Waylines - Issue 1 Page 3

  Allison laid a hand against Grandma's cheek. By Mom's account, it had been an okay day. Nothing good, nothing bad. Allison's day--well.

  "Jonah asked me to go out with him on Friday," Allison whispered. "I didn't say no, not straight out. I mean... I know how he'd react. He's a cool guy, really. But..." She could only say "no" so many times. Most of her old friends had moved on for that very reason, or were content with just hanging out at school, never mentioning the possibility of anything after.

  "It's hard sometimes, you know? But I know Mom won't let me go."

  Grandma's teeth bared in a grimace. If her shadow had been visible, no doubt those pincers would be working as if they could bite. But there was no shadow. Just Grandma.

  "Good night, Grandma. I love you." She planted a kiss on her forehead.

  Allison shut the door and bolted it on the outside.

  Mom was holed up in her office, working frantically on her work backlog. Probably would be until late. Allison disgorged her backpack's contents onto the couch and turned on the TV. She had already gotten a decent start on her homework by staying late after school--not like she was in a rush to get home for more quality time with Mom--but the terrors of algebra awaited.

  Out of habit, she picked up the remote and flicked it to the game show channel.

  "--Match Game Marathon!" boomed an overly-pleasant announcer.

  Allison's head jerked up.

  A Match Game Marathon this Friday. Twenty-four solid hours of bell-bottoms and orange-shag goodness. Grandma would love this!

  From the office, the chatter of computer keys continued, punctuated by dark, indecipherable mutters.

  Mom wouldn't agree. Mom would say it was pointless, that Grandma wasn't in there, that it was all just a waste of time. She would yell and rant and do everything she could to make sure the TV stayed off. Allison's hand clenched the remote as if she could strangle the plastic. Grandma would love this marathon. If anything could coax her out of her shell, this would be it. Mom had even said Grandma responded best to her.

  Mom needed to be out of the house that night.

  Grinning, she reached for the phone and dialed up Mom's best friend, a friend who'd already pestered Mom for months to cut loose and relax for sanity's sake. "Hey, Shayna?" she said. "Allison here. Mom's really needing a break. You think we can tag team her?"

  A few minutes later, she hung up. A devious plot was already underway. Shayna knew how to score tickets for some overnight bed and breakfast deal over in Leavenworth this Friday night. If Shayna had already shelled out the money, Mom would be more likely to cave in and go. It'd still take a few days to wear her down, but Allison knew it would work. On some level, Mom knew she needed a break, too. This was the excuse.

  Allison finished up her homework as the TV droned in the background. For the first time in ages, she hummed aloud, a smile on her lips. This Friday was going to be the awesomest night ever, for all of them.

  When Allison crawled into bed, she was still smiling. An incessant buzzing sound shivered through the wall. Grandma slept one room over, her breathing like a mob of a thousand mosquitoes.

  Down the hallway, the door clicked open. From the living room came the soft thud of the opening liquor cabinet and the clink of glass. Mom was getting ready for bed, then.

  Allison stared at the blackness of the ceiling. Her happiness dwindled away as a sick knot resumed its normal place in her stomach. Mom was the one who was really gone, not Grandma.

  The terrible susurrus continued from next door, from Grandma. "It's just buzzing," Allison whispered, as if saying it aloud made it true.

  She drifted to sleep, and the buzzing droned on.

  "I shouldn't go." Mom clutched her suitcase handle and paced the living room. "You know what happened on Sunday—"

  "She's been fine all week. If it gets to be too much, I'll call 9-1-1," Allison said. "Now go. If Shayna has to shut off her car to come get you, the neighbors might call 9-1-1 before you even leave."

  Mom laughed, the sound abrupt and nervous. "Yeah. Riding tied up in the trunk might look suspicious."

  "Go." Allison held open the door and pointed to the sidewalk.

  Mom ducked her head like a chastised child, casting glances over her shoulder as she walked halfway along the path. "If you need me—"

  "I'll call. Go!"

  Allison bolted the door and stood there, shivering. It was going to be awful cold tonight. Through the peephole, she watched the car drive away. Mom was probably crying now, apologizing to Shayna, saying she shouldn't go. Shayna would keep driving.

  "Well, Grandma, this is our big night," said Allison. Grandma sat on the couch with a slack jaw. Her dead eyes stared ahead at the television.

  "That's right, it's TV time! We've already missed some twelve hours of the marathon. We're slacking." She powered on the television and squealed as she sat down beside Grandma. "Look at Charles Nelson Reilly in that snazzy red suit! Geez, I think I saw Brett Somer's dress on sale at the mall last week. And you said the '70s would never come back in fashion."

  Grandma buzzed softly. Allison leaned against her knees and giggled as she watched. "Oh, gosh. I'm surprised that comment made it past the censors then. That was awfully double-edged, even for now." Rain drummed a soft rhythm above their heads. Another episode came on, then another.

  "That was a cop-out answer. That could have been smarter or funnier." Allison shot a furtive glance at Grandma, in search of agreement.

  "Charles Nelson Reilly! Best player ever! Remember when I showed you the song Weird Al made all about him? Wasn't it awesome?"

