The Imagalisk
And then, when he’s done signing the last of the paperwork, my son just walks off with a wave and leaves me to die in hell.
Technically, hell is Graydon Manor, a nursing home. A long-term care facility, they call it. But I know what this really is—the end of the road, for me, and every other poor sod who winds up here. Next stop, pine box.
I look around at the crumbling white walls decorated with bulletin boards featuring crayon art, and I know I’ve screwed up for the final time. I can usually cover for my dementia, but when you forget the name of your kids’ dead mother, they just don’t let that go. (I’m sorry, Maria, I won’t let it happen again. But, in fairness, I forgot who I was, too.) Messing up Maria in front of the kids was the last straw, but I concede there were others. The time I got lost at the supermarket and the police got called was pretty bad, but, honestly, it was only the one time. My daughter Jennie says I forgot how to use the phone in front of her, but I don’t even remember that happening. I mean, everyone I’d care to call is dead at this point anyway.
So, now I’m Graydon Manor’s newest resident, and the best part is I get to pay for it on the first of each month. After years of drudgery in the practice of law, I retire with a nest egg only to discover this is how I’ll be spending it. It’s not cheap to get someone to change your diapers. That part—wearing them—sucks too, but it’s better than the alternative.
I sit back in my loaner, a wheelchair of the crappy foldable variety. I don’t really need it, but I’m depressed and feeling kinda lazy. There’s a portly orderly named Derek who is going to take me around in it while we do the first-day welcome tour. Why not let him push? Besides, it helps me fit in with the natives. One of them, a geriatric who appears to have forgotten his dentures, is wheeling toward me even now.
“Hey, Jere! There’s a new guy!” he shouts with a voice that goes hoarse after his first two words. “Look at ’em! He’s a believer. He’s got two!”
What, two wheels? Two heads? The brochure assured me the residents get assistance with showering daily, but it’s either a lie or Baldy-in-a-Chair here has clearly taken a pass.
Derek guides me to a halt and takes the liberty of making an introduction to my first new neighbour, just as he crashes his chair into mine with a dull thud.
“Dan, this is Phil, from room 138. Phil, this is Dan Kennedy. He’s moving in to 229.” He applies the hand brake on the rim of my left tire. Apparently, us numbers don’t get to speak for ourselves.
“Listen,” says Phil, ignoring Derek completely. “Come find me later, and we’ll talk about what’s going on, OK? But, for now, all you need to know is to stay away from the south wing, yeah? That’s very important. You’ll thank me later.”
Derek responds for me yet again, only this time with a tone so syrupy and patronizing that I think I get why this Phil chooses to pretend he’s not there. “Dan is a new resident in the east wing, Phil. Today is Dan’s first day.”
“Yeah? Well, if he goes to bingo night, he’ll need to cross through the south. And unless someone teaches him some survival skills, it’ll be his last day.”
While I consider the dire consequences of bingo at Graydon Manor, another resident strides over to join us. He carries a walker in both hands that, just like my chair, he clearly doesn’t need. It never actually touches the floor as he travels. Once he sidles up next to Phil, he finally plunks it down in front of himself, perhaps more like a fashion accessory than an assistive device.
“Hi there,” he says, looking to me with a welcoming smile. He’s tall but razor thin. I can relate. I’m mostly skin and bones at this point myself. “I’m Jerry. Folks ’round here call me Jere. Forgive my friend Phil, here. He’s intense.”
“No worries,” I say, mustering up my best imitation of cheer. “I like that. And I’ll be mindful to stay out of his turf.” Jere seems quite a bit more “with it” than Phil. Even better, he doesn’t give off that rancid senior stench—or seem prone to delivering dire portents.
“Oh,” says Jere, shaking his head to convey that I’m not quite getting his meaning, “No, no, we stay away from the south wing, too.” I might have been a bit quick on that last part.
Were it possible, Phil’s eyes seem to widen even more. “Everybody with IFs do! Less you want yours to get eaten.”
“Well, I certainly do not want that,” I say, hoping the tone of my voice will prompt Jere to fill me in. Does your lunch get stolen around here? From what little I’ve seen so far, whoever wants it can have it.
“Well, excuse us,” says Derek, interrupting as he pops the hand brake back off. “I’ve got to take Dan here on his tour.”
“Hey, new guy!” calls Jere as I start my involuntary glide away from him. “One last thing. You might get some visitors tonight. Don’t be scared.”
Why would I be…? Derek has already wheeled me away. We’re plowing down a wide hall cluttered with random seniors parked in wheelchairs doing absolutely nothing other than existing. I try to turn my head to look back at Jere and Phil. I’m instantly reminded that I can’t do that anymore, not without pinching a nerve. I’ve just learned my first lesson of life at Graydon Manor. From now on, after today, I’m going to travel under my own power for as long as I can.
I’m alone in 229, my newly assigned home-sweet-home, sitting at the tiny table next to my bedside when they come for me. Jere’s prediction was accurate then, but I don’t know why he thought I would be scared.
I was just about to inspect Graydon’s much-celebrated nighttime snack, a collection of semi-gelatinous cubes of yellow. If I’m worried about anything, it’s that this might be representative of what I can expect nightly going forward.
They crack open the door to my room slowly, without knocking, and poke their two heads inside with trepidation. I’ve never seen either one of them before, but I simultaneously knew at once that, somehow, I have.
A young boy and his sister—twin sister, I was sure of it. They couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Both with fine dark hair covered by bright red ball caps, but without any sort of lettering or logo. Just red.
“Hi, Dan,” says the boy with caution. He steps inside with his sister, letting the door swing closed behind them. “Don’t be scared.”
Why does everybody think I’m supposed to be scared? “Do they let kids in here, after hours?”
“Probably not, but we’re as old as you,” he answers. The girl says nothing. She just seems to smile at me. I remember she does that—smiles at me whenever her brother isn’t looking. I remember?
“I don’t think so, son,” I say. I’ve got at least seventy years on these two. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, this is going to sound kinda crazy, Dan, but I was kind of hoping maybe I could show you my card collection.” It was an odd request. But odder still was how nervous he seemed as he asked.
I put my plastic fork down on my tray and give him the most reassuring smile I have, hoping to put him at ease. “You know what? I’d love that.” I wasn’t lying either. This may be totally uninvited, but this is the first thing at Graydon that I haven’t decided will completely suck before it actually happens.
Though, I suppose I shouldn’t let my guard down entirely here. Somehow this kid knows my name. You read about seniors getting scammed in these kinds of places all the time. I can’t remember. Was there a placard outside my room with my name written on it? There’s so much I can’t seem to remember anymore.
