Left in the Dark

A NineStar Press Publication

www.ninestarpress.com

Left in the Dark

ISBN: 978-1-64890-245-1

© 2021 Zev de Valera

Cover Art © 2021 Natasha Snow

Edited by Elizabetta McKay

Published in April, 2021 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-246-8

CONTENT WARNING:

Depictions of cheating by a main character; romantic intentions between an underage teen by an older acquaintance; discussion of an off-page teenage suicide; discussion and depiction of an off-page car accident; injuries sustained, including temporary amnesia; and recuperation.

Left in the Dark

Zev de Valera

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Swish-thunk.

Swish-thunk.

The sound repeats in my mind like the click of a metronome.

Played over this rhythm are screams, screeches—both human and inhuman.

The heat and the fire are unbearable, inescapable.

Then, they come.

Crawling from the churning flames of the pit like the freakish imaginings of Hieronymus Bosch.

Twisted. Grotesque.

Arms extended in impossible gestures.

Hands reaching, reaching.

Fingers grasping, beseeching.

I feel them on me; pressing.

Stop it!

One of the horrors clings to me, raises its head. From a twisted gash of a mouth come the words:

I love you.

Swish-thunk.

Swish-thunk.

Chapter One

CAL

I’d like to keep you, but I have to let you go.

The words immediately conjured in my mind the lyrics of some old country tune. They seemed incongruous coming from the mouth of the grim-faced, matronly South Asian woman seated before me. But, then, she merely appeared forbidding and matronly. Dr. Malhotra was a sympathetic person, and it was only her professional garb and tightly chignoned hair that gave a suggestion of the matron. Still, I found it difficult to imagine her plucking at guitar strings and warbling in a sad, twangy voice.

Rothman and his physical therapy team have given you the green light, continued Malhotra, so there is no reason for continuing your—

Imprisonment?

"For continuing your stay at Wending Hills."

But?

Dr. Malhotra removed her glasses. After closing the file that lay on her desk, she folded her hands over it and addressed me with an earnest expression. A classic physician’s pose—almost a parody.

I’m not a doctor, but I play one on television.

I realize that asking you to reconsider staying on is a waste of time, Malhotra continued. I nodded agreement. However, I can—and must—insist on a period of home care.

"Home care?"

I imagined myself as a frail old man accepting soupçons of saliva-laced gruel from a sadistic nurse.

Yes. Just for a few weeks. To ensure that you’re not experiencing any unanticipated cognitive impairment and to continue your physical therapy. POW will send someone to your home tomorrow morning.

POW?

Practitioners on Wheels. They do excellent work.

I sighed, accepting defeat. I trusted Malhotra—though I’d always argued with her on principle.

Whatever you say, Doc.

Malhotra’s eyes narrowed. I’m not sure I’m convinced by this sudden acquiescence, but I’ll take it.

So, I’m officially sprung?

Yes. A pity you don’t have an orange jumpsuit to take with you as a memento.

Funny.

I pushed myself up from the chair, feeling suddenly awkward. Like a kid saying goodbye to his mother as he set off for college. Happy, excited, nervous and sad all at the same time. Malhotra stood and pulled a business card from her lab coat.

Please keep in touch, Cal, she said, handing me the card. My mobile number is on the back. Let me know how you’re getting on.

I tucked the card into the pocket of my chinos, accepting this as a gesture of friendship. The visiting nurse would keep Malhotra apprised of my progress. There was no need for the extra effort.

Of course. Thank you, Dr. Malhotra.

I hoped I would never speak to her again.

I smiled, she smiled, and I turned to walk to the door, leaning heavily on my cane. I depressed the lever and pushed.

Cal.

Yes? I asked, looking over my shoulder.

You’re going to be all right.

I passed into the hallway and closed the door carefully behind me.

All right.

I was going to be all right.

Sure.

I’d spent more than a month in physical therapy, recovering the use of my battered body, and an equal amount of time with Malhotra, striving to recover my memory and work through the issues of a near-death experience and survivor guilt.

All right.

A relative term.

*

Wending Hills.

The name had that ring of false pastoral splendor one often associates with such establishments as if the promise of imaginary bucolic vistas might soften the blow of infirmity. Wending Hills, however, lived up to its name. Situated just north of Peekskill, New York, on a high promontory overlooking the Hudson, my room in the sanatorium provided a clear view to the hills and valleys that sloped elegantly toward the river. Now, in early summer, the verdure was an undulating, multitextured carpet under a gentle breeze. From the small balcony of my cell—one of the more spacious suites allotted to those deemed free of suicidal tendencies—I could just about glimpse the grounds of the Rockefeller Kykuit estate.