  "That hair. Crazy. Did she stick her finger in a light socket or what?"

  Buzzing answered. Only buzzing.

  Two hours passed; three.

  Grandma's laughter wasn't there. Grandma wasn't there.

  Allison turned off the television. She stared at the black screen. Through the marred protective glass, she could see their reflections. Grandma's expression never changed.

  Grandma was really gone.

  The realization was quiet. Cold. Back when the diagnosis first came, Allison had tried to joke that the curse wasn't real until Grandma had wings. Now she understood. It wasn't about how Grandma looked, or even her shadow. It was about... Grandma.

  She stood. In the blank screen, she saw Grandma stand as well. Grandma pivoted, hunch-backed, and dove at the taped-together lamp on the end table. It crashed to the carpet, and in a blink, the room was cast into darkness.

  "Grandma?" No. This wasn't Grandma, not really. It wore her skin, but soon, it wouldn't even wear that. Mom had injected Grandma before she left--her regular dose with a little extra.

  It wasn't enough to quell the rage.

  There was a long, cockroach hiss and the shuffling of feet and Grandma was there, those hands scratching at Allison's neck.

  She sidestepped. Grandma grunted, swinging towards her. Allison retreated towards the TV. Lamp shards skittered and crunched underfoot. Pain pierced the sole of her right foot, followed by the intense warmth of blood.

  In scant grey light, Grandma advanced, her feet wide like a sumo wrestler. Her mouth gaped, glare reflecting from her teeth. Her gaze--empty. No hatred. No malice. Allison was just... a thing. A target. Prey?

  Grandma was gone. Dead. She was dead. She wasn't in that body anymore.

  Anger rippled through Allison and clogged her throat. Anger at the hippies and their curse, anger at Mom and her alcohol and her work, anger at doctors for doing nothing. Anger at Grandma.

  "You were supposed to fight this!" Allison yelled. "You're supposed to still be in... there!"

  Grandma launched herself forward. Allison slipped aside, her bloodied foot tacky on the carpet, and Grandma plowed into the liquor cabinet. It rattled, glass tinkling and liquid jostling.

  Allison hated that cabinet. Hated it. She turned, throwing her shoulder into the cabinet. It rocked against the wall, unable to fall because of the straps securing it in place. She h
ugged it with both arms and yanked with all of her body weight. The cabinet pulled from the wall. Then Grandma was there, tackling her. Allison met the next wall with a grunt. The cabinet crashed into the carpet at Grandma's heels.

  Mom could buy more alcohol. She undoubtedly would. But there was something amazing about hearing those bottles shatter. There was just enough light to see a gush of dark fluid seep through to the floor, as if the cabinet itself bled.

  "You should have laughed during Match Game," Allison whispered. "You would have laughed."

  How long would the curse drag on? How many months, years? How long would this thing wear Grandma's skin? How long until--that Asian cockroach emerged? The wings. The antennae. The shadow come to life. And Mom--how would Mom change? What facade would she wear?

  Nausea punched her in the stomach. Suddenly it was all real. All too real. Grandma hissed, and Allison stepped back. Her bare feet kicked through more pieces of the lamp. Pain zinged all the way up her leg and caused her to gasp. If she made it across the room to the switch, Grandma would go for the light instead. That would distract her until...

  Light. Outside, the light would be on down at the dock. A light that attracted clouds of bugs.

  The awfulness of the thought froze her for a moment. Then the fumes of weeping liquor stung at her nostrils, and she knew what she would do.

  She glanced at the door to the back patio. The story poured into her head: she would say she heard that old tom cat on the porch, that she opened her door to check. That Grandma attacked her. It was close to the truth. That they had fought throughout the room and then ended up back at the door. The door that lead to the stairs and the lake and the light and the cold, rainy night.

  Allison staggered across the room and towards the door. Grandma's nails gouged at her neck. An earring ripped free from Allison's lobe. She worked the locks as Grandma's body dragged from her arm. The door swung free, iciness a wave over her skin.

  Grandma hissed, grabbing Allison's neck with both hands, and shoved. Allison's head met the hardness of the doorjamb. Stars danced in the middle of the room as she fell to her knees. The loosened snaps of Grandma's gown clacked at Allison's head level.

  "You're free," Allison whispered. "Go."

  Then, the old woman was out the door, her bare feet smacking on wet cement. Allison forced her head to turn.

  Rain fell in wavering sheets. Out on the nearby lake dock, a single yellow light stood as a sentinel. Grandma, hunched, was like a gray shadow in the blackness as she scurried away. The unsnapped gown trailed behind her like wings. Then she met the stairs. She tumbled, feet over head. Allison listened to the rasps of her own breaths. Grandma's head was visible again, barely. She still worked towards that brightness below, just like the Asian cockroach she was.

  Allison could have screamed for help. She would have, if Grandma had been somewhere within that frail shell.

  A slow ooze of blood coursed Allison's cheek. She lowered herself to the frigid linoleum before the door. The gallop of her heart was louder than the buzzing had ever been. She quivered as she heard a distant splash, and clenched her eyes shut. The light from the dock still burned through the blackness, and as the minutes passed and the chill sank in, the relentless rhythm of the rain soothed her like a lullaby.

