Fencing Lessons


"Please, pass the peas, please!"

"Timmy, we are not eating peas tonight so I can't pass them to you, no matter how much I'd like to."  My husband Doug looked
at our son seriously, as if this was an important life lesson he was imparting.

"Please, pass the peas, please!"

I froze with my arm half-extended across the table, a dish of steamed broccoli in my hand.  On one hand, Doug and I had a
policy of not contradicting each other in front of the children.  On the other, my eight-year-old son was not only willing to, but
eager to, eat vegetables.  Why should Doug care that Timmy had misidentified the vegetable in question?  Doug hadn't been
above telling Timmy broccoli were actually miniature trees a few years ago.

Our older son, Calvin, pushed away from the table, took his plate to the sink, and left the dining room.  Doug did not call him
back.  Calvin was auditioning for Resentful Teenager of the Year, but in Calvin's case, Doug had decided upon a hands-off policy.  
Doug claimed Calvin's anti-social behavior was a phase, and it would pass faster if we pretended it was no big deal.

I wondered if this seeming contradiction in Doug's parenting policy came from the fact that Calvin's problems were too deep to
be solved at the dinner table.  It was easier to take a stand over correct phrasing than figuring out why your teenager hated
you.  This way Doug could pretend he was actively involved in making our sons better people while also working sixty hours a
week.

"He just likes the alliteration, Doug.  Please pass the broccoli doesn't have the same ring to it."  I didn't understand how passing
a bowl of broccoli had become an ethical parenting dilemma, but it felt wrong to give Timmy the vegetables without Doug's
permission.  "Vegetables have vitamins and minerals.  Vitamins are good," I continued.  I wished I could remember the exact
health benefits of broccoli to support my case, but all I could think to add was, "It's green," and this didn't seem particularly
persuasive.

"Fine," Doug said in a tone that indicated I was making a mistake, but that it wasn't his place to stand in my way.

After dinner, Doug announced he had some paperwork to do.  I knew that he would retreat to the bedroom and I wouldn't see
him until I was getting ready for bed.

"Could you take out the garbage first?" I asked.

"Fine," he said, but this time it wasn't hostile.   

                                                                         ***

I cleaned up dinner and started the laundry.  Timmy and I watched contestants on a reality TV show betray each other in a
country I couldn't have pointed out on a map.  After they voted off the compact, pugnacious Asian chick, I told Timmy to brush
his teeth.  I read him a story and laid a goodnight kiss on his forehead.  I folded the laundry and drank a glass of wine.

At eleven, I told Calvin to turn his music off.

"Come on, it's not like I have to get up in the morning," he said.

School had let out the week before, and Calvin didn't seem interested in getting a summer job.  He'd quit his paper route last
fall, when he had begun quitting everything.  Soccer.  Tennis.  Studying, to judge from the grades he got in the spring.  Even
hanging out with most of his friends.

I agreed with Doug's assessment that it was better to ignore Calvin's resentfulness.  At least theoretically.  In practice, I couldn't
help trying to bribe him out of his funk.  "If you join the high school debate team in the fall, maybe you'll be able to argue your
way out of your curfew," I said and turned off his bedroom light.

When I went to take a shower, I noticed Doug was missing.  I expected him to be sitting on our bed, with his laptop and multiple
manila folders of paperwork.  The last time I'd seen him he'd been taking the garbage out after dinner.

"Doug," I called, walking down the driveway in bare feet.  The garbage was in the can at the end of the driveway, and both cars
were still in the garage.

I looked down the street toward Derby Road, but all I saw was the blur of SUVs driving past.  We lived in a cul-de-sac a few
blocks off a two-lane highway with gravel shoulders, two miles outside of Maybelle, Florida.  Our backyard ended in boggy
woods.  Even if Doug had gone for a walk – not that he was in the habit – he should've returned hours ago.  There was
nowhere to go.

I wondered momentarily if he was having an affair.  If he had arranged for his mistress to pick him up for a few hours in a semen-
stained motel room with floral wallpaper, a Gideon bible lying amidst discarded condom wrappers.  But Doug was too polite for
that kind of behavior.  If he'd wanted some time out of the house, he would've made up an excuse: drinks with coworkers, a
poker game, paperwork forgotten at the office.  He hadn't been acting strangely, and he wasn't a cheater by nature.

The passion had gone out of our marriage years before.  Now, we were like business partners.  We ran a family together.  I
nurtured, and Doug provided.  In general, things went smoothly.  Doug was too levelheaded to be off sulking about the broccoli
debate, but he had left without a word.

