Blind Spot
T.M. Bemis
I was heading out to the deli when I discovered that ten years had passed. But that’s not right. What I actually discovered was that someone else’s car was parked in the driveway where mine should have been. My own car wasn’t around. I checked the garage, but it wasn’t there either. Then I noticed that the plate on the strange vehicle read CTA-2402. That was my number, the one I’d always had. I was starting to have a bad feeling about this when a voice shouted, “Wait, Dad, let me drive!” Some kid was coming down the front walk. Or not a kid, exactly, but a teenager. He came straight over and held out his hand. “Give me the keys, Dad. I need to practice before my test.”
On the verge of asking this kid who he was, I saw who it was. It was my son, Jeff. I could tell by his hair and his eyes and that scar on his forehead he’d gotten when I hit him with a golf club by accident last year. When he was five. But he wasn’t five now, he was six. But he wasn’t six now either, he was sixteen. Or thereabouts. “Come on, Dad, give me the keys.” He snatched them from me with a giggle, unlocked the car, got in and started it up. After a minute when I hadn’t moved, he rolled down the window. “What’s the matter, Dad? Are you alright? You look funny.”
I felt funny. Though funny really wasn’t the word. Spooked was more like it. Or panicked. Like being on a roller-coaster when you didn’t know you were on a roller-coaster. So what did I do next? I ran away, of course. For the house. Libby was in the kitchen, but I dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t me I was looking at. I mean it was, but not the normal me, not the me that I was used to seeing. My hair had turned gray—at least a little bit, around the temples—and I had crow’s feet. And a double chin. And a pot belly. And a mustache. My hand flew to touch it. Why did I have a mustache? Now Libby was calling out to me. “Chill?” she said, and she was coming down the hall. “Chilton? Is there something wrong?” And then I saw her in the mirror behind me, and I screamed. And she screamed. But she was only screaming because I screamed first. I think. Because it wasn’t her, it wasn’t Libby, it wasn’t the mother of my child, it was someone else. I thought to ask her who she was, but even at that moment it occurred to me that that probably wasn’t a good idea.
I heard Jeff come in and went to the kitchen to meet him, and now the three of us were there together. “Where’s your mother?” I asked him, and he looked at me like I was nuts. I felt nuts. There was a calendar on the wall, and on impulse, I flipped through to the first page. It said that the year was ten years later than I thought it was.
“Are you having a stroke or something, Dad? Should we call an ambulance?”
Now the woman reached out to touch my cheek. Her hand was soft and gentle. “I think your father’s alright,” she said carefully. “He’s just a little flustered over something. Aren’t you, Chill?” She seemed flustered herself. I saw that she was very pretty.
My heart was racing and my thoughts were a mess. As I looked from one to the other, I had nasty visions of straitjackets and a rubber room. Then, from out of the blue, inspiration struck. “Let’s play a game,” I told them, forcing an expression I hoped would pass for a smile. “Let’s pretend that I can’t remember the last decade of my life, and you have to tell me about it. OK? Does that sound like fun?” They exchanged a glance.
Jeff spoke first. “Mom died,” he said, “when I was little. Of a brain tumor. She’s buried in Hillside Cemetery. We put flowers on her grave every Sunday.”
“I was one of her nurses,” said the woman. “My name is Rebecca. You call me Becky. I’m your wife now.” She plastered on a smile about as genuine as my own.
There was no use trying to make sense of this, I knew that instinctively. It would be like using logic to parse a dream. So I stood there like a dope, waiting for some more inspiration to strike. “Do you love me, Becky?”
There was a pause, and then her eyes grew moist. “Yes I do. Very much.”
“Do I love you?”
“It sure seems that way to me.”
I turned to my son. “Do you love your stepmother?”
He put an arm around her waist. “Becky’s the best,” he said. “So, what happens now, Dad? Are we still playing the game?”
I thought about it. Then I thought some more. “No, Son, the game’s over. Now we go to the deli. And you’re driving.”
On the verge of asking this kid who he was, I saw who it was. It was my son, Jeff. I could tell by his hair and his eyes and that scar on his forehead he’d gotten when I hit him with a golf club by accident last year. When he was five. But he wasn’t five now, he was six. But he wasn’t six now either, he was sixteen. Or thereabouts. “Come on, Dad, give me the keys.” He snatched them from me with a giggle, unlocked the car, got in and started it up. After a minute when I hadn’t moved, he rolled down the window. “What’s the matter, Dad? Are you alright? You look funny.”
I felt funny. Though funny really wasn’t the word. Spooked was more like it. Or panicked. Like being on a roller-coaster when you didn’t know you were on a roller-coaster. So what did I do next? I ran away, of course. For the house. Libby was in the kitchen, but I dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t me I was looking at. I mean it was, but not the normal me, not the me that I was used to seeing. My hair had turned gray—at least a little bit, around the temples—and I had crow’s feet. And a double chin. And a pot belly. And a mustache. My hand flew to touch it. Why did I have a mustache? Now Libby was calling out to me. “Chill?” she said, and she was coming down the hall. “Chilton? Is there something wrong?” And then I saw her in the mirror behind me, and I screamed. And she screamed. But she was only screaming because I screamed first. I think. Because it wasn’t her, it wasn’t Libby, it wasn’t the mother of my child, it was someone else. I thought to ask her who she was, but even at that moment it occurred to me that that probably wasn’t a good idea.
I heard Jeff come in and went to the kitchen to meet him, and now the three of us were there together. “Where’s your mother?” I asked him, and he looked at me like I was nuts. I felt nuts. There was a calendar on the wall, and on impulse, I flipped through to the first page. It said that the year was ten years later than I thought it was.
“Are you having a stroke or something, Dad? Should we call an ambulance?”
Now the woman reached out to touch my cheek. Her hand was soft and gentle. “I think your father’s alright,” she said carefully. “He’s just a little flustered over something. Aren’t you, Chill?” She seemed flustered herself. I saw that she was very pretty.
My heart was racing and my thoughts were a mess. As I looked from one to the other, I had nasty visions of straitjackets and a rubber room. Then, from out of the blue, inspiration struck. “Let’s play a game,” I told them, forcing an expression I hoped would pass for a smile. “Let’s pretend that I can’t remember the last decade of my life, and you have to tell me about it. OK? Does that sound like fun?” They exchanged a glance.
Jeff spoke first. “Mom died,” he said, “when I was little. Of a brain tumor. She’s buried in Hillside Cemetery. We put flowers on her grave every Sunday.”
“I was one of her nurses,” said the woman. “My name is Rebecca. You call me Becky. I’m your wife now.” She plastered on a smile about as genuine as my own.
There was no use trying to make sense of this, I knew that instinctively. It would be like using logic to parse a dream. So I stood there like a dope, waiting for some more inspiration to strike. “Do you love me, Becky?”
There was a pause, and then her eyes grew moist. “Yes I do. Very much.”
“Do I love you?”
“It sure seems that way to me.”
I turned to my son. “Do you love your stepmother?”
He put an arm around her waist. “Becky’s the best,” he said. “So, what happens now, Dad? Are we still playing the game?”
I thought about it. Then I thought some more. “No, Son, the game’s over. Now we go to the deli. And you’re driving.”
T.M. Bemis is a writer from the Hudson Valley. His stories have appeared in numerous publications, some of which can be found with a Google search of T.M. Bemis. Others are lurking at http://TMBemis.com. Hobbies include pole sitting, balloon vegetables, and whistling past the graveyard.