Castles in the Air

Grant straightens his tie and walks downstairs with his briefcase at eight forty a.m. sharp. There's a slight hint of cinnamon in the air, as well as the scent of griddled pancakes.

"Good morning Grant." she says flatly.

"Morning, honey." He says.

Christina keeps her back to him, slicing the crust off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and placing them in brown lunch sacks.

"Breakfast?" She asks.

"No thanks, I need to get going soon. Christina, why are you making sack lunches again?"

Her green eyes are two maelstroms in a storming tempest when she turns on her heel to face him, kitchen knife in hand. She feels anger --- instantly enraged by his poorly chosen timing to bring up their hot button issue.

The stare is one of hate and loathing. Her voice is acid, popping more violently than the fat of the thick sliced bacon in the iron skillet.

"Is this really how you want to start the day, Grant? This is how you want to kick things off, after you haven't said five words to me and this whole sad debacle is your fault?" Christina asks.

"I can't apologize for that. I can't control it, either. It's not my fault. I'm doing my best." Grant says.

"It sure as hell isn't my body, Grant. Seven years of marriage without a child. I'm starting to think your little soldiers are riding the short bus." She says, and she laughs at him.

His wife is standing in front of him, insulting the integrity of his sperm, and she finds it hilarious. His hands start shaking, and the smell of her excellent cooking now infects him with a wave of nausea. He grits his teeth as hard as possible, grinding them together like two sets of granite boulders.

"Please, Christina. You start ovulating soon. We've been trying every single night. We're bound to hit sometime. Can we at least try to be optimistic?" Grant asks.

She slams the business end of the kitchen knife in to the cutting board, where it wedges with the force of impact.

"You need to leave. Go to work." She says.

"Christina, please."

"Go to work, Grant."

"Fine. I fucking tried, for the record." He slams the front door in the foyer, starts his Volvo, and then he's gone with an unnecessary squeal of rubber in the middle of the suburbs at eight fifty a.m.

She places the two bagged lunches on the window sill above the sink and leaves it wide open to a morning breeze.

***

Grant pulls in to the new parking garage on Fifth at twelve after nine. On a normal day, he would be late to work right now.

This week, Grant is on vacation, although his wife doesn't know it.

The elevator feels like an ancient office, adorned with shining brass rails, polished wood paneling, and low golden lighting that puts him at ease, despite the scintillating insults that he took at the mercy of Christina amidst stacks of uneaten flapjacks and boiling tempers.

He pushes the button for floor nineteen. It says SUBMERSION GROUP.

“Main Lobby,” the elevator announces with feminine efficiency.

His loafers click on flawless, black and white flecked marble as he approaches the receptionist at the front desk.

He manages to smile, although he feels like scum of the earth at his wife’s behest. She returns his demeanor, and Grant thinks he feels less like a piece of shit already.

“I’m here to see Francis.” Grant says.

“Ah, yes! He’s two offices down the hallway to the left. He’ll be delighted you took his offer to participate. I think you’ll really benefit from our services here, Mr. Barren.”

“Just Grant, please.”

“Well then. I’ll buzz you in, Grant. Enjoy yourself!” She says.

As he makes his way through the plush office, Grant finds that he’s shuffling his feet on purpose, trying to find excuses not to go through with it.

Except he’s had enough, and he has to.

He pokes his head around the corner of the office door and sees a beady eyed, massively round figure behind an exorbitantly large desk.

“Hey, Francis.” Grant says.

Francis resembles an oversized, bulbous toad, but his voice is a deep scratching boom.

“Grant my boy! Come in! Sit down! I must say, I thought you would have been here three months ago.” His voice is poignant, and his handshake is like a box of iron around Grant’s fingers.

“This morning was the last straw. I have to do something. I feel sick when I pull in to the driveway.” Grant says.

Francis frowns with a measure of concern as he reclines backward in his head chair.

“You know, Grant, children aren’t everything. Some people think they want kids more than anything in the entire world, but four years later when they’re tired and waking up every night at three to clean shit up, they suddenly realize they’ve become robots. Have you tried alternative methods like adoption?” Francis asks.

