What Hides Within (12 page)

"Asshole!" Clive heard clearly as the driver of the Ram passed him by. The extended middle finger was a nice touch, one which Clive felt inclined to share, but he resisted the urge to do so. He kept his road rage in check, knowing he was at fault.

More properly, it was all the voice in his head's fault, at least as far as Clive was concerned. "Now I know I need to get rid of you. You're definitely all harm and no good."

Ingrate. I just saved your life. I could take it just as easily.

"I wouldn't have been in the situation in the first place if it hadn't been for you."

What a harsh thing to say. I'm hurt, Clive. Really, I am. Can't we be friends and move beyond all this bullshit?

Clive scowled at the coffee congealing on his dashboard and dripping onto his floor mat. "I'm afraid not. In fact, I don't even know why I'm talking to you. I got better things to do than waste my time talking with a figment of my dysfunctional imagination."

Is that all you think of me, Clive? And here I was, thinking we were finally starting to bond.

A high-pitched vibration rumbled lightly through Clive's head. He soon realized that the voice was laughing.
You're breaking my heart
, it mocked.

Clive refused to pay his conversation partner further attention. His mind was fragile and ordinary, but it was still his. He wasn't going to lose it without a fight. He picked up his cellphone and dialed the first person that came to his mind. Clive needed to hear another's voice, the voice of someone real.

A warm, familiar voice answered. "Hi, Cli. How did everything go?"

"Oh, you know, as well as can be expected, I guess."

Clive was rattled, his thoughts unclear and his uneasiness noticeable to anyone paying attention. Morgan, who knew him better than anyone, would definitely notice.

"Clive, are you okay? You sound stressed."

"This probably isn't something I should tell you over the phone. Can you meet me at Chili's or somewhere else? I'll fill you in on everything there."

"Chili's sounds fine. Are you on your way there now?

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

***

Morgan glanced down at the tangible reflection her face cast in her chicken tortilla soup. She couldn't make out her features in the reflection. It bore no signs of her worry and her fear for Clive.

Across the table, Clive poked his cooling fajitas with a fork. He had barely eaten more than a bite. He sat in silence, giving Morgan time to mull over the news he had unloaded on her.

"A tumor?"

Morgan wasn't prepared for this information. How could she prepare herself for the news that her best friend may die at the hands of some unseen, biological menace?

Clive took Morgan's hand as it rested on the table. She pulled away.

"I know how it sounds, but I'm fine."

"And they have to open your skull for that?"

"How else are they going to get to it?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, Cli." She looked away, holding back her tears.

"Well, to be fair, Dr. Landenberg--"

"Who?"

"He's the one performing the operation. I swear Dr. Severn's role was just to add more money to all their pockets and another idiot to the equation. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Landenberg said that sometimes they can actually remove certain tumors by going through the nose with a tiny drill. It's all computer-guided, taking the brains out of brain surgery. Although from what I've experienced these last few days, there were never any brains in it to begin with."

"Sounds high-tech. Why don't they do that?"

"The location of the tumor makes it difficult. It's a relatively small mass on the surface of my frontal lobe. My doctors say that this part of my brain is important. It controls my reasoning and problem-solving abilities, my impulse control, which is probably already damaged anyway, and motor control, and it plays some role in emotion and memory, too. Don't ask me how they know all that. But I've seen enough movies to know that people don't do too well after they have their frontal lobes cut into. I believe it's called a lobotomy. Needless to say, the slightest error could lead to catastrophic results, at least for me. Worst case scenario, I end up like George W. Bush."

"This isn't something to joke about, Clive," Morgan scolded. "I'm worried about you."

Only fifteen minutes ago, Clive had called her nearly hysterical. Now, he had himself together, while she was left in turmoil. It was as though through her chaos, Clive found peace, his hysteria left for her to inherit.

"You shouldn't bother. I'll be fine. I'm sure the doctors know what they're doing. My chances of death are low."

"You could die?" If Clive's intention was to pacify Morgan's anxiety, he was failing miserably.