I knew better than to panic.  If I called the police, they would do nothing.  I thought there must be a rational explanation.  I fell
asleep on the couch waiting for him.

                                                                         ***

The next morning I called the insurance office where he worked as an adjuster, but he hadn't come in.  I tried to change tactics,
pretending Doug was sick, but I didn't fool Marley, the office secretary.  She'd been surviving on a diet of gossip for too many
years for my stumbling ploy - that I'd actually been calling to say Doug wasn't coming in that day, not to see if he had – to fool
her.

Timmy was up by that time and asked where Daddy was over his cereal.

"Daddy had to go away for a little while," I said.  "But he'll be back soon."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Is he on a secret mission?"

"Very secret," I told him.  "Top secret."

I hoped that the joy of knowing his father's secret would prevent Timmy from telling his brother as soon as Calvin got up.  I
could've used a few hours without my older son's accusing stare.  At fifteen, Calvin had decided the world had turned Brutus,
and for some reason, he believed I was the one holding the dagger.  Nothing I said to him was received with anything more
affectionate than silence.

But betting on an eight year-old keeping a secret is like backing a guy with a knife to rob a gun store.  As soon as Calvin
emerged, matted brown hair sticking up in twenty different directions, Timmy rushed to tell him the news.

"Dad's on a top secret mission for the FBI."

"Great.  Is there any coffee left?"

Calvin had started drinking coffee just after he'd begun quitting everything else.  When I'd worried about it being unhealthy at
his age, Doug had said, "At least he isn't anorexic."  When I pointed out coffee wasn't a food, Dough shrugged, "He's still not
anorexic."  And I couldn't argue with that.

None of the details of Doug's mission that Timmy's imagination manufactured – lasers, Nazis, and UFOs – shook Calvin's
apparent indifference.  He refused to make eye-contact with me, much less ask me about his father's whereabouts.  But I noticed
that instead of spending the day in his room with the door shut, Calvin shot hoops in the driveway and read Dostoevsky on the
porch.  His surreptitious glances canvassed our property's perimeter from woods to street.  I took this behavior as his version of
anxiety.  Especially since the afternoon topped off at ninety-six degrees; June in Florida is only bearable air-conditioned.

                                                                         ***

That evening, Calvin and I ate tacos silently while Timmy explained the secret, sleeping-gas buttons Doug threw at guard dogs
so he could sneak into enemy compounds.

"You mean cufflinks," Calvin said.

"No, they're buttons," Timmy insisted.  Timmy refused to admit he didn't know what something was in front of his brother.

Doug came in the side door as I finished loading the dishwasher.

"Dad!" Calvin cried, forgetting himself long enough to take a couple of steps forward but not long enough to hug anyone.

"Did you kill them?" Timmy asked.  "Did you kill all of the bad guys?"

"Not all of them," Doug said.  Then he came into the kitchen where I was standing, trying to decide if I was relieved or pissed off,
and he kissed me like he hadn't in years.

"Doug, what happened to you?" I asked.

That's when I noticed he had a beard.  Doug had been clean-shaven as long as I had known him.  Still, sometimes when we went
camping or he was feeling lazy on the weekend, he didn't shave for a day or two.  Now, he looked liked he hadn't shaved for
weeks.

"After you took out the trash last night," I added, stupidly, when he didn't answer immediately.  I touched his beard to make
sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Last night?  Meghan, I've been in Saelinas for months."  For a moment, I thought Saelinas was the name of the foreign country
hosting the reality TV show I'd been watching the night before.

"Is that where the bad spies are?" Timmy asked.

"There are some very bad spies there," Doug told Timmy and took him to sit on the couch.  "But there are also dragons and
wizards and a very beautiful princess."

Calvin snorted and slammed out the front door, but I knew he hadn't gone far.  I could still see his shadow in the porch light as
he leaned against the wall outside the door.

"Doug," I said, but I didn't know what else to add.  I couldn't accuse him of liking to frighten Timmy with outrageous stories
because he didn't.  Doug was disgustingly down-to-earth.  I didn't think I'd heard him say the word "dragon" before.

Doug ignored me and continued.  "When I took the garbage out – it seems like years ago – there were these golden orbs
floating over the driveway.  They looked like a curtain of fireflies.  I went closer to see what they were, and I was transported into
a magical realm called Saelinas."

