. I swore I heard Chelsea again, repeating the phrase “philanthropic enterprise.” Pleasantly surprised, I took some hesitant steps towards the gazebo that sat a mere fifty feet away.
“Sorry, what?” Chloe cried in ultimate exasperation, her words let out like air from a tire. I faltered, hesitating between Chloe and the host like a dog weary of punishment from either. “No, absolutely not. Seth cannot be the one who ‘lives the dream’ this year; I will not have it, my family will not have it. He’s not even part of our group! AND HE’S A MURDERER, lest you’ve all forgotten so soon!”
“Perhaps,” the host mused, seriously considering Chloe’s argument, “but he came through the front door and his card was chosen. Have we not witnessed enough of our parents’ work to agree that there are no accidents? And yes,” the host raised his voice to stop Chloe from interrupting him, as she had been trying to do since he started talking, “Seth has sinned.”
Though the host couldn’t have meant by that sentence what it meant to me, my stomach jolted and I looked at him; he was looking right at me, a compassionate and creepy smile on his face. “Seth has sinned. We don’t know why. Is it possible that there is no one here in more need to ‘live the dream’ than him? That he ended up here so that we could help him?” People were nodding along with the host’s rising momentum, persuaded by this appeal that artfully wove humanitarianism, mysticism, and ego-stroking into an intoxicating argument for not ending my life. Have to say, I couldn't have done it better myself. I kept walking.
“Uh, no,” Chloe stated in response to the host’s last question, blunt as a club. “That’s rubbish, and you’re an idiot!” I reached the steps of the gazebo and rose, above Chloe, above everyone else, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my new best friend, the host. The view from the top was a refreshing re-articulation of our conflict, my antagonist tiny and her army but a cluster. I made a quick visual sweep to see if Gloria, the likely perpetrator of my good fortune, had returned to check up on me, but she hadn’t. In the meantime, however, I was still dying to know what ‘living the dream’ was, and I was going to ask the host, but he was occupied with a rage that was directed at Chloe and her constant tearing-down of his proclamations, eyes fixed on her with the tightest of pinched squints, thin lips chewing on themselves. I considered interjecting in such a way so as to push him over the edge against our common enemy. But there was no need for it–the breaking point had been reached:
“You bitch!” the host screeched. “Enough! Is nothing sacred to you? Don’t you care about this, about us? We are indebted to your family for organizing the Mockingbird Support, but, and I think I speak for many, you, Chloe, are toxic and cruelly flippant towards us and our goals! No more of you. No more!”
He had effectively moved the crowd, who was chomping at the bit for some kind of bloodshed, for chrissake, after getting relentlessly teased. They roared in approval of the host’s call for dissent, crying out for “revolution!” and a “new age!” of leadership. Tiki torches were re-hoisted, polo shirts were unbuttoned, and Chloe was surrounded by her once-docile peons, the air crowded with declarative shouts about how things would be different from here on out, and how she would be the first to go.
“Stay away from me!” Chloe shrieked. “You pathetic losers! You’re nothing without me! Get your hands off me!” But they would not. The circle of angry affluents slowly tightened, hands reaching for her designer clothes, her beautiful body. Then they started to bite into her, teeth sinking into the pearly-white flesh of her arms, chomping down on her taught neck. Oliver was still asleep a few feet away. His would be a hell of a hangover. I looked to the host in horror for some kind of explanation. He just shrugged and tittered, “Nothing but the finest cuisine for our guests.”
With that, he took my hand and led me back towards the house. As much as I despised Chloe and wanted her to be punished for the murder of Gloria, I couldn’t stomach looking back at the carnage. Unfortunately, I could not block out the sound of her final words, howled in a cumulative release of all the spite she had ever wielded:
“CHOKE ON IT!”
***
It was quiet inside the small house; everyone was outside eating Chloe. Having mercifully forgotten the horrendous, genocide-romanticizing paintings that lined the walls, I grimaced at being re-introduced. The host nudged me with his elbow and nodded towards said ‘art.’ “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“No. They fucking suck.” I was in a foul, sad mood, undesirous of anything but to see Gloria again somehow, even as the reckoning that that might never happen surrounded my heart like a thicket of thistles, pricking the poor organ any time the smallest hopes made it stir. But as miserable as it made me, I would endure this rabbit-hole until its end.