Clive backtracked. "My chances of dying from the operation are slim, practically no chance at all. The alternative, leaving the tumor where it is, would allow the malignant cells to spread, multiplying until my gray matter no longer matters. That would be certain death."

"You aren't making me feel any better about this."

Clive appeared completely calm. How could he be certain his operation would be successful? Didn't he care about his own life?

"I'm telling you, Morgan. Don't worry about it. If anything goes wrong, I'll most likely just be brain-damaged, not dead." Clive smirked. "It's not like one needs a brain to do my job, so life would go on as we know it."

"Oh, now that's a relief." Morgan meant her sarcasm as a warning. "Smarten up, Clive. I don't think you appreciate the seriousness of the situation."

"No, I do, Morgan. I just don't care. What's the expression?
Que cera cera
?"

"Did it ever occur to you that someone else might care even if you don't?"

Around Clive, Morgan always left her heart exposed. She reached for Clive's hand. He didn't pull away.

"Who'd care about me?" he said, goading her on. "What's there to like?"

"You're an ass."

"I do my best."

"For that, you can pay the bill."

Morgan got up to leave. She trotted away without so much as a glance behind. In truth, she needed some time to herself. She needed to cry alone for Clive, because she knew Clive wouldn't cry with her.

"You're not getting laid, Derek, so don't even think about it." Morgan set forth the rules of entry. Derek knew she'd keep the door firmly latched until he accepted them.

"Still playing hard to get?" Derek smiled. As was his way, he refused to accept "no" for an answer. Some people called it harassment. Derek saw it as persistence.

"You'll come around, once you see what I have to offer."

"Are you trying to make me gag or just turn me lesbian?"

Derek stepped inside, passing her slowly so that she could drink in his eight-dollar cologne. But the reaction he received from her was not what he intended. She covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed hard. Was she trying to keep her insides in?

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

"Why?" Derek stepped closer. "Is it making you hot?"

He extended his arm, intending to wrap it like a tentacle around his quarry. She stepped aside and shoved her palm in front of his face, commanding him to halt.

"If by 'hot' you mean 'deathly ill,' then somebody douse me because I'm on fire. It's disgusting, and it's giving me a headache. Go sit at the kitchen table, at the far end."

Derek complied, not yet disheartened. Morgan disappeared. When she returned, she carried a can of Lysol. She sprayed it fervently into the air. Nearly half the contents of the can formed an all-consuming cloud of pine-scented fumes.

"I would have lit a candle, but I don't know if that shit you're wearing is flammable."

"Alright," Derek said, finally disappointed. "I get it already. The package guaranteed more favorable results. It has horse hormones in it or something. It's supposed to make females horny."

"You should probably ask for your money back."

What a waste of eight bucks
. Derek knew Morgan was more than capable of taunting him for a good portion of the next hour. His mind searched for a distraction. Desperate to change the subject from his poor olfactory judgment, he fumbled into a new topic of discussion.

"Did you hear? There was an explosion at the post office in Fall River."

"Maybe someone was wearing your cologne and post office personnel couldn't stand it, so they blew themselves up."

"Your sense of humor only makes me desire you more," Derek said, frowning. "Anyway, it's not funny. Three people died. At least two more are in critical condition. They haven't said so yet, but it looks like it was no accident."

"So now you're not only a ladies' man but an explosives expert? Regardless, a post office blowing up? Is that really all that surprising? Once they put on that mail carrier hat, it's like an invitation to go psycho. There's just something about rising stamp costs, dog bites, goofy shorts and poor customer service that make postal workers go, well, postal."

"Wow, Morgan. I can't believe how insensitive you are. Clive is rubbing off on you."

"Did you go there, Derek?"

"No."

"Then what do you care?"

"Somebody blew up a building close to home. There could be terrorists in our own back yard. Don't you think you're taking this lightly?"