I went to the kitchen and looked for something to scrub.  The dishwasher chugged complacently; I wanted to kick it.  Outside, I
could see Calvin's shadow fidgeting.  Doug droned on with his story of plotting viziers, skittish unicorns, and evil elves.  Or
maybe it was evil unicorns and skittish elves.  I wanted to grab him and force him to tell me what had really happened.  I didn't
have the patience to listen to him compose a fairytale for our son.

I opened the fridge and stared at the contents.  "We need milk," I announced and went to the store.

                                                                         ***

When I got back, Doug was sitting on the bed waiting for me.  For once, his laptop was still in its case.  After spending twenty-
four hours away from it, I didn't see where he had gotten the resolve to leave it untouched.  He stroked his beard as if he was
taunting me with my inability to explain its presence.

"Don't you have some work to catch up on?" I asked.

Doug smiled and shrugged.  "Probably.  But I can't remember what."

I leaned against the closet door.  "So what happened?  Where did you go last night?"

"Weren't you listening?  Of course, I had to leave some of it out.  The whole experience wasn't exactly G-rated, but you got the
gist."

"Don't give me this bullshit, Doug.  If you went out and fucked someone, just tell me."

Doug opened his mouth and closed it again.  "It's true.  I stepped into these golden orbs, and I went to a place called Saelinas.  
The kingdom was on the brink of civil war, and I became a counselor to the princess Moriella.  When have I ever lied to you?"

I stared at him.  He looked convinced of his story, lifted directly from a pulp fantasy novel.

"I need a shower," I said.

When I came out of the bathroom forty-five minutes later, Doug was asleep.

                                                                         ***

Doug had the sense not to try his Saelinas story on anyone else.  He told his coworkers and friends that we had had a huge
fight, a divorce-sized fight, and he had gotten so drunk he'd slept through work.  Everyone knew we had a polite marriage; no
one had ever witnessed an argument not resolved through reasonable discussion.  Our voices were rarely raised in public.  
Everyone seemed to like the idea that when we had broken down and let our emotions out, things had gotten ugly.  It was
uncomfortable realizing that all of our acquaintances thought we were repressed hypocrites, but I kept my part of the bargain.  
We both implied but never stated that Doug had been seeing someone else.

At home, Doug stuck to his original story.  He filled in details.  He had slain a dragon.  Revealed an assassination plot.  Fulfilled a
prophecy or two.  Soon, Doug was the one in charge of Timmy's bedtime stories, but all he told were his own delusional
adventures.  One night I passed the open bedroom door to hear him use the phrase, "Buxom wenches serving flagons of grog."

I took long showers and wondered what Doug would do if I suggested he seek help.  But I didn't want anyone, not even a
professional stranger, to know my husband was crazy.

Doug refused to shave his beard, but I kept trying to convince him.  I wanted it gone.  The beard was the only part of his story I
couldn't explain away.  If I could make it vanish, I could believe he'd made everything up.

"Doesn't it make your coworkers wonder?" I asked.  

"They like the idea that when you go on drunken binges, strange stuff happens.  I told them when I woke up by the side of the
road, lying in a pool of my own vomit, the facial hair was just there.  I told them I have no idea how it grew overnight.  They all
got a kick out of it.  Laughed their asses off."

"Isn't it hot?"

"Protects me from mosquitoes."

"Itchy?"

"Mosquito bites are itchier."

Eventually, I ran out of arguments.

                                                                         ***

Every night after dinner, Doug went tromping through the mangroves behind our home.  On Friday, Timmy asked if he could
come too.  The next night Calvin began reading beneath the porch light while they were gone, and I knew soon he would join
them.

Before his disappearing act, Doug had spent his evenings on his laptop.  Now most nights it never emerged from its case.  Once
I had resented it as if it was the other woman, but now I longed for the familiar sight of Doug's hairless face illuminated by its
glow.

                                                                         ***

The Tuesday night after his disappearing act, Doug was sitting quiet and shirtless when I reentered the bedroom wrapped in a
towel.  I felt strange dressing in front of him, but I refused to act like anything had changed. Nothing's happened, I told myself.  
When I bent over to retrieve my pajamas from the bottom drawer, Doug's hands settled on my hips.  He kissed my back at the
edge of the towel as I straightened.

"I missed you," he said.  "The whole time I was gone, I thought about making love to you.  I'd forgotten how much I love you."

