Vital Signs

Part 21

I hit him hard with my shoulder in the small of his back and wrap my arms around his chubby torso. His head snaps back. It's dark and my vision is obscured but out of the corner of my eye, I think I see his head pop off.

When we crash-land on the turf I hear a grunting "Ooof," followed by a whiny voice. It sounds like he's crying. I release him and scramble to my feet. Lying in the grass a few yards away is a blonde wig.

"Please don't call the police," says a familiar voice.

I roll him over to discover it's Bernie! 

"Please, please, please don't call the police." He wipes his bleeding nose and sniffles when he discovers that his sunglasses are broken.

I see a pair of cheap binoculars embedded in the lawn a few feet away.

"Binoculars?"

"Those aren't mine. I don't know how those got there."

Josh charges holding a long sharp gardening tool, which he thrusts at the broken man sprawled on the ground. "Look what you did to my lawn!"

Bernie screams.

"Don't you move," Josh growls. "The cops are on their way."

"Please, Phil." Bernie eyes the razor-sharp teeth inches from his face.

"You know this guy?" My neighbor wheezes.

Megan steps out onto the porch, Jillian peeks out from behind her legs.

"Phil, are you okay?" she calls.

"Yeah, fine."

"Who is this?" Josh presses.

"Guy I used to work with."

"What the hell was he doing tromping around in my garden?"

"He's lying right there. Why don't you ask him?"

Bernie repeats, "Please don't call the cops" just as a police cruiser arrives.

"You're paying for those gardenias," Josh fumes, jabbing at Bernie with his spear.

                                                                                                  #######

From our living room window, we watch Bernie escorted to the police car. The neighbors across the street drift out onto their front lawns and sidewalks taking in the bizarre events.

"That was awesome," says Jillian. "Dad tackling that dude right in our front yard!"

"Actually, it was the neighbor's front yard," I reply.

"You better wash those chemicals off you."

"Yeah. Good idea."

"That's enough excitement for one night," says Megan. "The show's over. Off to bed with you."

"Good-night," she says and jogs up the stairs.

Megs lowers her voice. "So now they're sending people to spy on you? At our home?"

"Bernie is an amateur. Big corporations don't hire amateurs to conduct surveillance."

She crosses her arms tightly. "Where did you get that?"

"Brenna," I say quietly.

My one-word response sucks all the air out of the room.

"Brenna? My sister, Brenna?" She drops her arms.

I lower my eyes. "Yeah, I met her in Harrisburg today. So she could maybe give me some advice."

"You met my sister in Harrisburg?"

"She said she'd help." I try to interject a note of optimism.

I can feel the tension rising in tandem with her anger.

"Did you stop to think that this might be her way of getting back at me?"

"No. I don't think so. It's not like that."

"So, you know my sister better than I do."

"I didn't say that."

Megan's face is crimson. She begins to say something, swallows her sentence then struggles to compose herself."

"Phil, I've been trying to help you get through whatever this is. I've been trying really hard."

"I know."

"I've been trying to support you. But..."

My chest tightens when I spot tears in her eyes.

"I don't know what I can do. You're keeping secrets and sneaking around. It's just too much."

"I thought you'd be mad if I told you."

"You thought I'd be mad?"

I nod.

"You've got people from work creeping around our house at night, probably listening in on our calls, watching us. And it only now occurs to you that would make me angry?"

"Uh..."

"I have no follow-up questions."

She storms up the stairs.

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10:38. In my home office, I find my old smartphone and begin building my ghost phone. I download the Hush app and a VPN package that looks like it's going to take a while to install.

Scattered around the base of Jilly-bean's handmade pencil holder on my desk is a small pile of polished stones. I scoop three of the stones into my hand and reverently manipulate them like stress balls. The sound of the quiet scratching of the stones calms me. My breathing slows.

The house is eerily quiet. My daughter must be asleep by now. I can feel my wife's presence in the house but she's a ghost. I don't hear her footsteps, I don't hear the television, I don't hear the bed creaking. But I feel the weight of her anger.

Finally, I understand that the price of my irrational behavior exceeds what I can afford. Too often I have deluded myself with the arrogant notion that once I set off on a course I will find a way to navigate back home. One way or another, I've always been able to do that. Now, for the first time, I face the grim reality that I may have traveled too far into the woods. I am lost and alone, wishing I could start again with a reliable compass that could prevent me from veering off the trail. But wishing is not a strategy. And I desperately need to find my way back home.