“Come on, Francis. I’m not stupid. I’ve tried everything I can possibly think of to keep our marriage strong. I tell her the pregnancy will come some day, but she’s convinced I’ll be shooting blanks for the rest of my life.” Grant says.

“Blanks? Is that it that bad? What have the doctors told you?” Francis asks.

“Not impossible, but the odds aren’t good.” Grant says.

“Give me a number.” Francis says.

“One in seventy three at the best time of the month with my medication. Most of the time, it’s about half that.” Grant says.

“Ouch. I have six kids. You want one of mine?” Francis asks.

“No thanks. Just tell me what you have.” Grant says.

“Well, to be honest, the testing stages are over. It’s a full-fledged paying service now, although most of our clients make two figures more than you. Don’t worry about that side of it. This is on me, Grant. I’ve seen you suffer for way too long.” Francis says.

“You’ve never done it yourself. How can you not judge me? Some part of you must think I’m a terrible person for even thinking about doing this.” Grant says.

“Right and wrong is all relative, buddy. None of it is real. It’s just like playing golf or going out for a beer after work. I don’t think any less of you. Plus, you’re not some power tripping egotistical bastard like the people we rope in for profit. It will probably be more relaxing for you than most people who come here.” Francis says.

“What about the scenarios? I thought they were the same for everyone.” Grant says.

“You can pick a scenario, but I would equate that to buying a black and white television when you can get a high definition plasma instead. It just wouldn’t make sense, Grant. You should let the system read you. It creates something directly out of your mind instead of some prefabricated commercial vacation rip off.” Francis says.

“So if one of the scenarios is in Hawaii, but I’m a mountain person and would rather be in the Swiss Alps, it creates a mountain lodge in the snow instead of putting me on a beach somewhere?” Grant asks.

“No, Grant. I’m saying if you have a dream of walking around the Garden of Eden and pounding Eve doggy style, then you’ve got it. If you have a thing for Star Trek, you might just find yourself in the company of Lieutenant Commander Worf on the mother fucking Enterprise. It’s not restricted to things you can do in real life. That’s why it’s so expensive.” Francis says.

“Shit. It sounds crazy. I guess I’m ready, then.” Grant says.

Francis laughs and pours two snorts of Wild Turkey in shot glasses on his desk. The souvenir labels say “DARE TO DREAM.”

“A little early, isn’t it?” Grant asks as the rotund man slams his own serving with a smacking of his massive chops.

“It’s never too early to treat yourself, my friend.” Francis says.

Grant takes the shot of whiskey gingerly and it singes his throat all the way down.

“Follow me.” Francis says, shaking the hardwood floor with the weight of his footsteps.

Grant walks further down the hall. His resentment and anger from the morning has failed to recede. It only builds alongside the fire of spirits in his gut.

Francis stops him and unlocks a white door across from the janitorial closet. Inside, Grant sees a table and two attractive women in scrubs.

“One last thing, buddy boy. The system knows what you want. Don’t try to fool it. You can’t hide anything, and you’re going to get what your brain really craves. It’s shocking to some people at first, but you’ll be fine. I have clients to attend to, but our two attendants here will set you up real nice and pretty.” Francis says.

“Okay. I’ll let you know how it goes. See you, Francis.” Grant says. Francis closes the door, and Grant feels like he’s suddenly in a vacuum.

“Please lean back and get comfortable in the seat, Mr. Barren.” The blonde attendant says, motioning to the plush, white leather reclining chair.

He sits down and feels like he sinks in to it by a foot or more. He’s already breathing more slowly.

“The procedure is very complicated and the system will perform many tasks, but to us, it will only be a few seconds. First, I need you to swallow this. It will help us map your cortex.” She says, handing him a tiny green pill and a glass of water.

“Okay. I thought there were going to be shots or heavy equipment. This isn’t too bad so far.” Grant says as he swallows the caplet.

“Yes sir. Most of our clients find that our process is easy and painless. We’re usually able to submerse them within fifteen minutes of their arrival at our offices.” She beams proudly.