The host sniffed at my hostility and took me to the other end of the open living room, where the big table was, and turned left towards there a door I hadn’t seen before, its position mirrored by the entrance to the bathroom on the right. He reached for the ornate, golden knob and looked back at me excitedly, eyebrows bouncing. “This is the bedroom,” he explained. “This is where you’ll be living your dream.”
I started to object, wanting a thorough descriptor of ‘living the dream’ before going any further, but when he opened the door, waving his arm in a grand, welcoming gesture, I stopped short because there was Gloria sitting at the foot of a modest twin bed, its headboard against the opposite wall of the tiny room with bare white walls; she was still naked and still had blood smeared about her upper lip, and when she gave me a grin I saw that some of it had gotten on her teeth. I went “ah!” at the sight, then shut up and looked at the host, who was standing proudly with his hands on his hips, waiting for my reaction.
“Is it to your liking?” He couldn’t see Gloria, who gave me a coy look with her palms turned upward, like cool, right?
“Uh.” I tore my eyes from the apparition. “Sure. Tell me what happens now.”
“Of course. Listen closely. After I’ve finished speaking to you, I will leave the room. Once I’ve left the room, you will have all the time you need to ask yourself this question: ‘What will give me peace of mind?’ The answer can be an event from the past, present, or future; a single day or an entire year; a conversation with a loved one or a career decision–anything you would bring to your therapist, anything that haunts you. We are all haunted.”
“Sounds about right,” I said, and Gloria rolled her eyes. “Keep going.”
“Once you’ve chosen your experience, you must speak out loud, with very specific language, the parameters of what you’re hoping to have happen. Then you lay on this bed and fall asleep, and when you fall asleep you will dream the scenario as you spoke it. It will be as vivid as reality; your catharsis will be potent, indelible. Thus, ‘living the dream.’”
“Okay...How long am I asleep for? What happens when I wake up? What use is the catharsis of a dream?”
“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” The host winked at me. “I understand the skepticism; it is a gift that works in mysterious ways, but to that end I will tell you that no one has come out on the other end of ‘living the dream’ disappointed. I suspect you already have a few ideas of how you’d like to use it, no?” I didn’t say anything to that, which said enough. “As for your other questions; when the dream begins, your body leaves this room. We don’t know where it goes, but we know it always comes back in fine condition when the dream is over. You will wake up wherever your dream ends, so choose carefully.” He chuckled. “And I think that about covers it! Don’t sweat it, Seth. People generally really like this.”
I recognized in myself a feeling of begrudging respect for this weird little guy who was the fourth nicest person I had met that day (first had to be Robert, followed closely by Green Greens, then throw Rosemarie somewhere in there). I admired how his loyalty to these bizarre ideals operated outside the boundaries of the sociopolitical differences that had defined the night. I offered the host my hand and he accepted it, his own hand clammy and weak. We shook. “Thanks, man.”
He smiled in return, gave a quick tilt of his head and exited, closing the door softly behind him. When the door shut, silence flooded the room, making my ears ring. I luxuriated in it, keeping my back to Gloria as I took deep breaths in through my nose with eyes closed, taking a precious moment for myself before I had to decide everything. I could feel Gloria watching me, and I appreciated her patience. I stretched my arms over my head, groaning, and without looking I went to sit at the foot of the bed, next to Gloria, letting out one last extended breath as I did so. Well, I miscalculated my distance from the bed and fell right on my ass. Gloria laughed heartily as I scrambled up onto the bed, face burning with embarrassment.
“Long day?” she said, more statement of fact than question. Her mouth was moving now, so I talked as well.
“You already know,” I sighed.
“Yeah, I do,” Gloria whispered sympathetically; then we were both quiet again. I felt peace descending, but it was too melancholy to enjoy. Close up or from afar, it was easy to see that Gloria wasn’t with me. The illusion was convincing, but I knew how Gloria affected me well enough to know when she was really nearby. Gloria wasn’t with me. I choked on my words a few times before finally asking her, “Where are you?”