For a second, the boy almost seems to tear up, some combination of relief or sadness. But I might have misread that as he quickly pulls up the remaining chair in my tiny room and sits across from me. His sister hops up and plunks herself down on my adjustable metal-framed bed. From there, she joins me as we watch her brother carefully slide his backpack off his shoulder. The side zipper opens to reveal a three-ring binder, the kind with those plastic sleeves that keep your collectible cards preserved so they don’t get their edges wrecked. Funny, I don’t remember seeing him carrying a backpack when he walked in.
“He’s got some great cards,” says the girl.
He does, I think to myself. But how would I know that? He hasn’t even opened his binder yet. But once he begins to flip the pages, I can see that I am right. Inside are not sports cards like hockey or baseball, or even some Japanese battle game like the Poke-o-something cards the kids trade in the schoolyard. These are superhero cards. Genuine superhero cards. You never see those anymore.
He begins to show them to me, telling me a little something about each one—like maybe I’m his grandpa instead of some stranger alone in his room with geometric shapes of gelatin. And it is an amazing collection. I remember superhero cards vividly from my childhood. The boy has some of the rarest, hardest-to-find cards. Cards with shiny holograms; cards marked with symbols from their original print runs; you name it. Yet there are also some obvious holes in his collection. He almost never has a complete team. There’re almost always one or two heroes that are missing. And then it dawns on me.
I have them. The exact ones he needs.
I need him to know.
“You know what? Somewhere in that stupid storage locker on the east side of town where my son dumped all my stuff, I am going to have a binder just like yours,” I tell him. “And inside I just might have some of the cards you’re missing.”
“Of course, you do,” he says. “Together you and me have the best collection of anyone ever!” The pride in his voice is absolute.
OK, this kid is a bit weird. He’s acting way too familiar. “And just how do you know that?”
“It’s complicated, Dan.” He closes his binder, that look of concern suddenly creeping back over his face. “But how would you feel about a game of Chinese checkers?”
That was always a favourite of mine. If he wants to distract me from his question, he’s landed on a smart way to do it. Not sure that I should play a game with an eight-year-old though. I’m liable to mop the floor with him, even in my most cognitively addled state. I played a lot of Chinese checkers back in the day, and like all lawyers, I’m intrinsically competitive.
Before I can answer him, he pulls a battered old copy of the game out of that same backpack and lifts the cardboard cover off the box. Multi-coloured plastic marbles roll around inside, demanding my attention. The kids adjust the table so his sister can play from the bed, and they silently begin setting up the pieces, wicked grins on their faces. They left me the light-green marbles. That was always my color. But I know they knew that. He was blue, and she was yellow. She was always yellow … I have played with these kids before.
Not just once, but many, many times.
“Kids,” I say. “I have to be upfront with you. I have a memory problem. I forget names and faces. You’ll have to be patient with me.”
“Dan, I’m Jack, and this here is my sister—”
“Kate!” I say suddenly.
Kate—that is her name—immediately lights up the room with her smile. She wants to hug me. I am sure of it. But she’s also afraid. Afraid of me, underneath.
Was I somehow violent? Did I scare them once? Nobody ever told me about hurting kids before. And if I did, what are they doing here? Where are their parents? Who are their parents? My only grandkid is somewhere in Philly, estranged from me and the rest of the family after Dylan’s crappy divorce.
But I don’t ask, unwilling to wreck the moment. Instead, we play. We’re only a handful of turns in when I realize the boy, Jack, is trying to use the Winston manoeuvre. If you set it up right, it’s a way to block and jump forward at the same time. Only it’s not possible for him to know that move. The Winston manoeuvre is not a real thing. I made it up.
“Did I teach that to you?” I ask.
Jack laughs. “You wish,” he says with a bit of mirth. “I taught it to you.”
“The Winston manoeuvre?”
“You remember,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say. “I want to.”
I think I have to. I put my hand on the middle of the board, as though to signal that I’m shutting down the game. “Jack, Kate. Please tell me what’s going on here.”
They look at each other. Kate gives him a nod as if to say, it’s time.
Jack sucks in a breath and looks up at me. “When you were six years old, Dan, your parents moved to Chicago. There weren’t any kids in the new neighbourhood. Or at least none your age, really.” I don’t know how he knows that, but it’s true. My old man worked for an insurance company appraising commercial real estate. The company transferred him. He was never happy about that, but he had no choice. Neither did I.
“That’s where you found us, in the empty park behind your house with the skinny poplar trees. Some people call us imaginary friends. You … made us, Dan.”
And now I realize what’s really going on here. I’m straight up losing my mind. They say you deteriorate faster once you leave your home and come to a place like this. But this was a lot for Day One.
Jack leans forward and presses on. “From the age of six to eight, we were together every single day. We went biking, sledding, played a ton of checkers, and, above all, dreamed humongous dreams together. Always. Everywhere. You, me, and Kate.”
“I had two imaginary friends?”
“You were twice as smart,” said Kate. “So, why not?”
“But, how come I don’t remember you?”
“All kids forget,” said Jack. “We get that. But you’re coming full circle now, Dan. Now that we’re old, we get a chance to see each other again.”
“You don’t look old. Do I … do I look? I mean, when you see me, do you see me as ‘eight-year-old Dan’?”
“No,” he answered. “We see you right.”
“But we don’t care,” says Kate quickly. “We wish we grew up with you. But we didn’t, and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Then why didn’t they? None of this makes any sense—except as some kind of a mental breakdown. I can see how a six-year-old boy would dream up Kate though. Perfectly nonthreatening. Always smiling, always happy. Never actually wanting anything. I would never need to screw up the courage to talk to a girl with Kate around.
“Well, I’m eighty now,” I say. “We might have a lot to catch up on.”
Jack smiles and looks over at Kate. “And you haven’t kept up with your checkers. But there’s more, Dan.”
“OK,” I say. “Tell me.”
Even if Jack and Kate are just figments of my crumbling mind, I have decided one thing. They would never hurt me.
“It’s this place. It’s special.”
“You mean this room?”
“No,” he says, waving his arms wide, “Graydon Manor.”
“I’ve been here one day, and I can tell you there is nothing special about this hellhole.” They’re kids. I should watch my language. Are they kids? Jack’s claiming to be eighty.
“You’ll have to show him,” says Kate to Jack.
“Don’t freak out,” says Jack. “Even when you were a kid, on some level you always understood we weren’t real. Reality’s not what’s important to a child. But you understood we had limitations. Like when we played catch, we couldn’t actually throw you a ball. You’d bounce it off a wall.”
“But we played Chinese checkers together. I know that now.”
“Right, in your mind you did. And that’s what mattered. But in reality, you played all three sides of the board.”
That I could see. I would have been that kind of a nerd. Taking on the futile challenge of beating myself.
“But in Graydon Manor, I can do this.” He picks up my fork from my table tray with a dramatic flourish.
“Uh, so?” I pick up the whole plate.
“Dan,” he says, trying to get me to appreciate the gravity of what he’s saying. “I opened the door to walk into your room. I didn’t need you to open it first and pretend that I did. I’m saying I have a physical autonomous form. I can punch someone in the face. If I could see over the dashboard, I think I could drive a car.”