“How long will I be unconscious?” Grant asks.

“It varies from person to person, but you won’t technically be unconscious. The longest someone has submersed has been seven hours, but on average, most episodes last about three. However, in the actual submersion, time is completely relative. We’ve had people claim to have been gone for years. Even decades. First dips are usually only about a day long.” She says.

“Decades? Surely not. They have to be exaggerating. I don’t know if I want to escape for that long.” Grant says.

She frowns.

“What’s wrong?” Grant asks.

“You’ve already taken the pill. You can’t back out now, Mr. Barren.” She says, lowering some sort of head apparatus from the ceiling.

He starts to tell her to call him by his first name, but his eyelids feel like they weigh two tons apiece, and sleep has never felt more welcome in his life.

***

He awakes standing up, in front of his mirror in his best three piece suit. His hair is cleanly groomed, his face is smooth, and the red rings under his eyes have vanished.

The well dressed, manicured man stares directly back at him. His reflection is surprising, but pleasant.

He watches his mouth move, but he doesn't feel himself talking. He doesn't even know where the words are coming from. This is the first time he's heard himself speak without knowing what's going to come out of his own mouth. The sound is mechanical and feminine, like in the elevator.

"Hello, Grant Barren. I have completed your analysis, and I have provided everything that you could possibly need based on a thorough breakdown of your thought patterns. Your wife is downstairs. Please enjoy yourself during your first experience."

His face tingles. He watches himself talk with the computer voice again.

"Therapeutic and rehabilitative measures will be exercised per the request of Master Francis in the "Repair Your Marriage" scenario when you return for session two. Thank you!" Mirror Grant says.

The welcoming smile goes slack when he seems to regain independent control of his face muscles. He speaks to test his sanity.

"This is the sound of my own voice." Grant says. And it is.

He exhales and straightens his tie before he walks downstairs.

The scene is the same as any other morning before work, except for a few key changes. His favorite morning meal is on the table. He hasn't had biscuits and gravy in months due to Christina's refusal to whip it up because the gravy was a "pain in the ass."

His wife smiles at him at the other side of the table. She's twenty pounds lighter, and the haggard, defeating look of condescending sharpness is absent from her beautiful green eyes.

"Hey, handsome." She says.

He takes a seat at the table and realizes that his heart is pounding like a punching bag in his chest. He's waiting for the next sideways insult, the next glancing, biting remark about his manhood and his ability to produce a family. Another speech about his worthlessness as a partner and a spouse.

Christina leans over and places a light, feathered kiss on the cusp of his earlobe, blowing a cool breeze at his ear drum for a brief moment afterwards. The hairs on his neck stand on end. He looks at her in bewilderment, his cheeks flushed with scarlet.

"You haven't done that since we were in our twenties." Grant says.

"What are you talking about, honey? I know that's your favorite way to wake up in the morning. Do you think you have time to hop out of that sexy suit of yours before work?" She grins at him seductively.

Grant blinks before he hears a shrill, unrefined squeal.

"DADDY!"

She collides painfully with his shins with enough velocity to send the kitchen chair flying. His mouth is agape.

"Up, daddy, up!" The infant girl reaches with eager fingers, pawing at his pant leg like grasping stubs of loving tentacles.

I have a child.

He scoops his daughter up in slow motion as he turns to look at his wife. She's watching with an affection that he's never seen in her eyes. The strength of the bond of family.

"Hey, dad." A different voice from the stairs.

Grant looks upon his young son with the green eyes like his mother's, shining like crystals back at him from the stairs. His throat tightens, but he manages to keep his voice from shaking too horribly.

The corners of his eyes moisten, and Grant is seized with a happiness and a joy that he's never felt before.

"Hey, son." Grant says.

And then he sees nothing but white.

***

"Come on, buddy boy. Open your eyes. Wake up."

I know that voice.

He feels big, rough hands on his shoulders, and then his eyes snap open like lightning. Grant's vision ping pongs around the room frantically until he regains his footing in reality.