  © 2013 Beth Cato

  Beth Cato is an active member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, with stories in Flash Fiction Online, Daily Science Fiction, Stupefying Stories, and many other publications. She’s originally from Hanford, California, but now resides in Buckeye, Arizona, with her husband and son. Despite how often her husband’s co-workers beg, she will not quit writing to bake cookies all day long. Information regarding current projects can always be found at https://www.bethcato.com. Sometimes those projects do include cookies.

  How did you come up with “Echo in the Shell?” What stages did you go through in the process of getting the idea down?

  I created the story in response to a contest at Codex Writers. I was given the prompt, “the noise of bugs,” and struggled to come up with a good story. After wrestling with ideas for a few weeks, I was reading Reader’s Digest and came across a very moving article about how people cope with their parents with Alzheimer’s--and how some can’t cope. There was a reference to hollowness, and suddenly the story idea clicked for me: that void being filled with the terrible noise of bugs.

  In the revision process, the most difficult thing for me was deciding what Allison really wanted. It took me several drafts to hone in on the fact that the story revolves around Grandma but is really about Allison and her mom.

  Allison and her mother struggle with both their own feelings about Grandma, and also the way those feelings clash with each other. How did you go about creating this sense of an adult/child response to what was happening to Grandma? Did you view it as pragmatism versus idealism?

  Not consciously, no. For me, it came down to desperate hope on Allison’s part. She and her mom exist at total extremes as they simply try to survive day to day. I based their interactions on that typical parent/teenager dynamic, but I made Allison the slightly more healthy one--the adult of the relationship, really. Of course, in the end that delicate balance is lost in a devastating way. I should add that just because I ended the story this way, that doesn’t mean I endorse Allison’s actions. In that situation, though, there really is no right choice.

  “Echo in the Shell” deals with the theme of change, of having to make a decision that will affect your entire future. It also highlights the pain of families that deal with family members who have debilitating illnesses such as Alzheimers, dementia etc. What other themes interest you personally in your writing or reading?

  I’ve actually written a number of short stories on the theme of grandmothers and granddaughters (and realized this theme only in hindsight!), though “Echo in the Shell” is by far the most somber of the lot; my more positive published stories on the subject are “Blue Tag Sale” and “Toilet Gnomes at War.”

  I’ve been very close to my maternal grandmother my whole life and she’s nearing ninety, and I only get to see her once or twice a year because I live out of state. I think I’ve been writing these stories as I prepare for that inevitable, awful loss. I definitely prescribe to the attitude of Allison as she is at the beginning of the story, though, and try to ignore that whole issue of death as I focus on happy things when I talk with my grandma. We seize every moment we have together.

  Why write? Surely there are so many other, far easier, things you could be doing?

  Certainly, there are many easier things to do. A writer’s life is filled with revisions, rejections, and trunked stories. At this point, however, writing has become something of an addiction. If I don’t write, I get increasingly agitated and unpleasant, so it’s really best for my household that I keep writing. I like being married and all.

  Besides, if I didn’t write, I’d have to clean house, and goodness knows I don’t want to resort to THAT.

  What are you working on at the moment? Where can our readers find more Beth Cato?

  I’m continuing to work on short stories--at least one a month, often more--and writing speculative poetry. Readers can find more of my work through my website, https://www.bethcato.com/, and quite a bit can be read online for free. They can also feel free to drop by my blog and say hi. On Wednesdays I post recipes, and I love sweets. I may be evil in my fiction, but my cookies will steal your soul--and waistline.

  All things considered, it was not the most uplifting of times for Nicholas. In fact, one might even say that Nicholas's life on sunny Pulau Ubin was the very opposite of uplifting: it was depressing. Bloody damn depressing, despite the tropical climate. Not an uplift to be seen for miles.

  And then he met the brindlefarbs.

  Nicholas hesitated by the postbox, holding the envelope in his hand. It was sealed and stamped, creased sharply where he had stuffed it in his sweaty pocket on the walk over from the hotel. On the front, scraw
led in his cramped handwriting, were the words "TAN TOCK SENG GENERAL HOSPITAL ACCOUNTS RECEIVABLE DEPT."

  A single check languished in the envelope's interior, and written on the check was something like a compromise. It was a dollar amount slightly too large for Nicholas's comfort and slightly too small for the recipient's. A compromise.

  Nicholas took a deep breath. Somewhere back on the mainland, Po Po needed this money. Chemo treatments didn't grow on trees, after all. Nicholas, well, Nicholas needed it too. But was he a good grandson or was he not?

  The air was warm in the hours before evening, the rainforest's earthy sog combining with the sharp, boiled-crab stench of the ocean. Salty waves lapped at the ferry pier to his right. Farther out, Nicholas could see rafts and bumboats, black tires clinging to them like overworked monkeys.

  Times were hard for everyone, it seemed, since the great Human-Alien financial crisis of 2024. But he hadn't thought it'd be this hard.