“Wait. Pinocchio’s a real boy if he’s inside Graydon Manor?”
“Kind of insulting, but yes, exactly.”
“And you’ve been sitting here, in Graydon Manor for seventy-something years, knowing I would just one day show up?”
“No, no. Today’s our first day here, too. We had no idea it would be so special until you first came through the door with your son, Dylan.”
Kate wrinkles her brow. “What’s even weirder is that we’ve discovered that some of the other residents can see us, too. Not all, it seems, but some—the ones who also have special friends.”
Not special, I think, imaginary. “If this was your first day at Graydon, then where have you been all this time?”
Kate shoots him a look and I can tell I’ve hit on a nerve. They don’t want to answer. Jack will be the one to duck and weave. “That? That is a great question which is going to need more time than we have.”
“Why?”
“Because the nurse is going to walk through that door any second.”
I don’t know how he knew, but he’s right. A Personal Support Worker opens the door and introduces herself. She begins to collect my evening snack tray and explains that she’s going to help me get ready for bed.
I know what that means. I’m getting a fresh diaper. Oh my god, I do not want Jack and Kate to see that.
They instantly seem to anticipate my worry.
“That’s our cue,” says Jack. “We’ll see you again in the morning, before breakfast.”
Do they read my mind? “I don’t want you to leave,” I say.
“Us neither,” says Kate. I feel like I can read hers. She genuinely means it. She will never care how much money or education I have. Or even how decrepitly old I grow or how many diapers I wear. Her friendship is completely unconditional. It’s unrealistic. No human is like that. But it’s safe to say that six-year-old me didn’t need or want a realistic human. I needed friends. And I think I just might have made myself the very best.
“Can you see them?” I ask the PSW. “The children?”
The support worker launches into non sequitur small talk, telling me that she does indeed have children, three in fact. Two girls in high school and a boy in middle school. What’s abundantly clear is that she cannot see my imaginary friends. Kate said some of the residents could, though. I remember my weird talk with Jere and Phil earlier today. That Phil guy knew I had two. What did he call them, IFs?
Jack and Kate wave and silently sneak out the door. Before they disappear, Kate peers around to look at me one last time and mouths the word “tomorrow.” I want to ask them where they will go.
“Remember to stay away from the south wing,” I call belatedly. Hopefully they could still hear me. Phil seemed pretty adamant that it would be dangerous—not necessarily for me, but for them. I realize that whatever happens to me in this place, I don’t want anything to happen to Jack and Kate.
As I am tucked into bed with machine-like efficiency, I am left to consider the cold hard truth that I am quite delusional. But I am also left to contemplate why, in this desolate place, that would possibly be a bad thing.
I almost never seem to dream anymore, but tonight, I think I will dream of superhero cards and Chinese checkers.
As promised, Jack and Kate find me right after I wake up. We tell stories and make each other laugh. They studiously avoid, though, telling me anything more about who or what they really are.
I’ve got a plan for that. My best chance of getting the straight goods lies with the tall skinny resident with the walker, the man I met yesterday who somehow knew I would get visitors—Jere. I ask Jack and Kate to wait for me in my room while I duck out to the cafeteria to sneak in some breakfast.
Unsurprisingly, I get lost several times along the way. I make a mental note for next time that the halfway mark is the depressing little antechamber that holds Graydon’s murky fish tank. Above it rests a shelf of leftover magazines from the nineties. That’s my landmark. From there I can smell the food.
I spot Jere at a long table in the back corner of the lunchroom. He’s fighting the tremor in his hand as he tears open a packet of artificial sweetener for his coffee. Phil has beat me here as well. His epic battle happens to be with a plastic spoon. I watch him strategize how to best scoop up the mush on his plate, a mush that looks like it might once have been pancakes. I’m guessing the kitchen has ground them into minuscule chunks to prevent him from choking. Like yesterday, and possibly every day, Phil has forgotten his dentures.
“All right,” I say, pulling up a seat next to them as though I somehow now belong. “You weren’t kidding about visitors.”
“Where’s your wheelchair?” asks Jere, a mischievous grin on his face.
Busted. “Where’s your walker?”
“Touché.”
“Forget that,” I say. “My visitors. What’s happening to me? And what am I supposed to do?”
Jere looks at me thoughtfully and then switches gears, seeking to instead fumble with a creamer. “Dan, I’m an old geezer, so I’ll tell you what. I am going to do what old geezers do. I am going to answer your question by telling you a long-winded story that may or may not actually go anywhere.”
“OK.” I suppose I appreciate his honesty.
“When I was five, I wanted a dog.”
He really wasn’t kidding. “Didn’t we all?”
“Like, really wanted a dog.” He puts down his creamer and lays a hand on his stomach. Maybe he meant to put it on his heart but missed. “All boys do, but for me it was agony. My mother, however, was allergic to any kind of pet hair, so it was a no-go. And come to think of it, my old man probably hated animals anyway.”
Phil stops stuffing pancake puke into his mouth and begins nodding along. He, I gather, has heard this story before. From his expression, I’m going to guess at least more than once.
“So, I did what any kid with a modicum of ingenuity would do. I created my own pet, up here.”
This time he points to his temple, which I take to mean he dreamed one up, just like I must have done with Jack and Kate.
“A bright rover named Rusty. Rusty was the ultimate dog. He could play catch for infinite hours. If I needed him to, sometimes he would even talk. Rusty could shrink down to fit right into my lap for a soothing pet session, or, say I needed to get around, he’d grow big so I could ride him like a horse.”
Jere laughs to himself, clearly reliving the delight of one of his riding sessions. I grab my hands to stop myself from drumming my fingers on the table with impatience before he finally continues. “The perfect pet for me. Never bit me once. Never took a dump I had to clean up. After I had Rusty, I stopped being afraid of the things that go bump in the night. No reason to be with a guard dog like Rusty. My confidence grew too. Rusty could chase away bullies or anyone who would ever want to hurt me. But, most of all, I was never lonely again. I can’t stress enough what Rusty did for me. He was like a damned Lassie protecting me at every turn.”
As he talks, he reaches down into his lap, as though to mime patting a dog sitting across his legs. Only as he does so, I realize, if I squint a certain way, I can sorta see it. It’s Rusty. His imaginary friend is here too, only his is … a dog. It makes me wonder. Where do Jack and Kate go when I’m not around? Are they still in my room, or do they just appear when my mind feels the need to conjure them up? And where have they been the last seventy years?
“My parents thought it was cute at first. Didn’t need to worry about buying dog food or paying a vet bill. But as I got older, they gradually figured out it was becoming creepy and anti-social. I’d try to show Rusty to the other kids, and they’d make fun of me. At one point my mom got worried enough to take me to a shrink.
