CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Mike
It was Sunday. The seventh day since Mom died and the last opportunity to follow her instructions.
I still hadn’t opened the contents of the mystery box.
The clock was ticking and I had to decide.
Glancing at my watch, I noted that I had little time left to make the strangest decision I’d ever been faced with.
I still wasn’t convinced that I could do this.
I’d moved back upstairs to my bedroom and replaced the original furniture in Mom and Dad’s bedroom after the rental company picked up the hospital bed.
Dragging the mattress and box spring for a king bed by myself was no easy feat.
The headboard and rails had been stored against the wall of their bedroom so thankfully those parts didn’t need carrying in from the garage.
I was surprised at how easily I recalled where Mom had kept her knick-knacks and how she displayed them.
The only change I’d made was that I left their picture from the hallway on the dresser where we’d left it the week before.
Picking the frame up, I examined the photo closely for any signs of the halo flare we’d spotted around Mom’s head.
There was none. The background was the same cloudy day I remembered from when I took the picture over a decade ago.
The mysterious light, like my mother’s presence, had vanished.
The discovery did nothing to encourage me to follow through with Mom’s request.
Mom had a comforter on their bed that matched the wallpaper behind the headboard.
Broad green banana leaves that were similar to those in Blanche Devereaux’s bedroom on The Golden Girls were everywhere.
The comforter set had all the matching pillow shams and decorative pillows.
The print was ghastly and if I decided to keep my childhood home, they’d be the first items to go.
The possibility of a move to Idaho Falls had occupied my mind since I’d returned home weeks ago.
Why not? I could live anywhere while working remotely and since I was closing in on a divorce, I had the opportunity to come home.
But the sad reality was that I had no one left in Idaho except a grandfather who didn’t recognize me.
The mortgage was paid in full thanks to Dad’s life insurance payout eleven years ago, and I had a couple of hundred thousand from Mom’s policy due to me whenever I sent them the death certificate.
The thought of financially benefiting from her death did not sit well with me, but I figured I could give most of the money to several of Mom’s favorite charities.
Like everything in her will, she had a detailed list of the ones she supported.
The list was her way of saying, “In case you’re uncomfortable with the money. . .”
I tried busying myself while I paced around the house.
Spending twenty minutes in the hall adjusting and leveling pictures on the wall of family history, but the pending time of no return was marching closer as I procrastinated on the decision.
I emptied the dishwasher of dishes from the last few days.
Dishes Mom would never use again. Everything I touched, everything I held in my hands were reminders of my childhood.
Souvenirs from family vacations, furniture Mom had picked out when I was a ninth grader.
From the rugs to the wall art, everything had her handprints on them.
If I did stay here, could I live in a museum of my past?
I wandered upstairs and to my bedroom. Mom had never redecorated my room after I’d left for college in Seattle.
Even now, memories from high school were everywhere.
Stuffed animals given to me by Jennifer, trophies from sports, old Sports Illustrated magazines, and a free calendar from 2013 that was still on the wall by my desk was open to August. I’d never been able to touch the calendar after Cooper had drowned, and I still refused to take it down.
The poster of Tom Brady still bore the darts Cooper and I had thrown at it for years.
We were Seahawk fans because of how close we were to Seattle, and nothing had delighted us more than winning a Superbowl and hating Brady.
The two darts that lodged perfectly in his eyeballs still remained from the last time Coop and I had taken aim.
After two bullseye hits, we never touched the darts again.
My cell phone buzzed with a text. Brandt’s name illuminated the screen so I picked it up.
Brandt: Thinking of you and hoping you’re okay.
Me: The reality is starting to sink in, buddy, but thank u for reaching out.
I watched as the bubbles signaled he was typing a response.
Brandt: Do you need anything? A shoulder? A kind voice?
Me: Can I call?
Brandt: Of course.
I’d only known Brandt for a couple of years but after revealing my dilemma about Cooper and the letter he’d left, Brandt had proven to be a good listener.
I’d told him my entire history that night at the bar after Jennifer and I split, and he didn’t judge the hesitancy I had regarding my sexual status.
He offered to support whatever decisions I made, even if I chose to remain in a place where I’d be questioning my sexuality forever.
He’d been fair and unbiased with his opinions.
Of course, he’d encouraged me to be open to the possibility that I may be gay, but he didn’t insist I was.
He’d been a good friend that night at the bar and I trusted him.
Perhaps he could shed light on the crazy predicament I’d found myself in.
He picked up after the first ring. “Hey, my friend. How are you?”
“Getting there,” I answered. “I’m not sure if I’m accepting her death because I knew Mom was so sick or if the fact that I’m all alone now hasn’t hit me yet.”
“You’re not alone, buddy. You’ve got me,” he reassured. “But I understand. Well, maybe not completely since I still have both of my parents,” he added.
I decided to rip the Band-Aid off immediately. “Do you have time to listen to another story?” I asked. “Warning though. This one is weird as fuck.”
Brandt laughed on the other end. “I love weird, dude. Bring it on.”
“You sure?” I questioned. “My tale will force you to question reality.”
I stared at the ceiling of my bedroom while resting on the bed.
