Chapter Four The Best Laid Plans
I press the pillow over my face, wrapping it around my head to block the muffled yelling coming from my downstairs closet.
Absurd.
This is not how my summer was supposed to kick off.
When you teach high school creative writing, sometimes a break is not only well deserved, but also much needed. Doubly so when you are also the proud parent of a four-month-old son.
Friday night was meant to be the kick-off to a summer of bliss: Reading, an online cooking class, a little bit of writing for fun, and remote-teaching a handful of college-level classes.
And it went well. My friends came over, we played D&D, drank too much tequila, and had a grand time. Then I started hallucinating a sexy voice coming out of the planchet. Worse, I talked back.
I blame tequila.
Tequila is my worst enemy. It puts me in my feels, whatever they are at the time of consumption. I have to admit, at the end of the night, when Bea asked me if I was going to try dating again, I felt that feeling I normally push down to the depths of my being.
Loneliness.
“But I’m not alone,” I mutter into the pillow, “I have Gideon.”
That thought alone has a smile forming.
Life may not be exactly what I pictured it would be, but having Gideon is all that matters.
The somewhat muted shrieks continue to drift up the staircase, thwarting any attempts at going back to sleep I may have been contemplating.
It’s been two days since the voice began speaking to me, and despite my best efforts to ignore it, the damn thing persists.
As I am most definitely sober, this is not a drunken hallucination.
I’m not ruling out a fever dream or nervous breakdown.
“For fucks sake.” I groan, tossing the pillow aside and rolling out of bed.
I stomp down the stairs and pause on the bottom one. From here, I can hear the voice screaming my name on repeat like a toddler on a sugar high of Mountain Dew and Pixie Sticks.
I briefly wonder if this is how Tolkien felt when he was creating a whole new language? Constant interruptions, unreasonable demands.
Stepping off the staircase, I throw open the door.
“In the name of fucking Rand al’Thor, stop!”
To my utter shock, the voice stops screaming and says, “Well, good morning, Pookey Bear.”
“Pookey Bear?” I repeat, stunned. “Pookey Bear! Excuse me?” I say incensed.
“Well, my assumption is that it's morning. But who knows how long it’s been since you so rudely shut me in a closet. Again. After you called me, I might add.”
I scrub my hands down my face, “I was referring to Pookey Bear.”
“It just flowed,” the voice says nonchalantly. “Have you figured out your desire?” she continues.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good,” she says, enthusiastically, “What is it?”
“To have a peaceful, relaxing, uneventful summer. Free of disembodied voices.”
She makes a disgruntled noise. “That’s not it, and I have a name, and it is not disembodied voice. Synclair, Syn for short.”
Synclair. Pretty.
“Anything else?” she says with a huff.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
I can hear scratching in the background, like nails scratching a hard surface.
“I’m not going away,” Syn says snappily.
“Clearly,” I say drily. “Listen, I really am hungry, but I will make you a deal. I have some work to do. If you let me do a little work, I will entertain this delirium.”
She’s quiet for longer than I thought she was capable. “Well?” I prompt when the absence of her voice starts to bother me.
“Deal. But do not put me back in the closet,” she says insistently.
I scoff, “It’s not like you can see where the planchet is.”
“That’s not the point. The connection is muffled and, more importantly, it’s fucking rude,” she huffs.
“Okay, Princess,” I say, rolling my eyes and grabbing the planchet off the floor where I threw it.
After making breakfast and consuming two espressos, I dive into my college virtual inbox. Syn is quiet as per our agreement until I tell her I’m ready.
“What do you want?” she asks immediately.
“More sleep.”
“Wrong.”
“For all of my students to stop sprinkling commas like confetti.”
“Try again.”
“A first edition of The Lord of the Rings.”
She pauses.
“Not wrong, but also not the source of the ticket. Try again.”
“A pet turtle named Tiddles.”
“I’m going to stab myself,” she whines.
I find myself smiling. If this is nothing more than my imagination running wild, at least it’s amusing. But you know what they say about the best laid plans.
We carry on like that through the afternoon. Syn asks me what I want in every possible iteration of the question. I respond with whatever pops into my mind. She gets frustrated and asks again.
My phone buzzes on the desk next to me. I pick it up and see my reminder to leave to pick up Gideon from my parents.
“Shit, I gotta go,” I tell Syn.
“Why?” she asks, surprised.
“I have to pick up Gideon.”
“Who’s Gideon?”
“My son.”
“Why do you have to pick him up?”
“He’s at my parents' house, and it’s time for me to go get him and bring him home,” I reply, texting my mom and letting her know I’m on my way.
“Make his mother do it,” Syn answers.
I freeze halfway down the hallway to grab my wallet and keys.
The words reach down into the depths and hit the feelings buried there hard.
Harder than I would expect.
Harder because she assumed.
Harder because for one fleeting, stupid moment, I can see Lyidia walking to the door, announcing it’s her turn for pick-up duty.
Harder because some small part of me still wishes that wasn’t a wish.
Something in my chest snaps.
“I would if she hadn’t left us.” I bark.
There’s silence as I stomp to the closet, open the door, and toss the planchet inside. As I walk away, I swear I hear the faintest “Oh.”