“I only went the one time. At the end of the session the shrink asked my mother a simple question. What would happen if they got a real dog?”
My jaw drops. I’m not going to like how this ends.
“They found one of those new fandangled hypoallergenics for me. A beautiful Labrador named Juno. It took my ten-year-old self all of fifteen minutes before I traded in perfection for reality and never once looked back. Rusty was gone. I bet it was only weeks before I couldn’t tell you his name.”
“But these IFs, as you call them, they don’t actually get hurt, right?” I ask. “They’re not real. Not in that sense.”
Jere gives me a plastic smile, the kind that’s not at all reflected in his eyes, and I realize instantly that I’ve said something wrong. “I’m going to wager that after whatever you experienced last night, you don’t believe a word of that,” he says. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come found us.”
He’s right.
“So, to answer your question,” he says. “I don’t really care what you do. But, me?” He cradles his invisible-not-so-invisible dog in his arms and looks down on it with solemnity. “Whatever time I got left? I’m spending it making it up to Rusty.”
The parallel with Jack and Kate hits me immediately. At some point, I must have learned to socialize; gotten real friends.
“What happens to the IFs when kids forget about them?” When I forgot about them.
“You got the courage? You ask yours.”
At this, I can tell Phil can stand it no more. He ends his deference to Jere’s storytelling session and snorts. “They ain’t gonna tell you. They’re built to protect you. And that includes rescuing you from the pang of a guilty conscience.”
“Then you tell me,” I say, looking to them both. “Tell me another damn story if you have to. But just tell me. Where do they go?”
But we’re interrupted by an orderly who leans over our table, his short sleeves exposing the faded tattoos on his thick forearms. Why is everybody who works here so big? Or do I still have to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve shrunk.
“Yo, Geezer crew,” says the orderly. “Wish me happy hunting because today’s the day.”
“Not a chance, Ricky,” answers Jere. “Never happen.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jere. Looky here.” He produces a key from his pocket. “That’s for the boiler room.”
“How’d you get that?” says Phil. He looks visibly agitated.
“My little secret. But while you Golden Girls zone out for your afternoon nap, I might just take me a little look-see and see what I can find.”
“Don’t bother. You won’t find it,” says Jere.
“You know I will, but I’ll keep my offer open anyway. You tell me exactly where it is, and I’ll keep my commitment to make life a little easier for you around here.”
“Hard pass,” says Jere, his defiance unqualified.
Phil joins him. “You’re an idiot, Ricky. Do yourself a favour and stay away from the south wing.” That’s it, I need to know Phil’s deal with Graydon’s south wing.
As soon as Rick leaves the cafeteria, there’s a gaggle of conversation as we all talk at once.
“How in tarnation did he get a key to the boiler room!”
“That butthole! If he finds it, we’re done for.”
“The south wing, guys, why can’t we go to the south wing?”
Jere holds up his hand for silence. Uh oh, I think I triggered his story mode.
“Melonie Chu has a private room in 404. She’s got an IF.”
“But not just any IF,” says Phil.
“Hey!” says Jere. “Who’s telling this? Me or you?”
I can’t believe these two. “Somebody, just tell me!”
Phil glares at Jere but sits back in deference, letting him continue. “If you think Rusty here is the perfect guard dog, Mel’s taken it to a whole new level. The old bat’s like 102 or something and absolutely paranoid. She’s got a gigantic panther that prowls the southern wing. It’s under orders to devour any IF it catches that comes anywhere near her.”
“Did you say panther?” I ask.
“Not just a panther,” says Phil with a whisper of dread. He leans toward me as though passing along a military secret. “An armoured panther that shoots ninja stars out of its robotic shoulder cannons. I’m dead serious.”
It’s then that I realize I truly lacked imagination as a child. And here I thought I was special because I came up with twins.
“Mr. Killa, we call it,” says Jere. “But that witch, Mel, calls him Fuzzyboo.”
“Fuzzyboo of death, maybe!” says Phil, his voice veering into sandpaper territory.
“But we all teach our IFs to stay away from the south wing and, as a result, Mel and Mr. Killa aren’t a problem, unless we need to actually get at the Imagalisk.”
“The Imagalisk?” I ask.
“Keep your voice down, Dan,” says Phil, depleting the last of his vocal reserves. “Ricky could be nearby!”
“Is that what’s in the boiler room?”
Jere nods. “Yeah. But now we have to move it before Rick finally finds it.”
Jere feeds Rusty a biscuit, right off his plate. “The Imagalisk is the reason the IFs are returning to us in this place. It’s what lets them cross into reality—touch things.” I can’t help but wonder, if I couldn’t see Rusty, what would I see? Would the biscuit disappear? Or would it still be there? Does Jere eat it and I just think the dog does? I mean, it’s gone, but where does it go?
None of this makes sense, but I find myself swallowing this banquet of crazy nonetheless. The last thing I want is some over-inked punk stealing what might be the only good thing in this place.
“Why does Ricky want the Imaga—— whatever it’s called. What is his IF?”
“What? Ricky ain’t got no IF,” says Jere. “He’s way too young. Or too old, maybe, depending on how you look at it.”
Phil chugs the last of the water in his paper cup, easing the raspy quality to his voice as best he can. “Ricky wants to sell it to Hans.”
“Who?”
Jere rolls his eyes, but thankfully decides to give me the straightest answer he’s ever given me. “A former resident of Graydon. Hans loved his IF just as much as the rest of us. But he was also stinking rich, a condominium developer or something like that. His combo of money and smarts helped him escape this house of horrors. He bribed his trustee and got back control of his finances. He returned to his own mansion, attended by a team of private nurses. But, once he got out of Graydon, his IF disappeared on him.”
“Wait,” I say. “Can’t this Hans guy just come back to Graydon?” It sounds stupid as soon as it leaves my mouth. Who would ever willingly want to come back to this place after getting out?
Jere winces. “He’s got a better idea. He’s put a bounty on the Imagalisk. He’s reached out to some of the less noble amongst Graydon’s staffers and encouraged them to compete with one another to bring it to him. Ricky boy there, in particular, has been working most hard to collect.”
And now he has the key to the boiler room.
This, this is bad. I haven’t even started breakfast and already there’s a lead weight in my stomach.
Jere predicts my last question before I can even ask. “One of our alumni, now passed away, hid the Imagalisk in the boiler room. He knew only a janitor with a key could ever get in there. And trust me, if you know Graydon’s cleaning staff, they’re not going to bother with the boiler room, unless and until the heat in this place completely collapses.”
“That Rick guy said he’s going for the boiler room this afternoon,” I say. “That means it has to be moved before then.”
Jere smiles and leans back in his chair. “I am so glad we have a volunteer.”
Did I just get played?
“You might be the only one who can actually do this, Dan. You have two IFs. One to distract Mr. Killa and another to break into the boiler room. Teamwork could be exactly what we need here.”