“I don’t know. It’s like I went to sleep and woke up in a dream.”
“Can I touch you?”
“Let’s try.”
Gloria put her hand on mine. Her thumb stroked my wrist.
“Thanks for your help earlier,” I said.
“Did I help? That’s good. I wasn’t really in control of myself, I couldn’t really...see, you know? But I had a feeling of intention to help you, and I tried to follow it. So I’m glad.”
“Yeah, you were really helpful.”
I was struggling to get to the point. If the host had returned to the bedroom and seen me, he might wonder what had gone down in the intervening time to derail me into conducting a scrutinization of my fingers, peering under the nails and ripping the cuticles, all the while tangling themselves on themselves like blind puppies. For me to inquire into existence the thing that had so far gone unspoken would make the thing my fault; I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to make it so. But when I raised my gaze, those ol’ cow eyes took me in like they always did, holding and emboldening me to ask a question as hard as, “Gloria, can you come back?”
The way Gloria received my question told me everything before her answer. Since I first saw her return in the garden, her demeanor had been detached, disarmingly Above, and when I asked her my question it became undeniable to me that, between the two of us, Gloria was the least concerned with her own demise. Watching Gloria process her response with soft sadness, I thought of Orpheus, who had wanted Euridice back so bad, and wondered which was worse: to lose your lover by the weakness of your own will, or the steadfastness of theirs.
Gloria replied slowly, “It doesn’t feel like I can.”
The effect of her confirmation was immediate. I had to blink my eyes rapidly to keep them dry, and I fought against the muscles of my face as they tried to assume a crying position. I let out a hushed “um,” then asked in a halting, faltering way, “Well, is there something I can do to get you back, you think? With this ‘living the dream’ thing? I–I don’t know how any of this works.” My admission of helplessness was so utterly forlorn that for the first time that day, I pitied myself.
“Seth,” Gloria began, and I leaned in, but she didn’t say anything. Her eyes studied an invisible material just past me, her hands contorted like she was sifting marbles between her fingers. Girl Caught In Thought. “Okay, I’m going to start with,” Gloria would say, then freeze, hands still twitching and mouth moving imperceptibly, but not continuing the thought. After multiple false starts, she punched the bed in frustration and began definitively with, “I hate L.A. From my first day I hated this place, and I hated it even more for how it failed to stop me from thinking about you and our shitty last day.” I flinched and Gloria put her hand on my leg. “No, Seth. That’s not the point of this,” she said firmly. “It is what it is, and you apologized and served your due diligence. Spending time with you today was the lightest I’ve felt in so long. You did very well.”
“I tried really hard,” I admitted.
“I know,” Gloria laughed. “But the point: I hated being in Los Angeles. I spent a lot of time thinking about the ‘vision’ I’d had, the sense that you would save my life one day, even though you told me how you were of the belief that it had already been fulfilled. But you know I was never as convinced. I felt there was more to come. It’s a weird thing to have hanging over you.” She paused thoughtfully, then said next, “I get so agitated over the question of why I’m like this,” seeming to change topics. “How is it fair that an uber-wealthy kid like me should be bestowed with special powers when some poor person out there could use these same freaky abilities to get a leg up or something, go on a talk show or whatever. To be given all this potential, all these resources to be someone, just to be ungrateful and doing nothing...”
Gloria trailed off, but wasn’t finished, so I said nothing, even as I was starting to see how this was an answer to my question. “So I would go back to my vision again and again, that day in the apartment again and again. I think I gave this impression when we caught up before the party, but it’s gotten to a point where I’m usually very depressed. And if I thought about the vision when I was at my lowest, thought about the possibility of a threat to my life being thwarted by you…” Gloria’s eyes were brimming. “I’m sorry, but I really resented it, to the extent where I could have seen myself not letting you visit me just so that you wouldn’t interrupt...suicide. If I really needed it.”