Before his disappearance, Doug and I had made love twice a month like clockwork.  We had decided that for us to have a
successful marriage we had to keep the passion alive, even though scheduling sex for every other Saturday night was the least
passionate thing I could think of.  Still, it had a comforting kind of rhythm.  By our schedule, we were still almost a week away
from Sex Night, but I had missed him too over the last week when I'd been living with a stranger who told stories and
communed with nature.

I returned his kiss.  Doug peeled off the towel.  I wrapped my arms around him and laid my head on his shoulder.  But
something wasn't right.  He wasn't right.  This wasn't the body I remembered.  Doug had never been overweight.  He'd been a
competitive swimmer in college, and his suburban-dad activities of mowing the lawn and coaching soccer had kept him in relatively
good shape.  Now his body had returned to the form it had been when we had met almost twenty years ago.  His abdomen was
as well-defined as a bodybuilder's and his upper arms, which had begun to sag, were now so thick it would have taken both my
hands to encircle them.  My fingers running over his back caught on the raised form of a scar where none should've been.  I
pushed away and circled behind him.  A jagged welt ran from his left shoulder to a few inches above his right hip.

"The dragon," he said.  "That son of a bitch had claws the size of bastard swords.  I got this one from Drouga, the leader of the
northern barbarians, but after I defeated him single combat, we became blood brothers."  Doug turned to show a second scar
that ran less than an inch from his right nipple across several ribs.

"Doug," I said, "you need to see someone.  Talk to someone.  You must've been kidnapped and tortured, and your mind's made
up these dragons and barbarians to cover up what you've repressed."

Doug sighed.  He picked up his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.  "I knew you wouldn't want to believe me.  I thought about
lying to you and the kids.  I really did.  But look at the evidence, Meghan.  Do you think terrorists put some magical potion on my
face to make me grow two weeks worth of beard in twenty-four hours?  How did they make my scars look months old?  Not to
mention what terrorists would want with an insurance adjuster in the first place.  Think, Meghan.  Wrap your logical brain around
the evidence.  It really happened.  I want you to believe me.  I need you to believe."

I headed for the bathroom.

"You just showered," he said.

"Well, then, I'll shower again."

                                                                         ***

A week later, Calvin announced he wanted fencing lessons.  He stood in the middle of the kitchen so that I couldn't continue
preparing dinner until he moved.  His arms were crossed and his chin was raised as if he was challenging me to a duel.

"I don't even know where there are fencing lessons," I said and opened the fridge to pretend that the next ingredient I needed
was there instead of the pantry behind him.

"Tampa."  He widened his stance.

"Calvin, that's a forty-five minute drive.  Who is going to chauffeur you back and forth?"  I grabbed a jar of mustard and set it
on the counter.  I didn't know how mustard could possibly contribute to lasagna, but the eggs and cheese were already out.

He could've argued that since I teach 10th grade math I had plenty of time during the summer.  But instead he said, "Dad."  He
smiled slightly as if to say, "Round one: Calvin."

"Your father works ten hours and more a day.  What makes you think he would be willing to drive you to Tampa and back every
week?"  I tried to slide past him on the counter side, but he side-stepped.  I refused to make further attempts to dodge him so I
stepped back, my hands lifted in surrender.

"He said so."  He grinned.  Point and match.

This was the first time my son had smiled at me in months.  I wished I could feel happy about it.

                                                                         ***

When I confronted Doug that evening, he seemed confused by my anger.

"I know it's a lot of gas, but you've been saying for months, 'If only Calvin would do something.'  You didn't seem to care what.  
What's wrong with fencing?"

"It's useless.  It's so impractical."

Doug looked at me.  We both knew this had nothing to do with the impracticality of fencing.  I would've been overjoyed if Calvin
had announced he wanted to try out for cheerleading or play miniature golf every day.

Calvin had held out as an observer of his brother's and father's excursions for almost a week, but now all three of them set off
into the wilderness every night.  They came back muddy to the knees and smiling.  I'd even caught Calvin laughing a couple of
times at something Doug had said.  I knew Doug was telling his stories to them.  Timmy had been going on and on about sword
fighting chimeras and gorgons.

"It encourages violent behavior," I tried.

"I think anything that can help channel Cal's emotions is a good thing.  He's bottled-up, Meghan.  Learning to fence might keep
him from exploding."

I nodded because he was right.

Doug's fantasies were taking over our family.  I could admit that this might be having some positive effects.  But I still didn't like
it.

"Let me just get my toothbrush out of the bathroom," Doug said.

