"Terminal Care" by Joseph Sackett

Terminal Care

by Joseph Sackett

 

Helena woke to the familiar ache of sleeping upright. The threadbare armchair had molded itself around her body again, leaving her neck twisted at an angle that sent sharp pains shooting down her spine. She shifted, wincing. Her ribs protested with a deep, bruising soreness.

"What the hell?"

She lifted her sweater. Dark purple marks bloomed across her ribs, tender to the touch. The pain was real, immediate, but she couldn't remember how.

She pulled out her cellphone. The baby monitor app showed hours of grainy footage: herself slumped in this same chair, motionless. Walter's bed remained still throughout the night. No movement. No sound. Just silence and her own sleeping form.

She rewound, fast-forwarded, checked again. Nothing. The timestamp ran unbroken from 11:47 PM to 6:23 AM. Seven hours of absolutely nothing.

"Dad?"

Walter's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and cloudy. She leaned forward, joints creaking.

"Morning. How are you feeling?"

He jerked away from her voice like she'd struck him. "You're not her," he murmured. "She's gone."

"It's me, Dad. Helena. Your daughter."

But his gaze slid past her, through her, as if she were made of glass. "She left. I told her to leave."

Helena reached for his hand. He yanked it away.

"I know who you are," he rasped, turning toward the wall. "You're not supposed to be here."

Her father had dementia. That's what Dr. Morrison said. That's what they all said.

In the kitchen, she cracked eggs into the cast-iron pan. The sizzle filled the space, growing louder, more aggressive. The sound clawed at her eardrums until she clapped her hands over her ears. In the microwave's black reflection, a figure stood behind her. Tall, familiar. Her father.

She spun around. Nothing. Just the eggs, now burning.

Helena scraped them onto a plate, her hands shaking. She needed to get out. Call someone. Anyone.

The plate slipped from her fingers, shattering across the linoleum.

She blinked.

She was back in the armchair.

Helena shook her head, confused. She stood and tucked the blanket around Walter's sleeping form, smoothing the fabric across his chest.

"I was just..." The words died in her throat.

Walter's eyes opened, staring directly at her.

"Deborah…," he whispered.

"Mom is gone, Dad." The words scraped out raw and bitter. "She's been gone for years."

Walter's face crumpled. "She wouldn't leave me. She promised."

"She didn't leave..." Helena paused. Something dug at the edges of her memory. Something about her mother's last days, about Walter breaking things in the house, full of rage.

The doorbell rang.

Helena blinked, the half-formed memory dissolving. She walked to the front door, bare feet silent on hardwood. Through the peephole: Cass and Micah stood on the porch, shoulders hunched against October chill.

She opened the door. "Hey, you two."

Cass froze, eyes wide. She looked past Helena into the empty hallway. Micah adjusted her glasses, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"We should check on him and go," Micah said quickly, stepping inside.

Helena frowned, following them upstairs. "What's wrong with you two?

Neither responded.

"I've been so tired lately," Helena said to their backs. "He's getting worse. I keep waking up with these… bruises."

At Walter's door, Helena reached for the light switch.

Both friends screamed and stumbled backward as the light flicked on.

"Jesus, what's wrong with you guys?" Helena snapped. "You'll wake him."

Cass stammered: "H-hey, Walter... how are you feeling?"

Helena put a finger to her mouth. "He needs his rest. Quiet."

Both friends stepped to Walter's bedside. His eyes fluttered open, narrowing on Helena. His voice came out guttural, filled with hate: "I said leave, you bitch!"

Helena froze. Then something surged through her–rage. She knocked over the lamp. It shattered.

Cass screamed again. Micah grabbed her arm. "We're leaving!"

Helena stumbled after them. "No, wait, I didn't—"

She reached the front door just behind them. Her hand touched the knob.

Helena jolted awake next to Walter again. Her breath hitched. He was snoring softly. "What the fuck." She bolted downstairs, reaching the front door, but the world blinked. She was in the chair. Again.

She screamed this time, punched the wall, knuckles bleeding. "NO!"

She stormed downstairs. In the hall, she heard a slow, groaning creak. The basement door swung open on its own.

Helena's stomach clenched. Her arms and ribs ached as if beaten. She heard faint voices: her father shouting, a girl crying.

She descended the basement stairs slowly. It smelled like iron and mold. The concrete was cold beneath her feet.

At the bottom, she saw a girl, facedown, skull split open. Blood pooled around dark hair. The girl wore her clothes. Her sweater. Her jeans.

Helena stumbled back as the truth crashed over her. The bruises. The cameras showing nothing. Her friends' terror.

She was the girl on the floor.

Her legs almost buckled.

"Just like your mother," Walter said, calm and chipper. "Same eyes. Same mouth. Always running that dirty mouth."

Time splintered:

Years of his hands on her, leaving marks she'd learned to hide. Her mind had buried it all, packed it down deep. Even that night when she was twelve, watching through her bedroom door as Walter's hands wrapped around her mother's throat. Mom's feet kicked against the kitchen floor, then went still. Helena told herself it was a nightmare. In the morning, Walter said Mom had run off with some man. Helena let herself believe it.

Now it was her turn. She'd come home to take care of him, thinking she owed him something. But you can't fix what was always broken.

The wet scrape of a shovel smoothing fresh cement in the basement, packing it down flat and final.

"You can't leave," Walter said, his grin widening. "Someone's got to take care of me."

Helena's eyes snapped open. She was in the chair next to Walter's bed again. The old man watched from his pillow, that same evil grin spreading across his weathered face.