"I had kids, Francis." Grant says.

"I thought you might, but try not to disclose your experience to anyone, okay? Clientele privacy is a serious issue when you're dealing with technology like this, and I knew it would help you. You can build all these glorious castles in the air that you want, but don’t tell me what they look like. Keep them to yourself, and let them make your life better. If that’s what you get out of this, then that's all I need to know."

"Thanks, Francis." Grant says.

"There was one little problem, though. It's not a huge deal, but it was definitely a first." Francis says.

"What? You can't send me back? Please don't tell me that." Grant says.

"Oh, no, that won't be a problem. But, we like to "record" the experience through first person. The system uses your senses to make a viewable stream of images that we can put on a DVD or computer." Francis says.

"And?" Grant asks.

"Well, there was a power outage, which is why your scenario ended so suddenly. We're getting a backup generator in here next month, but our operation has only been live for one financial quarter and we weren't prepared for Metro power to go out." Francis says.

"So you lost the video?" Grant asks.

"Yeah, but it's alright. I'm sure the next one will be even better, when you get to know them." Francis says.

"Yeah...." Grant trails off, staring at the floor blankly. Here in this cold, tangible existence, he knows he has to return to Christina.

"Grant, are you okay?" Francis asks.

"Yeah. Hey, if I need to, can I call you later? I have a feeling I might need to sleep on your couch. I'm running late already." Grant says.

"Sure. I'll get Tonya to set out some blankets for you." Francis says.

"Thanks. See you tomorrow. Christina thinks I'm working all week, by the way." Grant says.

"I see. Have a good night, buddy." Francis says.

***

He walks through the front door twenty minutes behind schedule, and she's almost finished with her spaghetti.

This is what he hates. Treading on fucking eggshells.

He takes a plate and grabs two garlic rolls from the breadbasket before he sits down, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Hey, honey. This looks great. Thank you." Grant says.

She stares in tense, tightened silence, coiling her noodles around her fork endlessly.

"I'm sorry, Tina bean. I feel better today than I've felt in a long time, and I'm ready to try to have a family, but I need your help."

Her features soften by some increment, although it's not much.

"There's something different about you, Grant. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something changed today." Christina says.

"What do you mean?" Grant asks. His palms start to sweat. His skin is cold and clammy.

"I'm not quite sure. I guess I should be fair and take it easy on you. How was work?" She asks.

"Um. Well, it was average. Same routine, different day." Grant says.

"Are you too tired to have sex?" She asks.

This is another thing he hates. He can't stand her dry, mechanical, "this is the biological goal of human beings so let's reproduce" approach to their lovemaking.

Sometimes, he has nightmares about being on top of her, and her face is lifeless, like a robot. She moans in precise, rhythmic wisps, and no matter how hard he tries, he can never stir her out of it---

"Grant." She says.

"What? Sorry, I zoned out for a second there." He says.

"I asked you a question. Do you feel up to it tonight, or not?" She asks.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. Let me finish and I'll get ready for bed."

"Okay then. I'm going to shave my legs. See you upstairs in a bit." She kisses his cheek and walks out of the kitchen, but there's something standing by the stairs.

Grant stares for a long while until he's sure of it, but there's an outline of a dark, inky shadow by the bannister. It's knee-length, and a taller, slightly hulkier shadow lurks just behind it, snaking across the walls until it pools in to the form of a person.

Hi, daddy!

He hears the voice like a fractured bell, bouncing with terrible force between his ears. The knee high shadow shakes in jubilation, stretching up and down rapidly. Grant shivers, leaves his dishes on the table, and takes the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

The sex is lifeless and mechanical. He's able to finish in twelve minutes, and his wife rolls over, satisfied. He stares wide-eyed at the ceiling for three hours before he drifts away to sleep.

The shadows gather at the foot of the bed and remain until the first hints of daybreak.

***

They skip breakfast because Christina is busy retching over the toilet when she normally stirs Grant for his morning routine. He awakes dazed at first, but darts for the shower as soon as he sees the alarm.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” He asks.