"Why? Because I'm not manufacturing tears for people I don't know? People die violent and inexplicable deaths every day, Derek. Just watch the news. A few weeks ago, they found a half-eaten torso of a little girl in those woods along the reservoir. Sick shit happens all the time, even around here. I'm not happy about it, but there's nothing I can do about it, is there?"

Derek shrugged. He was without retort.

"They don't know how it happened?" Morgan asked.

"They haven't said yet."

"Well, I'll bet you ten bucks it was some disgruntled postman with some makeshift pipe bomb. Why can't they be more like milkmen? The worst they do is spawn bastard children with desperate housewives. Sounds like a good profession for you, Derek. Maybe you'd finally get some ass."

The potshot had too little sting to discourage Derek's advances. He was used to her teasing, and her insults only made him want her more. Derek, like most men, liked the chase. The more he was told he couldn't have Morgan, the more he wanted her.

"Laugh it up, evil Morgana. They haven't released the names of the victims yet. For all we know, someone close to us could have been there at the time."

"The only person I care about is right here in this room."

Derek wasn't taking the bait. "Yeah, yeah. And that person is you. Ha ha. What about Clive? You and I both know you care about him."

"What about Clive? I'm glad we're finally getting to him, since he's the reason I called you here in the first place."

"Quit pretending like you don't want me."

"Alright, let's focus. I don't want you and your stink in my house any longer than need be."

"Is the cologne the only problem? If I took a shower, would you consider--"

"No," Morgan interrupted, as if she already knew what he was going to say.

"Not even a handjob?"

"Give it up, will you? Focus, Derek. Back to Clive."

"Okay," Derek replied, temporarily beaten but not out of the game.

"Good. Any ideas?"

"Drinking is always good."

"That's a given. But how soon after the operation will he be able to drink? Won't he be on medication?"

Derek glared impatiently at Morgan. A "how the fuck should I know" may have been slightly more polite.

"If I know Clive," he said, "I don't think he'll pay much attention to doctor's orders, particularly on the topic of alcohol."

"Which is exactly why we should be responsible for him."

"That's your department, Morgan. Lord knows, I can't take responsibility for my own actions, never mind his."

"Fair enough. So we got drinking as a probably. What else?"

Derek rested his head on his arms. He pondered all the fun things he and Clive had done over the years. At once, he filled with excitement. He opened his mouth to astonish Morgan with the brilliance of his new idea.

But Morgan was quicker and apparently clairvoyant. "No goddamn way."

"But I was just going to suggest--"

"I know exactly what you were going to suggest, and the answer is still no. Move on."

"I'd buy you a lap dance." Derek's mind began to wander. He felt movement in his pants. "That would be so hot."

"Hello! Earth to Derek. I'm still here."

"Sorry. Anyway, I don't see you coming up with any ideas. You're quick to knock down mine, though."

"Strip clubs are out of the question. Try again."

"We don't need to go to a strip club. We can order the--"

"No!" Morgan said, this time more sternly. "Please, let's just move on. What does Clive like to do? And don't say strippers."

The word had been on the tip of his tongue. How could he resist Morgan's set up? Fortunately, another word came to mind.

"Paintball."

"Now you're on to something," Morgan said, sounding genuinely excited. "Actually, Derek, that's an excellent idea. He'd love it!"

With a ring of Morgan's cellphone, AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" interrupted their conversation, her ringtone for Clive. Derek smiled. He knew the song and the caller.

"It's him. Keep quiet." She answered her phone. "Hey Cli. What's up?"

"Not much. What are you up to tonight?"

"I don't know yet. Want to get some dinner?"

"Who's that on the phone, honey?" Derek shouted. "Come back to bed."

"Who's that?" Clive asked.

"Oh, Morgan. Don't touch me there. Wait until you hang up the phone. I don't want everybody knowing about our fiery-passionate sex life."

"It's Derek, and he's being a dick." Morgan swatted at Derek. He dodged it and laughed.

"Derek? What's he doing there?"

"Um, well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. We wanted to get together with you for dinner tonight before you go in for your operation. I was just about to call you."

"How did you get his number?"