I look at Jere not comprehending why he would think I would possibly risk putting Jack and Kate, with their eight-year-old bodies, up against a ninja-panther. And then it happens. I officially choke on the aforementioned banquet of crazy. A believer, I’m all-in.
“Why can’t I just go get it myself? I’m the new guy. I have dementia. I get lost and wander into the wrong place all the time.”
“No, you can’t come with me,” I say as I march down the hall to the south wing. I brandish my tri-fold welcome brochure in front of me like it’s some kind of manifesto, its glossy coloured map of Graydon on its backside. I guess I was going to need to learn the layout eventually.
“Dan,” says Jack. “We’ll always have your back. Letting you go alone into a literal lion’s den is not something we exactly have the DNA for.” Jack and Kate are walking alongside me lockstep, one on my left, one on my right—just like professional eight-year-old bodyguards. All they need are mirrored sunglasses and bulletproof vests.
“Stop it,” I say, coming to a halt. “Can this imaginary panther-thing kill me?”
Jack pauses. “We don’t know. Maybe. He has a physical form here. How far that goes, we don’t know.”
“We’ll call that fifty-fifty. But he can definitely kill you, can’t he?”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“No, we’re not changing the subject or playing Chinese checkers. True or false, Jack? Mr. Killa can pounce on you and rip you apart.” I was a litigator. I know how to cross-examine when I have to.
“I think so, yeah. But it doesn’t matter. We’d take a bullet for you, Dan.”
“Of course, you would. And that’s the problem. You’re already riddled with bullets meant for me, aren’t you?”
Again, silence. It’s just as Phil warned me. It’s as though he’s programmed to refuse to give an answer I won’t like. But it’s far worse than programming. It’s love.
“All right,” I say, turning back toward my room. I’ve made my decision. No more love bullets. “Here’s what I want. The only thing that will make me happy right now is knowing that the two of you are staying safe in my room. You die, I’m sad. Get it? Very unhappy.”
Kate nods slowly, then Jack. I march them back to my room where I will ground them, probably for the very first time in their lives. They look ashen. Maybe one day they’ll understand what tough love is. But since they’ll never be parents, maybe not.
When we arrive. I open the door to my room. “Jack, Kate? Here’s what you do …”
I cross over to my bed, my knees starting to complain from all the walking. I grab the cheap plastic water bottle off my nightstand. I’m going to need that.
“Please take out every card in Jack’s binder and re-org them by super team, then by color, and then by date. I look forward to seeing what it looks like when I get back.” That’s gotta keep them busy for at least an hour.
“But—”
“Every card.” I slam the door shut behind me, not willing to see their faces. Now, to find the stairs down to the boiler room. Let’s just get this over with.
So, I need to figure out how to get around the ninja-panther that guards the south wing, break into the boiler room, steal something even though I forgot to ask what it actually looks like, and do all of this before this Ricky, who already has a key, can beat me to it. Not bad for my second day.
I’m definitely making this up on the fly, but I take a detour to the fish tank I’ve been using as my landmark to find the lunchroom. I’ve got a semblance of an idea germinating in my head. There’s an elderly couple seated in front of the tank watching the multi-coloured fish inside swim endlessly back and forth. I bet they’ve been at it for hours.
I mutter an apology as I rip off the top of the tank and let it tumble to the floor. It’s too heavy for me to exercise any kind of care. Then, using the tiny fish net at the side of the tank I start collecting the tank’s occupants and transfer them into my water bottle. Cats like to eat fish, don’t they?
I’m going to get in serious trouble for this, but I figure if I can’t pay for the fish and somehow blame it on my dementia, my worst case is getting kicked out of Graydon. That might not be such a bad thing. The couple enjoying the fish tank are stunned, unable to speak. Sanity never knows what to do when confronted with crazy.
I seal my water bottle with its screw-top lid and head for the south wing.
“Hey!” calls a raspy voice behind me. In one hand, I have a water bottle. In the other, a folded piece of brightly coloured paper. It looks like a map. They must belong to me.
I turn toward the voice. There’s an old man in a wheelchair, wheeling toward me. He’s bald and as soon as he gets close, I can smell a foul stench.
“You OK, Dan? You don’t look right,” he says.
Cover! Says a voice somewhere inside my head. I’m in trouble. That means I can’t let them know what I don’t know.
“I’m fine!” I say as positively as I can. He called me Dan. That feels right, of course I am.
Where am I? A hospital?
“I’ve come to help. Jere is going to find Ricky and try to delay him as long as possible.”
“Good,” I say. That’s what he wants to hear. There’s a Jere, and there’s a Ricky. It sounds like something important is happening. That makes sense; I’m most like to start forgetting things when I’m stressed up the wazoo.
I can already feel the disc in my head spinning. I know all of this. I just need my brain to somehow access it. It’s like there’s something in the way and I have to push past it. I hate this.
“What’s the water bottle for?”
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Water.”
“Right,” says the smelly old guy. I am also old. That much I know; my hands are gnarled and—
“I didn’t bring my IF though,” says the man in the wheelchair. “The last time I brought him to the south wing, he was almost destroyed.”
Hold it. The piece of paper I am holding has the words “south wing” on it. It also says “Graydon Manor” at the top. That might be where I am now.
“Forget what Jere said, you’re smart to leave your IFs behind.” My IFs are Jack and Kate. I would never … Jack and Kate! Just the thought of them gets my brain disc spinning faster. Concepts come flooding back to me, out of order, unprioritised. My wife’s Maria. She’s not with me anymore. My daughter’s Jennie. I never admitted to anyone that I came within a hair’s breadth of dropping out of law school. I … The Imagalisk! I need to get to the Imagalisk before Rick does!
“Phil!” I suddenly blurt out as his name populates in my mind. The lights are back on.
“What?”
“You, uh, never told me who your IF is.” OK, I think I’m oriented, but I don’t know how long I spaced out for.
“Oh, sure,” he says, his face lighting up as he takes the bait. Jack’s been teaching me a lot about deflection as of late. “I call him Sir Lance-a-Lot. He’s a glowing magical shield, like a medieval thing. He hangs over my door when I’m not carrying him.”
Dang. A shield as an imaginary friend? That’s pretty weird, but I guess so is Phil. I step in behind him and start pushing his chair so we go faster, looking to make up some time. Phil doesn’t seem to mind. I hand him my water bottle, which I now remember has the fish I stole in it.
“Let’s just say ol’ Lance protected me from a lot of bad things when I was a kid.”
I’d like to ask what, but maybe now’s not the time.
And then, I see it.
There, at the end of the hall. A gigantic beast of shimmering black fur, crouched like it’s ready to pounce. Just like Jere’s dog, it’s there, but at the same time also not there, almost translucent. If I wasn’t looking, I might have missed it and walked us right into it.