“I’m wonderful. Sorry I couldn’t get you up. Grant, we did it.” She says.

“We did what?” He asks, switching on the hot water.

“I’m pregnant. I'm sorry I didn't tell you last night. I got sick and went to see the doctor, and he confirmed. We're three weeks in.” She says with a smile. Despite the vomit entangled in a chunk of her hair and the sunken red rings around her eyes, she is beautiful to him in this moment.

I’m off the hook.

“Honey, that’s great! Thanks for being patient with me. Let’s celebrate tonight. Dinner at Morton’s when I get off work? Wear your black dress.” He says.

“You got it. Have a good day at work, tiger.” She says, but then there’s another wave of nausea.

He embraces her for a long moment in perfect silence. After his shower, when he finally walks downstairs and out the front door, the lunch bags still sit next to the open window, undisturbed.

There’s a picture of a positive pregnancy test on the refrigerator.

***

“I did it, Francis. We’re going to have a baby.” Grant says.

“Congratulations. I really mean it, Grant. Are you going to stop coming here, even though you’ve only been through one session?” Francis asks.

“No. I think I should spend the rest of my vacation here. It would relax me and start me off on a strong foot with her. If I’m optimistic when I come home, we’ll never fight again now that she’s pregnant, I’m sure of it.” Grant says.

“Are you sure? My wife and I fight about a lot of things other than the kids.” Francis says.

“That’s the thing, though, Francis. We never have. It’s always been this one, ugly elephant in the room, and now that we’ve kicked it out the front door, there’s nothing left to be bitter about. Theoretically, as long as she’s a mother, our marriage is perfect.” Grant says.

“Hm. I see. Well, I can’t guarantee that the system will keep everything the same, now that you actually have what you wanted the most. What’s second on the list? Have you ever thought about it?” Francis asks.

“Not really.” Grant says.

“Seriously? You must have some ridiculous day dream from your childhood or something.” Francis says.

Grant smirks.

“Yeah, okay. There is one thing, but I can’t tell you. It’s so dumb. You’d laugh at me.”

“The beauty of it is, you don’t have to. The system knows. That’s something we could definitely take care of for you. Go ahead and plug in down the hall. I’m going to configure the equipment so we can give you a recording this time. No one will see it but you, and it’s yours to keep forever. I hate to say it, Grant, but this is the last time I can offer you our service free of charge. Especially since things worked out so great for you.” Francis says.

“I understand. Thanks.” Grant says.

As he walks in to the white room this time, Grant feels a little guilty that his unborn child and happy spouse that lie almost dormant in the back of his mind. He’s excited about the prospect of unlocking his imagination and escaping to paradise once more.

The pill goes down easy, and his ears and wrists are becoming attuned to the soft leather straps. He feels more comfortable than ever.

“Enjoy yourself, Grant.” The attendant says.

He smiles, and his racing heart only seems to accelerate the numbness that’s slowly sinking in to his body and mind.

He sighs in a state of exhilarated contentment, but no sound escapes. His mind is accepting, tolerant of the computer’s probes in to his cortex.

Reality melts away.

***

He opens his eyes to bright white lights, silhouettes of figures in some sort of amphitheatre, and an oversized blue display screen that appears to be very, very expensive.

“I’ll take Colonialism and Cultures for three hundred, Alex.” a female voice says.

Grant is contestant number two on Jeopardy.

Trebek’s voice is slightly more mealy in real life, and he appears much shorter, but he rattles off the question with the same amount of classic enthusiasm as it appears on the board.

“Donning elaborate costumes and face paint, American soldiers often visited these women in the Orient during the Korean and Vietnam wars.” Trebek says.

Grant looks to either side, but neither of his competitors are buzzing in.

I know this one.

He hits the buzzer, and Alex gives him an inquisitive look.

“Yes, Grant?”

“What is a geisha?” Grant says.

“A geisha is correct! Well done. Your next category, please?” Alex asks.

Grant chooses “Opera in the 80’s” and sweeps the game for fifteen thousand. He nails the daily double. Christina and the kids are smiling at him from the audience the entire time.