Dozens of small discolored circular spots from when Cooper and I would lie on the bed and toss a rubber ball up at the ceiling dotted the white surface.
I loved lying side by side talking, throwing and catching the ball while sharing our day with each other.
Brandt’s response brought me back to reality.
“That sounds like a good thing because I’m sitting here questioning why I’m home on a Saturday evening with no plans for a date or a casual hook up,” he complained. “Now that’s a fucked up story. So hit me with yours, dude.”
I’d already told him about my childhood with a mother who believed in the afterlife and spiritual journeys so he knew the backstory. “Remember when I mentioned that my mother claimed she was connected to my friend Cooper and that she had premonitions that he was still present in her life?”
“Yep. Hard to forget something like that,” he answered. “And I told you I had an aunt that could do the same shit. My family ostracized her, but I believed that woman had connections. She knew shit, man; and I’ll never question her.”
“Well, about that,” I began.
I proceeded to tell Brandt the entire story about Mom’s hairbrained idea: the book on parallel universes, her medium, Druzella, and the cat I kept seeing.
I told him about the seven day wait, not burying Mom in the plot next to Dad, the halo ring in the picture, flickering lights, the entire list of unexplainable events.
He made small noises as I told my story by adding a hmmm or a slight gasp to let me know he was fully engaged.
I finally told him about the box and the instructions she’d given to me, but how I still hadn’t opened it.
“I have less than six hours to shit or get off the pot,” I said, waiting for a response. There was complete silence for ten or fifteen seconds. “You still there?” I whispered, thinking I may have finally convinced him I was one fucked up acquaintance.
“I say you fucking do it,” he urged. “Oh yeah, dude. You abso-fucking-lutely do that shit.”
“Am I crazy?” I questioned. “Was my mother?”
“Yeah, probably on both counts, but you also don’t fuck with the universe, man. I believe in that parallel shit. That stuff is real.”
“So you’d follow the instructions?” I asked.
“As long as you know that potion your mom conjured up with her psychic friend is safe, I would.”
“She said the powder is made from all-natural plant based ingredients. I trust my mom on that,” I stated. “So, you’d do it?”
“Hell yeah!” he declared. “Without a doubt.” Two seconds went by before he added, “Do you think you’ll know if you’re in the other universe? Oh shit. Will I still know you in this one?” He was dead serious.
“I never thought about that,” I admitted. “That would suck, right?”
“I’ll miss you, dude, but I still say go for it,” he said. “And just in case nothing happens, we’ll still have one hell of a story, won’t we?”
“I’m desperate for even the slimmest chance she knew what she was talking about,” I confessed. “I think I’m willing to do almost anything for a chance to see him again. I’m crazy, right?”
“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” he began. “But what if she’s right and you get that second chance?”
Perhaps Brandt went along with me because he felt I was grieving. He could have been an asshole and told me I’d lost my mind, but he wasn’t. I was grasping for straws and encouragement.
“I’m going to open the box,” I whispered. “I am actually going to try.”
“Good for you, and if I don’t get a text from you tomorrow, I’ll know it worked,” he said, without any sarcasm or judgment. “Holy shit, dude. What if it fucking works?” he added.
I couldn’t believe I said what I said next. “If you don’t get the text, then it worked. Wait a second,” I said, pausing to think about the possibilities. “Or if you get a text but it isn’t about this, then it worked. Is that how it would go in a parallel universe?” I asked.
“I don’t know, man. Will you even remember your life here?”
His question scared me. Do I get to keep my memories? “I have no idea. It’s not like I’ve done this before.”
“Maybe you should try and send yourself a message so you know what’s going on? Wait, I’ve got an idea,” Brandt continued. “You’re a computer geek, right?”
“I’d like to think I’m not an actual geek, but yeah, go on.”
“Do you remember your email address when you were a teenager?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I used a goofy name that Cooper and I made up for one another.”
“Get this, dude. I know its fucking nuts but listen. What if you sent yourself an email to that address from your current address?” he suggested.
“That won’t work because of the time differential. We can’t email the past . . . I . . . don’t . . . think,” I answered, my mind reeling.
“Could you manipulate the internal time on your computer? Maybe convince it that you’re emailing from before a particular date?” he asked. “You write code, buddy. It has to be possible.”
“Who the fuck knows but I could try,” I said. “To my knowledge, maybe it’s been tried, but no one has gone back to receive an email from the future, have they?” I asked.
“Oh and wait a second,” he urged, full of excitement at a possible new idea. “You need the email to include a picture of you holding a newspaper with today’s date or some kind of proof.”
“Jesus, Brandt. You’re practically a wizard at time travel,” I stated.
“I saw Back To The Future, dude. I took notes and shit,” he bragged, laughing at our sixth-grade-boy plotting. “And should I bring this shit up to the Mike that remains in my world?” he asked.
“He might think you’re nuts,” I responded.
We discussed the craziness of the conversation but he encouraged me not to chicken out. “A promise is a promise, Mike, and this promise was made to your mom,” he’d concluded right before we ended the call.
The idea about an email to the past with some kind of proof fascinated me. Was it possible? Was any of this crazy shit possible?
I was definitely going to try.