It certainly hasn’t missed us—its unblinking eyes are locked onto me. The Clydesdale-sized monster is either picking its moment or waiting for me to wheel Phil over some invisible line that marks its territory. Phil wasn’t kidding about the shoulder cannons, either. There’s some kind of laser guns or rockets nestled on the panther, like massive iron saddlebags.
Whatever they are, they’re aimed at us. I can’t help but think that Phil’s Lance-a-Lot might have come in handy right about now. It’s doubtful I’m going to get us close enough to even show Mr. Killa my water bottle of fish.
“You see that too, right?”
Phil just nods, as though frozen in terror. I start slowly wheeling him backward, in retreat. We’re not going that way.
I reverse all the way back into a nursing station, and the desk nurse on duty looks up from her oversized computer monitor and asks if I’m OK. All along her countertop is a scattering of patient charts and what I imagine are nursing and feeding schedules. Her phone is covered in a nest of yellow sticky-tab messages.
A phone. I might have another idea. Maybe we’re making this harder than it needs to be.
“Phil,” I whisper. “Do you think you could distract that nurse so I can get behind that desk?”
Phil doesn’t react right away. He only nods slowly, his stare almost blank. I am not sure if he gets my meaning. But then, “Nurse Marta,” he says suddenly, waving his arms. “You need to come quick! Angus is choking in the parlour room again. He’s got gum!”
“Gum!?” To Marta’s credit, she reacts swiftly and races down the hall, Phil wheeling himself slowly after her, shouting words of encouragement as he embellishes the tale.
Phil’s deception, combined with the apparent medical history of someone named Angus, has just left me with unfettered access to the nursing station. All I want is the phone.
I step behind the desk, and that’s when it hits me. I’ve been struggling with this infernal device for quite a while now. I pick up the receiver and get a tone. That’s good. Now do I need to press one or nine for an outside line? No, I don’t want an outside line. This should be easy. I think I just need to know Melanie Chu’s room number. What did Jere say it was?
Now I’m really going to put my brain to the test. Jack and Kate, I chant, Jack and Kate. Spin brain disc, spin! 404 … Jere said she was in room 404! I press the three numbers on the phone’s dialler one at a time slowly, left-middle, bottom-center, left-middle. Just when I start to curse my ineptitude I am rewarded by the ringing of the phone. I did it! Now she just needs to pick up. And she needs to be slightly less crazy than advertised.
She does pick up. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon,” I say as confidently as I can, “Ms. Chu?” Before I know it, I’m introducing myself to the infamous Mel, dark witch of the south wing. I’m improvising, but I think I know what to do. I compliment her on Fuzzyboo and his shiny coat, taking care not to refer to him as Mr. Killa. Yes, I too have an imaginary friend, two actually. Yes, I am quite new to Graydon Manor. I explain I’m just looking to head down to the boiler room on a very important errand and would she be willing to have her friend please stand down.
It works! Mr. Killa suddenly sits down and starts licking his paws, his gigantic claws retracted. There’s just one catch. Ms. Chu asks that I first stop by her room on the way over. Obviously, I’m on the clock and can’t afford a detour. But when I look again at Mr. Killa, I realize the only answer here is to say, “I’d be delighted.”
I put down the receiver and head down the hall, scurrying away before nurse Marta returns. I am escorted by the biggest cat I have ever seen. The top of my head is level with its shoulder blade. And in Mr. Killa’s case, his cyborg-like shoulders look like they’re from some kind of postapocalyptic military movie. I find myself wondering, what kind of child could have possibly come up with this?
When I reach room 404, I knock with trepidation and enter. Mr. Killa follows me in, like my shadow. He circles the room twice before finally curling up on the floor in front of the sunlit window, taking up most of the space. His eyes, though, never leave me.
Ms. Chu—Mel—is in her bed. Her long hair is a cascade of messy silver strands, an unkept waterfall that hides much of her dark wrinkled face. I can’t decide if she is deliberately sending me a sour expression or if she just naturally looks like a dehydrated prune.
She lays on her side curled up, almost in a fetal position, a thin laundered sheet of blue draped over her tiny form. I can tell she’s at that late stage of frailty where she’s forced to do that for most of her day, probably battling bed sores. There’s a wheelchair beside her adjustable bed frame, and I’d wager it doesn’t get much use anymore. I spot her catheter and the bag of ocher-yellow on the opposite side of the bed. Might not be that long before I too enjoy one of those.
Mel speaks in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. She tells me she doesn’t get a lot of visitors. I wonder how much of that has to do with the fact that she is guarded by a living weapon with enough lethality to make the Pentagon jealous. Whatever her social deprivation may be though, there’s no question she is still pretty sharp. Mel is very interested in exactly why a new resident would want to go to the boiler room.
Jere probably wouldn’t like this, but I see no reason not to level with her. I tell her about Hans Meyer and Ricky and their plot to steal the Imagalisk. I try to do it in a way that doesn’t make me sound too crazy, but quickly realize there isn’t such a way, so I just lean into it.
As we talk, I clue in that she knows far more about the Imagalisk than she’s let on. I figure out too late that she may well be concerned that it might be me who’s actually trying to steal it. I just told the paranoid lady I’m hunting the very treasure her most cherished friend by the window relies upon.
Desperate to reassure her I’m not the bad guy here, I come up with the bright idea that she can have Fuzzyboo follow me to the boiler room and give him orders to devour me if I try to take the Imagalisk out of Graydon. I assure her my self-interest is in protecting my own IFs; removing it is the last thing I want. She eyes me with suspicion—she doesn’t see them anywhere with me.
Her snow-white hair falls over her wrinkled face in messy strands as she fights to sit up so she can look me up and down. “What kind of a person doesn’t travel with their IF?”
One who doesn’t want them eaten by Mr. Killa. But I don’t say that aloud.
I’m starting to get the measure of Ms. Chu. Jere wasn’t entirely wrong when he uncharitably labelled her a paranoid; she’s incredibly suspicious. I guess I might be, too, if I last at Graydon long enough.
“A bad choice by someone brand-new to Graydon Manor,” I try. “And one I’m regretting already. If you want to see them, Fuzzyboo and I can head there first and bring them here. I say ‘them’ because I’ve got two actually—twins.”
I’m surprised by the pride in my voice, like I made them out of play clay and want to show them off. But there’s no time for this. This is already one side quest too many.
Maybe she’s smart enough to realize the risk to her if I’m actually telling the truth, or maybe she just can’t stand to see me fidget like a demented squirrel, but either way she finally relents, satisfied with my proposal of Fuzzyboo as an escort.
I show her my brochure, and she gives me directions to where she thinks the stairs down to the boiler room are. She’s never been inside but says she has passed by the door enough times.
As I leave, Mr. Killa takes one last look at Mel as though receiving silent instructions. He then pads softly after me. He’s different now. Were it possible, he’s even more alert, and I can feel the weight of his stare as his eyes bore into my back. It takes me a few moments to fully cotton on, but this didn’t go nearly as well as I thought it did. Somewhere along the way, I completely lost my trust privileges. I definitely have much more than just Rick to worry about.