He tucks the kids in to their beds in the hotel after the show, but they’re insistent on staying in their father’s room this evening.

They sleep at the foot of the bed on a pallet of blankets and pillows. When he asks why, Christina tells him that’s what they’ve done since they were little.

***

He walks through the front door in a hurry. He starts to apologize for being late, but something is wrong.

His wife is sitting on the living room sofa with her face in one hand, and his nine millimeter from the closet gun safe in the other.

“H-Honey? What’s wrong? What’s the gun for?” Grant asks her, stepping to the couch cautiously.

This is it. This is the night she tries to kill me for not being good enough.

“No. No. We FIXED it….” Grant mumbles.

“Who are you talking to, asshole?” She says, rising to her feet. Her French manicured toenails are soaked with drops of blood. She’s wearing her black dress, but there are red smears on her thighs and her hair is a tangled mess of chaotic auburn weeds.

“I…I don’t know. Christina, what’s happened?” His eyes are frantic. He thinks he already knows the answer, but the pain in her eyes confirms it, guaranteed.

“I lost the baby. Less than a month after it starts growing in me. It’s because of you. You and your fucking WEAKNESS!” She screams, flipping their ottoman with an angry shove. She clicks the hammer and aims the gun at his face.

“Christina, please. We got pregnant. We can do it again. This is crazy. Please, don’t do this.” Grant says. Tears are streaming down his face, and yet he isn’t surprised at what she’s doing now.

In fact, he’s been waiting for it, ever since the first day when the medical professionals told them that it would be almost physically impossible for him to have children with her.

She fires the gun, but something disrupts her footing, and the glancing shot goes wild and hits him square in the shoulder. He feels like someone has slammed a sledgehammer in to his collarbone. His eyesight ignites with starbursts and rapidly undulating, multi-colored lines.

He sees black shadows around her legs, attempting to pull her down.

To protect his life.

He feels liquid warmth and pain current jolting through his right side. He hears another gunshot and the thud of Christina's body impacting the living room floor.

The small shadow caresses his forehead. This is the cold touch of love in a house that should be devoid of all hope.

He feels the hole in his shoulder closing, and before his eyesight drifts away, a familiar scene of a man in the mirror flickers alive on the living room television above him.

***

Christina’s funeral wake is a dreary event, packed with judgmental relatives and groping, menacing stares from members of her side of the family.

Grant’s mother handles most of the arrangements, and Grant sits in the front row when they play Amazing Grace. He thinks that he looks awfully like a robot, going through the motions, not too different from his now deceased wife’s bedroom demeanor.

He tests his friends and family and asks them if they can see anything out of the ordinary when his shadow children set up to the pew and rest on either side of him, their arms around his shoulders.

The funeral goers only reach out to shake his hand or hug him, ignoring the fact that their hands and faces are passing through congealed blackness in the middle of the funeral parlor.

Grant tells them to console his children. Think about the children, please. They're the real victims right now. Why are you ignoring them? Please, at least give them a hug.

He sees cliques of whispering people. Francis tells him to get a prescription and offers three more submersions on the house. He's the only soul present at the wake who shows Grant a hint of genuine compassion.

After the burial, he sits alone by the soda machine in the back of the funeral parlor, picking at his potato salad and an assorted mix of finger sandwiches.

They linger with him, and he is glad for their company.

Grant gets in to his car and leaves.

He spends the weekend watching his first moment on the DVD over and over again, when he first saw his children who will never exist with human faces. Francis asks him if he wants the Jeopardy disc. Grant tells him that he'll never watch Jeopardy again.

He pauses his son and daughter's faces, immortalized at the base of the stairs with two pairs of sea green eyes that make him feel like he's staring at his wife again.

They sleep at the foot of his bed. Just before he dozes off, he hears the laughter of children. Grant sleeps knowing that tomorrow, he can wake up and finally be good enough for someone.

The following morning before they disappear inside the bus, he makes them sack lunches.

She would have wanted that, after all.