                                                                         ***

The next Wednesday was the first lesson.  I made spaghetti for Timmy and me and listened to him talk about smugglers with
more realism than any eight year-old should be able to.

"And I would make a pact with Captain Harry One-Eye.  He lost his left eye in a poker game.  He bet it against Maude the Maid,
but she had four twos, and he only had a full-house.  She keeps it in a bottle behind her bar."

"Maude owns a tavern?"

"Nah, it's a brothel."  Timmy looked around to make sure Calvin hadn't returned.  "Mom, what's a brothel?"

"A place where women live together and play poker."

"That's what I thought."

                                                                         ***

After dinner, I took the garbage out.  The golden orbs appeared as I put the lid back on the trash can.  They floated over the
driveway mocking me.

"Sons of bitches," I said.  I waved my arms at them to indicate they weren't wanted, although my flailing might've confused them
since you use the same motion to flag down cars for help.

When my gesticulating had no effect, I headed toward the garage.  I was looking for a weapon.  A shovel.  A rake.  Something to
chase their glowing asses back to Saelinas.  All the pointy tools were trapped behind piles of boxes and the kids' bikes.  I
grabbed a can of bug spray and returned to the end of the driveway shooting it in front of me.  "Take that!  Stay away from my
family, you golden assholes!"

I sprayed until the can was empty, and I was coughing from inhaling the pesticide.  Still, they hovered.  I imagined they looked
hurt.  That they were drooping, not as perky as they had before I had done my best to give them cancer.

"Take that," I whispered.

                                                                         ***

That night it was my turn to wait on the bed while I listened to Doug give Calvin pointers.  "Use your wrist.  Fencing is an art of
agility, not strength."

Doug looked sad and tired when he saw me.  I hadn't thought about it, but the weeks since his disappearance he had appeared
more alive than he had in years.  It was only when he looked at me that he seemed to slump back towards his old self.

Doug went into the closet to hang up his jacket and change into something more comfortable.  He hadn't had a chance to
change out of his work clothes before driving Calvin into Tampa, but neither of them would hear of me taking Calvin instead.  "Cal
did really well for his first time.  I think he might have natural talent."

"Doug, I need to know the truth."

Doug came out of the closet and joined me on the bed.  He held my hands and looked me in the eyes.  "When have I ever lied to
you?"

"Please," I said.

He hung his head.  "I didn't want to tell you.  I didn't think it was worth it.  The pain it would cause you."

My heart thudded.  I closed my eyes.  Finally.  Doug would explain all the things I couldn't.

"I was weak.  It doesn't mean I love you any less.  I should've told you when you first asked.  It'll never happen again. I swear."

"What are you talking about?"

"Queen Estira.  I knew she was evil, but, Meghan, she was so beautiful."

I threw his hands back at him and stormed into the bathroom.  I locked the door.  Fuck him and his toothbrush.  I turned on the
spray too hot so that I had to whimper to stand it.  I thought about Doug's scars, the smoothness of the skin my fingers had
traced, the different way he moved.  Over the last few years, Doug had begun to stoop, as if each year weighed him down
further.  Now, that burden had been lifted.  He laughed more and barely seemed tired when he came home from work.  It was as
if he had brought back a part of his magical world to suburbia and had dumped his old baggage onto me.  Why did Doug get a
fairy tale world while I got Calvin's bitter stares?  I didn't even get to read Timmy stories any more; he always wanted Doug.  
Why not me?  What was so special about Doug?

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the wall.  I found myself picturing a woman with black hair hanging past her
hips and lips as red as poison.  She looked into my eyes as if she had never wanted anyone else.

"Kiss me," she said as she ran her fingernail over my nipple.

I touched myself as I surrendered to her command.

                                                                         ***

After all my talk about the unbearable humidity of the mangroves, I couldn't ask to join their walks.  I'd been trying to convince
Timmy and Calvin that the bug bites and scratches weren't worth a little quality time with their father.

I only began waiting for their return on the darkened porch out of curiosity.  I wanted to know what exactly Doug was filling their
heads with.  My fingernails tapped against the stem of my wine glass, and I leaned against the rail to hear the tail-end of Doug's
nightly story as they came trudging out of the woods.

They went over to the spigot beside the house to wash the mud off their rubber boots.  Timmy asked some question I didn't
hear.

"I would've," Doug said, "but there were dwarves standing guard."

"Dwarves?"  I could hear the curl of Calvin's lip.

I smiled.  That's my boy.

"Dwarves can be very upsetting," Doug said.