I’ve reached the unmarked door where Ms. Chu said I would find the boiler room. With no other residents nearby to see me enter, I swing the door open and step through. Inside, I find a landing atop a poorly lit stairwell. From there, steps lead down to a basement where the reek of dank concrete is ever-present.
Fortunately—for now at least—my brain disc seems to be spinning just fine. I’m increasingly worried just how well it’ll hold up with Mr. Killa silently tracing my steps, just four or five paces behind, almost daring me to give him the slightest reason to pounce. Before the door can swing closed, the beast darts forward and catches it with his nose, pushing his way inside to join me on the now-crowded landing.
I ignore him and fight my way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the wooden banister. My hip objects, but I make it. At the bottom is another door, this time with a tiny plastic plate marked Boiler Room.
That’s fantastic, but as soon as I push the handle, I realize that it’s locked and I have no idea how I’m going to get it open. Of course, it would be locked. That’s why Ricky had a key. I must have somehow envisioned that I would just bust the door in commando style, but I’ve overlooked that I’ve left my battering ram in my other castle.
Then it hits me. I remember last night and the pride with which Jack lifted my fork from my dinner tray. Mr. Killa here can smash the door for me. The cat hasn’t spoken a word since I’ve met him, but I’m willing to bet he understands me just fine.
I look to him, gesture to the door, and tell him he’s up. He balks. No doubt his instructions didn’t cover bashing in the doors of Graydon Manor.
“C’mon,” I say. “Are we protecting the Imagalisk or not?”
That seems to work. Mr. Killa makes a sideways gesture with his head, which I take as his warning for me to stand aside. As soon as I clear to the left of the door, he coils into a spring and jumps at it. The lock doesn’t just break. The entire door flies off its hinges—in a thunderclap—and it sails into the darkened room beyond.
Someone had to have heard that. I’m officially on the clock. I waste no time blundering into the shadows of the huge cellar. I struggle until I find the light, a single naked bulb mounted in the ceiling, activated by a ragged piece of hanging string.
Once I give that a pull, I see I am surrounded by a bird’s nest of copper pipes, each winding its way to or from one of what must be at least six different water heaters. The cement floor below is stained with rust, a dozen orange trails snaking along the floor toward a grate in the center of the room. The next obstacle is somehow finding the Imagalisk in here. Without knowing what it looks like …
Got it.
At the very back of the boiler room is what can only be described as some kind of shrine. Sitting on a workbench is a child’s wooden dollhouse, the kind that lacks a fourth wall so you can see all the tiny furniture inside. On the top level, in the mini master bedroom, is a gemstone, one all glowy with a silvered light. It defies physics, floating just above the toy double bed, screaming, “wondrous magical artifact that might just exist only in your deteriorating mind.” Perhaps only people with IFs can see it, or surely whoever comes down here to maintain the boiler would have noticed it long ago. Does that mean Rick will never be able to find it? Or will he just nick the whole dollhouse?
I won’t take the chance. I squeeze my way through a pair of cylindrical boilers and fight my way to the shrine. I reach out and grab for the orb of silver, hoping it won’t explode or fry my brain at my touch.
“Sneaky! Sneaky!” calls a voice from behind. I spin around, the Imagalisk firmly in my hand.
It’s Ricky. Of course, it is. I was so close.
“So,” he says, his beady eyes flashing with triumph. “Our newest guest is caught red-handed trying to steal Mr. Meyer’s property.”
This is really bad. “Listen, Rick,” I try. “I don’t really know who this Meyer guy is, but from what I hear, it’s not his, either.”
“You’re not a real resident, are you? You just got yourself admitted as a pretence to break in here.”
He thinks I’m a spy? Like what, I’m the James Bond of long-term care facilities? OK, so yes, this just turned out horrible. No worries though, I still have Godzilla here as my ally.
That’s when I realize Mr. Killa has completely and utterly disappeared. Did he even follow me into the boiler room? Wait, did I make him disappear when I grabbed the Imagalisk?
Rick steps forward, his sleeves carefully rolled up to show off his biceps. “Hand it over, old man. It’s my ticket out of here. You give it up without a fuss, and maybe I’ll leave some of your bones unbroken.”
I look down at my hand and see the Imagalisk is no longer glowing. Now that I’ve removed it from the dollhouse it’s just some kind of metal cube with engraved inscriptions on it—some language I don’t understand. And, from the look in his eye, I can tell that Rick can clearly see the cube. All I’ve done here is make everything worse.
“How much is Meyer paying you?” I ask. “I can pay more.” I seriously doubt that’s true. But, since this is all about greed, let’s see where that gets me.
Nowhere.
He strides forward and grabs me with both of his hands, lifting me right off the ground. How light am I? He carries me right out of the boiler room.
“Last chance, old man. Gimme the thing.”
He tries to pry my hand right open. But I close my fist around the Imagalisk as hard as I can and shake my head. He’ll have to loot it from my corpse.
It’s a concept he seems to be quite OK with. He slams me against the broken doorjamb. But as my head smacks against the wood, the violence seems to inspire him.
“You know what? I don’t know how you trashed the door, but you’re going to need to take the fall for that. And by fall, I mean literally.”
“So,” he says, not to me, but speaking to himself. “I found you at the bottom of the stairs. You must have had a senior moment, got lost … and wandered over to the top of the stairs … there. You then slipped on the top step and tumbled down, crashing into the door at the bottom here, breaking your hips and what not. Yeah, that works.”
At that, he begins to drag me up the stairs to put his plan in motion. As he does, the concrete steps suddenly begin to look bigger and bigger, as though I’m being raised to the top of a cliff. What a criminal mastermind this dope is. But as ridiculous as his plan sounds, I don’t doubt the part where I break into pieces and die. I choose my next words carefully in hope that they won’t be my last.
“Wait, I can—”
Nope. He hurls me from the top of the stairs. I’m so useless I can’t even manage to hang on to the Imagalisk as I die. It falls from my fingers and I crash … into the softest landing I’ve ever had.
It’s Kate! Somehow, she’s here, appearing from nowhere. And she catches me, right before I smash myself into a thousand shards of broken bones.
She’s holding my head in her hands, cradling me like a pillow.
I look up at her. “I told you to stay in the room,” I manage.
Her eyes narrow, her expression stern. “We’re your friends, Dan, not your slaves.”
As Kate helps me climb to my feet, I see that Jack is here too, already at the top of the stairs, standing right in front of Rick. Rick though can’t seem to see him—that punk is still staring down at me, a bewildered look on his face as he tries to piece together why my skull isn’t split open and bleeding brain juice.