The image of Gloria, alone, on the verge of suicide, was so brutally sad that it felt like something I had invented to hurt myself. Fighting the pain of a crumbling heart, I made the rest of my body exude compassion towards Gloria. We hugged and I cried a little into Gloria’s shoulder, and when we pulled away, her eyes were wet. She sniffed. “But I knew it was better for me to see you, and thank god I did, because, Seth, listen.” Gloria took hold of my shoulders and we locked eyes.
“This isn’t death. I’ve chosen something else.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, not without some hesitancy. I was glad to hear that Gloria was content with her current state, but I couldn’t help but be disappointed with anything less than a full return. I figured it might be time to let go of that hope. The decision felt good and bad.
“It’s just an intuition,” Gloria continued, “but when I said earlier that it’s like I woke up in a dream; it’s true. I think I’m dreaming. When I took the ketamine and went under, there was a moment where I knew I couldn’t go back, but there were two different ways forward. Again, inside of me there was this feeling of intention that I let guide me, and it took me...here. Not back, just visiting long enough to see you, to help. And so far, existing in this way, in the dream…” Tears laced her eyelids again and she exhaled, “It’s a relief. Before, I didn’t know what was going on with me and it made me miserable. Here, the unknowingness of it all brings me peace of mind. If that makes sense?” I dipped my head in acknowledgment, because it did.
“It’s like you’ve found your Higher Power,” I suggested. “You are your own.”
“That’s an empowering way to look at it,” Gloria agreed, light on sarcasm. “But whatever is next for me here, I have more hope for it. I choose the dream.”
“Excellent. I’m glad that, uh, OD-ing on ketamine worked out so well for you.”
We shared a laugh.
“But, wait,” I said, unable to let go of this last thing, “So did your vision come true today or that day two years ago?”
“Yes,” Gloria deadpanned, and subsequently cackled at my disappointed expression. “Poor boy! Trust me, Seth, as an old pro at this magic crap, this is about as good as it gets as far as hard and fast answers. In fact, things are usually much more confusing. Like last night, for instance, and I didn’t tell you this because it’s irrelevant and gross, but I saw that today I’d eat used tissues on a plane, and that certainly didn’t happen.”
I blinked.
“I’m just fucking with you. You told me about that happening with Rosemarie.”
I grinned sheepishly, but I also knew I hadn’t used Rosemarie’s name when I told Gloria that story. Special girl special to the end.
Then we were quiet again for a bit.
“So you’re going,” I said.
“Yes,” Gloria said. “I think I am.”
“Where will you go?”
“Back into the dream.”
“And you’ll be happy there?”
“I believe so.”
“Then this is goodbye.”
“Yup, so hug me again, please.”
Gloria and I hugged. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to be as present as possible. Pulling away reluctantly, I tried to commit her features to memory. I knew it was futile, but when I inevitably forgot Gloria, I would be damned if it wasn’t despite my best efforts. “Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?” I asked with such obvious hopelessness that Gloria laughed.
She replied, “Aw, Seth buck up. Maybe we will. After all, you’ve got a dream to dream.” Gloria held my face in her hands, gave my cheeks a soft pat-pat, pecked me on the lips, then disappeared. When I was done weeping, I collapsed on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and felt sad forever. Los Angeles had really done a number on me and I wanted no more of it. Get me out became the resounding cry inside my mind. Get me out of here, this place where there is no justice for ends and means, where the streets are too wide to find the blood that’s running down them, where the parties never happened, where two faces are better than one. Where no one comes to stay.
It was time. I sat up and got to work. I had to craft the perfect statement to conjure the exact dream I wanted, the dream that would make me whole. I didn’t want any tricky genie shit to happen, for my utterance to be disastrously interpreted, so I thought hard, sussing out loopholes and entendres. Then it hit me, way quicker than I thought it would. Everything aligned all at once and I saw the answer right there in front of me. I knew what I wanted and I knew how to see it through–it was already happening. Gloria had returned to the dream, so I would return there, too. Ha. I laid back down in relief, a big smile on my face, a warmth swelling in my chest.
Oh! It could be so simple!
End
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