Any response the boys made was lost under the noise of rushing water.

Very upsetting, I silently agreed.

                                                                         ***

The next week the golden orbs were back.  I stood at the screen door watching them.  I wanted to scream and throw things.  I
imagined myself with an épée in my hand saying, "On guard."  I wanted a gun or one of Timmy's lasers.  Poison gas
buttons.  Even another can of bug spray.

I'd put Timmy in front of the TV with enough ice cream to make him sick.  That way I could be sure he wouldn't go outside.  It
seemed pitiful that my only weapons to keep my family together were sweets and carcinogens.

I needed an expert.  I turned to the yellow pages.  First, I found myself staring at exterminators.  I picked up the phone, but I
couldn't make myself believe they would be able to help me.  These weren't some exotic species of firefly.  These things, God
help me, were the portal to another world.  After a little flipping I found the address of an occult store on the other side of town.

                                                                         ***

I drove there the next day.  From the outside, it looked just like a one-story house in need of a power washing and the
attentions of a weed whacker.  I wouldn't have thought it was a store except for a small sign hanging from the mailbox notifying
me that Visa and Mastercard were accepted.

The store was nothing more than the converted front room of the house.  The door jingled behind me and a wide-hipped woman
wearing a caftan ducked through the curtain separating the room from the rest of the house.  I could hear the sounds of a
morning talk show playing behind her.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I looked around at the bookshelves containing titles like Drowsing for Beginners and Oil and Brews.  Jars in another case held
dried herbs labeled Elderberries, Wormwood, and Mandrake.

"I hope so," I said.  "I have a problem with some orbs."

"Orbs?"

"Golden," I specified.  "They come on Wednesday nights and hover over my driveway."

Her eyes lit up.  "What time on Wednesday?"

I had a vision of a mass of blousy women with scraggly hair congregating on my driveway and chanting.  The homeowners'
association would have a fit.

"Midnight," I said.  "How do I get rid of them?"

"One should never look down on the gifts of the goddess."

"I understand, but how do I get rid of them?"

"Why do you want to?"

I opened my mouth to explain what they had done to my husband, but all I could think of was: they made Doug grow a beard.

"They're a menace," I said.  "I'm afraid they'll destroy my family."

"Is that what you're really afraid of?"

"They're tearing us apart."

"Maybe the orbs are not the problem.  Maybe it's your refusal to accept the gift you've been given."

I thought about talking to this woman as if she was my therapist: It's like they've all joined a cult without me.  No girls allowed in
the playhouse.  Then I looked at her vapid but sincere smile.  She was a charlatan who believed in the miracle cure she was
peddling.

I picked up a large, transparent rock from a table labeled Crystals.  "I'll take this one."

                                                                         ***

The next Wednesday Calvin had a fever and even though he still wanted to go to Tampa even Doug's laissez-faire style of
parenting wouldn't drive him there.

To keep Doug in the house and away from the driveway, I made up a story about a date to see a movie with a friend.  "Will you
stay here in case Calvin needs anything?" I asked.

"Sure."

"I was going to take Timmy over to play with Georgia, but it might be better if he stayed here with you."

"No problem."

"I'll take the garbage out on my way."

"Have a good time."'

I felt nauseous as I walked down the driveway.  My throat was sore and tight as if I had swallowed a knife.  I wouldn't be gone
long.  They'd barely miss me.  I put the bag in the can, and the orbs materialized.

I was going to get my family back.  I stepped into their golden light.  It faded around me.  I hadn't gone anywhere.  I screamed
and kicked the garbage can, overturning it and spilling its contents into the street.  I'd been rejected by a bunch of garbage orbs.

"Meghan?" Doug called.  He came out the side door and jogged down the driveway.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said.  "I thought I saw something, but it was just my imagination."

Doug's face was covered in lather.  A swath of beard was gone from his left cheek.

My look was a question.

"I thought it was time to come home," he said.  "I've decided I don't need you to believe me.  I promise I won't talk about
Saelinas anymore.  It'll be like it never happened."

I touched Doug's bare cheek and drew him close.  I observed our suburban corner of the world over his shoulder.  The night
smelled stagnant.  Down the street, someone turned off a car engine.  The streetlights painted sallow halos on the asphalt.  A
phalanx of trash cans stretched along the curb.  They looked like identical toy soldiers standing guard over our lives, encasing us
in a protective suit of normalcy.  Making sure nothing infected us and none of us managed to fight our way out.

Emily Kissell