Glancing through the brochure that I’d never bothered to look at before, I discovered that Wending Hills was built around the same time as the famous industrialist’s compound and was designed by a student of Rockefeller’s architect. Originally a spa retreat, Wending Hills had adopted many identities over the years: a military headquarters, a children’s hospital, a senior care campus. Now, it was a church-affiliated facility that specialized in physical therapy and the treatment of PTSD and memory loss.

I turned my thoughts away from the history of Wending Hills and toward my own. Out there, northeast along I-95, lay the home in which I’d spent the last two years of my life. When I tried to look back further—to my childhood, for instance—memories became frustrating chimeras. I recalled my father and mother clearly but only in disjointed snippets, brief but vivid flashbacks. Malhotra had assured me this was merely a temporary aberration, that eventually I should recover enough of the knowledge of my past to be on par with the average person of middle age. Or even have an advantage.

Advantage?

Yes, Cal. Our memories are colored by experience. We see our younger selves as a reflection of the person we are now, who we’ve become. You, on the other hand, could view past events with unique clarity, unencumbered by the influence of recent life events. Also, you must understand that much of what we consider ‘memories’ of our early lives are, in fact, nothing of the kind.

What?

Malhotra laughed. A little huff that seemed to brush aside my ignorance with professional magnanimity.

"We hear our parents or other family members speak of events, behaviors from our childhood. You know the sort of thing: ‘Oh, I’ll never forget how Suzie loved her first puppy’ or ‘Timmy was always such a curious child,’ or ‘Don’t you remember when…?’ Of course, we don’t remember, but we accept these third-party references as truth, indistinguishable from our real memories. As we grow older, this process becomes subtler, more complex as our desire to create our own reality shapes our opinions of our actions and their consequences.

What I mean is that you may very well see your real past. Unfiltered, objective. As if you were watching an unbiased biography of yourself. Don’t think of your condition as an entirely negative experience. Rather, look upon it as a chance to begin anew, to grow in ways that perhaps you may not have done otherwise.

Look on the bright side, in other words?

Malhotra sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

Simple, but accurate.

I’ll send you my bill.

Though I made light of them, Malhotra’s words disturbed me. I’d never thought of memory as something inherently deceptive. I’d never thought about it at all. She’d meant to reassure me, but Malhotra had accomplished the opposite. Her psychobabble had only increased my anxiety.

I finished stuffing my few belongings into the duffel I’d purchased on a whim at the institution’s café/bookshop. It was black, ugly, and emblazoned with the cartoonish Wending Hills logo of mountains and a rising sun, reminding me of a raisin box.

Why did I remember that?

I don’t even like raisins.

Funny how I seem to recall the things I dislike with such amazing clarity. Raisins, obviously. And Habit Rouge, Dr. Rothman’s scent of choice. I always thought doctors were prohibited from wearing artificial fragrances, and I took an instant, irrational dislike to Rothman the moment I first smelled him. Unfortunately, Habit Rouge had also been Paul’s favorite scent.

Paul.

More unpleasant memories. The bastard was going to leave me to become some sort of lay monk. He hadn’t been planning to leave me for another man, he’d been planning to leave me for the other man. The Son of God. I suppose if I were a different kind of person, I might have felt some bizarre sort of comfort in this. What I felt was anger. Fuck-you-you-asshole kind of anger.

It’s not you, Cal. It’s me.

Paul had insisted in that newfound, gentle, and oh-so-irritating cleric-to-be voice.

Fuck you!

I should have seen it coming, and I didn’t. Or I refused to see. According to Malhotra, the anger was with myself more than with Paul. I was projecting. Maybe she was right. But I found it difficult to accept any culpability in the dissolution of my relationship with Paul. He was the one who had withheld sexual intimacy, he was the one who’d distanced himself with his ever-growing religious obsession.

And how did that make you feel?

One of Malhotra’s favorite questions.

Like shit. What do you think?

I zipped the duffel and took one last look at the view.

A minivan waited downstairs to take me to the Metro North station. As I turned from the window, one of those memory flashes hit, unexpected, clear, and poignant.