With his back turned to me, I can’t see Jack’s face, but I know Jack, and I know he will be pissed. He definitely means to test his theory that he can throw a punch inside Graydon Manor. A second later, his right cross flies, decking Rick in the jaw. Rick staggers backward from the hit.
I, too, am hit, only it’s with a bolt of realization. The sudden return of Jack and Kate must mean Mr. Killa is back as well. I spin, putting Kate behind me as I peer into the boiler room. I’m right, the beast never left. He just stopped “being” for a half minute when I grabbed the Imagalisk cube.
I can read that cat’s intentions like a book outlined with yellow highlighter. The return of Jack and Kate is interpreted as a breach of my deal with Ms. Chu. Its eyes lock onto Kate. Its shoulder-mounted cannons emit a dull hum, intensifying in pitch and volume as the barrels track her with exacting precision.
“No!” I cry. “Don’t shoot!” I try to block his line of fire to Kate. Fuzzyboo coils his muscles like a spring, ready to pounce around me—or through me.
I see it! The Imagalisk! Amongst the ruins of the shattered doorjamb. I need that back in my hand!
Mr. Killa pounces. I grab it! The panther vanishes mid-leap. Kate’s gone, too. I just hope wherever they go, they don’t interact with each other. I think they both just cease existing. I hope, I hope. Jack is gone, too.
But, with Jack no longer there, there’s nothing to stop Rick from coming back down the stairs. He massages his jaw as he slowly makes his way. He’s beyond mad. He has almost the same predatory look that I just saw in the eyes of Mr. Killa. This would be right about the time when my stupid brain decides to shut down on me. I’m so scared I almost hope it does.
That’s it then. I have to choose. I can drop the Imagalisk again. That’ll give me my super-friend bodyguards back. But also Fuzzyboo.
“I don’t know how you did that, old man,” says Rick, his voice as cold as liquid helium, “but I’m going to make sure you never do it again.”
No, there is no choice here. This is easy. I’m an old man with few things left on my list to live for. It’s more important that Jack and Kate survive. But, if I don’t have their help, I die, and Rick gets the Imagalisk. And then, none of it matters anyway.
I need a third option. I need a Winston maneuver.
I drop the Imagalisk for the second time. This time I’m ready, and it’s like it falls in slow motion. As soon as it leaves my hand, I dive for Kate, right as she pops back into existence. We collide, crashing to the ground but I knock her out of the panther’s path. The beast sails over top of us, though it agilely swivels on a dime as soon as it lands.
Illustration by Arthur HaywoodLong description
“Fuzzyboo!” I shout. I’m pointing to the discarded Imagalisk, my brain disc spinning on full.
“Who you calling Fuzzyboo, dead man?” says Rick. He’s done descending the stairs. He stands right over top of me contemplating his coup de grâce.
“That’s it there! The Imagalisk! Take it to your friend! Take it to Mel! It’s hers! Don’t let anyone else have it. Take it now!” Trust me or don’t trust me, you stupid kill machine. Just take it away from here!
The beast just sits there, considering my proposal as my heart skips a beat. But then Rick, still thinking I’m somehow talking to him, spots the Imagalisk on the ground as well. He bends over to grab it. Stupid cat! We’re too late.
And then, just as Rick’s fingers begin to close around the Imagalisk, Fuzzyboo snaps out a claw and snatches it from right under his hand.
I exhale. Transferring his prize into his jaw, Fuzzyboo sweeps Rick aside like an afterthought as he turns back for the stairs. Jack barely dives out of the way as the panther bounds up for the top landing, five steps at a time. It’s only then that I realize that I’m right. Jack and Kate can stay.
But there’s one person among us who hasn’t yet caught on.
“Hey, Ricky,” I say. “You too young to know what a poltergeist is?”
His face is scrunched inward in flat-out astonishment. I’m guessing he just watched the Imagalisk cube fly right up the stairs.
Jack and Kate descend on him, and it’s not long until he runs away screaming.
“And, after all that, you just gave it to Chu?” says Phil, glaring at me across the cafeteria table. “We’re done for!”
I shrug. “I did what I had to do.”
Phil is apoplectic. “What you had to do? How can you—?”
Jere holds up his hand to cut Phil’s tirade short. He slowly swirls his mashed potatoes with his fork as though deep in thought, creating a watery white cyclone spreading to the edges of his plate. “Now, hold on, Phil. This could be far better than it seems.”
“Better than it seems?” says Phil. “The Imagalisk is in the hands of the Dark Witch herself!”
“Where it just might be the safest it’s ever been,” says Jere. “She’ll be the last person to destroy it.”
I say nothing and wait for Phil to catch up. I’ve come to appreciate I’m not the fastest either these days and perhaps I need to learn to dial back the judgment. But from where I sit, it doesn’t matter to us where the Imagalisk is as long as it remains inside of Graydon. I spent the rest of the afternoon confirming that Jack and Kate are still here, and here to stay, as are everyone else’s IFs. And, if Rick ever tries to steal the Imagalisk again, he’ll have to deal with the paranoid Ms. Chu and her guard monster. If anything, it’s an upgrade from the boiler room.
I doubt he’ll even try. With his smashed-up face, it could be days or weeks before Rick dares to come back to Graydon, if he does at all. And, if he does, I expect he’ll avoid me and my apparent supernatural powers like the plague. If not, there’s an entire manor full of invisible IFs who will go to bat for me. I’ve never felt more safe.
“C’mon, Phil,” I try. “We’re still in the game. What do you say?”
He glares at me. He’s far from convinced. But at least he seems to be calming down.
“I … have questions,” he says. “Like why did the IFs disappear when you grabbed the Imagalisk? And back in the south wing there, how come you gave me your water bottle?” He unscrews the lid. “And why are there colored fish inside?”
“Oh,” I say. I forgot about that. “We should probably return those.”
This evening I’m in my room playing Chinese checkers with Jack and Kate. I’m distracted because I’ve been thinking hard on Phil’s question. What exactly did happen to them when I grabbed the Imagalisk with my hand? It makes for a disjointed match and it’s coming to a head when the phone in my room suddenly rings. Thankfully, when I’m the recipient of a call, I don’t have to bother myself with what numbers to punch on the dialler. I can just pick up the receiver and the stupid thing works.
It’s Jennie! Calling all the way from Tulsa. I can hear her dishwasher whining away in the background. She apologizes for taking so long to call. She’s being diplomatic, but what she really wants to know is how much I hate the place her brother has dumped me in.
I look over at Jack and Kate as I answer. “Not to worry, I like it just fine. You know what? You should really come and visit sometime.”
Kate smiles at me as she moves a marble, completely screwing up the trap I had set for her. I should have seen it coming. Kate never got to meet Jennie. I suppose she and Jack first vanished decades before my Jennie was ever even born. But I think she’d like her. Even if Jennie won’t be able to see her.
“When? Anytime. Just come up and see. I hope to be here a very long while.”
Imagine that.