Lewis had been deaf for twenty-nine hours, the last three of which he’d spent sitting at the bar in the Palm Room, unable to hear the piano player and finding this wonderful. Not being able to hear meant he didn’t have to listen. He was no longer forced to notice the symmetrical sharpness of squealing bus brakes, or the concise melody of an elevator door opening, or the ramshackle perfection of a slightly out-of-tune piano played by a slightly inebriated man wasting his talent. Without sound, the world was a muted television that Lewis could watch or ignore as he pleased. He felt perfect in his perfectly silent world until, having set his glass on the bar, he noticed a tiny version of his wife swimming in his drink.
Lewis watched as she broke the surface and climbed the ice cubes to the top of the glass. She jumped, landed on the bar and ran towards a martini glass filled with toothpicks. Her steps left behind footprints that looked like single drops of water. Approaching the martini glass, she slammed her body against the stem, tipping it over and spilling the toothpicks. As Lewis watched, she began pushing the toothpicks across the bar. He didn’t immediately realize that she was spelling.
“Have to what? Be clear. Be more specific. I have to what?” Lewis said.
The toothpicks were slightly longer then she was. He found it very hard to watch her struggle, but he didn’t want to get in her way. Lewis feared she would disappear before conveying her message. Hovering over the bar, Lewis watched the tiny version of his wife continue to spell. She pushed toothpicks this way and that. Finally, she stopped, stepped back and looked up at him, clearly exhausted. She had spelt:
“Ah, baby. What are you saying? What are you saying?”
Lewis felt a tug on his sleeve and recognized the bitten fingernails and purple polish. He looked back down at the bar, but the tiny version of his wife was gone. Jerking his arm to remove the hand, he scattered the toothpicks. He took long strides out of the Palm Room, resisting the urge to run.
He headed towards the elevator. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the woman who claimed to be God was following him, and he quickened his pace. He reached the elevators and pushed the up button. All four of the doors remained closed. Lewis pressed the button again, and then pressed it repeatedly. The elevators remained closed. Lisa continued her approach. With as much composure as possible, Lewis turned from the elevators and jogged to the revolving doors and out of the hotel.
The night his wife died, Lewis had fallen asleep in front of the television. Something—he wasn’t sure what—had woken him. It was still dark, although he couldn’t judge whether it was late at night or early in the morning. He turned off the television, and the resulting silence caused a slight panic. The house was completely still, as if everything had been unplugged, and Lewis sat in this stillness, not liking it. These feelings intensified until Lewis closed his eyes and put his fingers in his ears. He did not know how long he stayed like that, but he jumped when he felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder, although he didn’t take his fingers out of his ears.
The apartment they’d returned to after the tour was smaller than many of the hotel rooms they’d stayed in. As The Impostors, they’d played medium-sized venues in fourteen countries, as well as opening for The Voltage on eight stadium dates along the eastern coast of the United States. Both Lewis and Lisa described the tour as a success, but there was one major difference: Lewis called it their first tour, and Lisa their only. She wanted to start working on something new, whereas Lewis believed, strongly, that The Impostors was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that they’d be stupid not to exploit. They’d been home for sixteen days, and the tension between them had slowly but persistently increased.
“Come to bed,” Lisa said. Lewis took his fingers out of his ears. “Come to bed,” she repeated.
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Lewis walked up the stairs behind her, keeping a loose grip on her hand. She got into bed. Lewis got into bed beside her, but he did not take off his clothes. The alarm clock on the nightstand ticked. This ticking was consistent, and it made Lewis feel safe. “I’m just kinda lost,” he said.
“I know.”
“We made so much money. We should do it again.”
“But we didn’t do it for the money.”
“I know.”
“It’s not really about the money, is it?”
“No.”
“What is it, then?” Lisa asked. When he didn’t answer, she waited. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he spoke.
“Even though I know this is fake, I still like it better than what I really am. I’m afraid of being normal again.”
“You’re afraid of being in the audience.”
“That’s a good way to put it.”
“What makes you afraid of that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should find out,” she said. “And you should take off your clothes.”
Lewis did as Lisa suggested. He turned so his toes touched her ankles and fell asleep thinking everything was, or would be, fine.
At the top of the hotel steps, Lewis began to run. He pushed through a wedding party exiting a limo and went west on Broadway. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Lisa knock a bridesmaid to the ground, then continue her pursuit. By Smith Street, the pain in his side was immense, but he continued running. By Donald Street, the tightness at the top of his legs was overwhelming, but he ignored it. At Hargrave Street, Lewis looked over his shoulder. Lisa looked angry. By Edmonton Street, she was furious, and she’d begun closing the gap between them.
Having reached the Manitoba Legislative Building, Lewis was cutting across the lawn when Lisa tackled him from behind, pushing him off his feet. His upper body struck the grass with considerable force, ripping the stitching in the shoulder of his jacket. His face slid through the grass, which smelled like it had recently been cut. With surprising strength, Lisa flipped Lewis onto his back. She pinned his shoulders with her knees. Lewis struggled but could not move.
Lisa leaned down until her face was very close to his. “Your wife dies and I’m supposed to care? I’ve never even met her!” she yelled, her spit landing on Lewis’s nose and eyelids. “I didn’t kill your wife. I’m not making it so things don’t work out for you. I’m sick of being blamed for everything!”
Lewis watched her mouth open and close, and then shut his eyes to avoid the spray. Feeling her knees digging deeper into his shoulders, he opened his eyes. Her face was so close to his that Lewis couldn’t focus on it.
“But at least I’m not running around putting a beginning, middle and end on everything,” she said, letting go of his collar. She exhaled and then leaned towards him again, so close that their noses touched. “Have you people never noticed that there’s a central flaw? No? Here comes the clue—the only difference between a happy ending and a sad ending is where you decide the story ends.”
Out of breath, Lisa rolled off Lewis. She pulled down her dress and lay on her back, panting.
Lewis, of course, had heard none of it, and he continued to wonder what she’d said. “Lisa?” he asked.
But Lisa did not turn to look at him. Instead, she stood up and began walking away, without looking over her shoulder. Lewis noticed a strange thing: although Lisa continued to get smaller, the objects around her did not. It did not look like she was receding into the distance, but like she was walking in place while decreasing in size.
“Lisa!” Lewis screamed.
Lisa still did not reply. She got smaller and smaller, and when she disappeared, so did Lewis’s sight. First primary colours, then secondary colours, then all shades of grey and then all shades of white, until only black remained. He sat on the lawn of the Manitoba Legislative Building, blinking and rubbing his eyes, but he remained completely blind.