Why do they call it a ‘variety pack’? There’s only four of them. Not much choice.

I say this with a sour face as my mother slaps the carton of miniature cereal boxes in front of me and then turns to tend to the opening of her carton of Marlboros.

I have no idea, little man. Just pick one and eat. You’re already late for school. And I’ll be late for work if we don’t put a wiggle in it.

I watch her as she lights her cigarette from the gas burner, then leans against the breakfast counter, her geometric print wrap dress juxtaposed in all its polyester glory to the backdrop of avocado-green appliances.

Love Will Keep Us Together starts to play on the clock radio, the digital readout blinking 12:00 as it has done since it was installed the year before.

My mother groans.

That song again?

I like it, I say as I punch the perforated opening in the tiny box of Frosted Flakes in time with the tune.

My mother ignores my comment. Did you finish your homework?

Of course.

She appraises me with a squint-eyed look. I proceed to munch on cereal, my face a mask of false virtue.

My mother takes another drag, then laughs.

You know, kid, you really ought to go into politics. You’re a natural.

I didn’t go into politics, though I might have been a natural fabulist. Instead, I became a costume designer. I suppose the two fields of work have something in common: the practitioners of each make their livings by contributing to the creation of fantasy worlds.

And wasn’t that where I found myself? In a world I understood but did not entirely appreciate for all its permutations and layers? That was the problem, as I saw it. Malhotra had tried to put a good spin on it—that was her job, after all—but her idea that I would have a unique and clear perspective on my past was lost on me. I did not want a unique and clear perspective.

I wanted my perspective, goddammit.

And it was there. But only in frustrating, often unrelated bits.

How long do I have to wait until my mental kaleidoscope shifts and I feel whole again?

Maudlin thoughts about the state of my memory were summarily shelved as I attempted to stand without the aid of the accursed three-pronged cane.

Shit!

Shooting pain ran though my back and legs, then eased as I righted myself and stood straight. Getting up and down was agony—and would be for some weeks to come, according to Dr. Habit Rouge’s physical therapy entourage.

Thoughts of Paul again.

Get out of my mind, you bastard.

Then, Malhotra’s voice, both low and strident, an Indian Margaret Thatcher:

You need to move away from demonizing Paul and allow yourself to grieve for him. Paul shook up your life, took something you saw as an absolute, and showed you that it wasn’t. It was hard to suddenly realize he no longer needed you in his life the way you needed or wanted him. Now, he’s gone forever. Holding on to the old anger will only hinder you in your future life.

This is all his fault, I murmured as I clutched the arms of my chair, not really believing the words as I said them but wanting to. Oh, how I wanted to.

Paul did not cause your accident. Your understandably emotional reaction to what you viewed as his abandonment of you may have caused you to behave in a less than cautious manner—

What?? Now you’re saying the accident was my fault? I was sideswiped by a drunk driver, for Christ’s sake!

There are those who believe that everything that happens to us is, in one way or another, our own fault.

Bullshit.

Malhotra eyed me for a moment, then said, Would you have been driving over the speed limit under normal circumstances?

I shrugged.

If you hadn’t been doing so, would the accident still have happened?

Bullshit.

It was the best I could come up with. I didn’t want to deal with Malhotra’s ugly truths. I saw the trap she’d set. Admitting to even a tangential culpability in the circumstances of the accident smoothly set me up for an admission of my part in the collapse of my relationship with Paul.

I know you understand, Cal, said Malhotra. "The thing is, I want you to know you understand."

*

The taxi smelled faintly of cannabis—a gift from the last fare, I supposed. Or maybe it was the driver who had indulged. He certainly fit a certain stereotype: Guns and Roses T-shirt, a well-worn baseball cap with a Confederate flag sewn on it, an anemic pallor and a skinny body to go with it. His blue eyes, though, were clear and quite beautiful.

Where’ve you been, buddy? the driver asked.

He knows me?

He watched me struggle with my duffel and my cane as I hobbled into his vehicle, and I was tempted to say that I’d been on vacation in Fiji.

I’ve been in the hospital.

Damn, man. Bummer.

Yeah. Major bummer.

Thought you moved or something.

I wondered briefly what or something might be. Kidnapping? Murder? Then, I gave him my address.

He laughed. Hey, my mem’ry ain’t that fucked up, man! Only been what? A month or so?

I managed a smile. He couldn’t know. But his reference to a