29 Mar Contract at the Lake House

“Babe, Travis from WeNet’s on the phone,” Abby said, opening the bathroom door and letting cool air into the hot steamy bathroom.

“Shit, okay.” In the shower, I’d been scrubbing the bottoms of my feet with a facecloth lathered in off-brand body wash. “Hang on.”

Without choking the soap out, I hung the facecloth on the rack and turned off the water. I’d only been working for WeNet, a nursing agency for travelling nurses and aides, for six months now. I had called the office because, as of the last three weeks, the only facilities to show up on the app were a hundred plus miles away and our Toyota needed new brake pads and calipers—like last month. At our last oil change, the guy at Wellington’s said the tires didn’t look too good—worn to the metal were his exact words. He had said that the last six times too.

I pushed our floral shower curtain aside, used our shared towel to dry my hands and arms, and took the phone from Abby.

“Hey, Travis.”

“Hey, Renee,” he was on speaker phone. “Sorry to get back to you so late.”

“Oh, no problem.” Unless you’re calling to tell me that you have no facilities less than thirty miles away then: little problem.

“Listen, we have a group home that needs serious help,” Travis said.

“We do group homes?” As far as I understood, WeNet only did nursing homes.

“At times, yes. It’s in Moosup on Lake Street.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. Lake’s street’s literally up the road from me. I can get there on a walk in ten minutes.”

“Fantastic. Then, would you be willing to do a contract with them?”

“A contract?”

“It was sprung on us suddenly. Five months, minimum of thirty-eight hours a week, and thirty per hour to start. They would need you for all shifts.”

I looked at Abby, now on one knee near the open door and petting Theo, our cat. She gestured for me to make the decision on my own.

“I mean, I’ll take it if they need that much help,” I said.

“Perfect,” Travis said. “I’ll contact the Lake House and we’ll whip up the particulars of the contract together. If anything, you should get an email tomorrow morning. Just e-sign everything and you’ll be good to go.”

“Alright.”

“Are you able to work two-to-ten tomorrow?”

“Second shift?”

“Yes.”

I regarded Abby. She rolled her eyes and offered me a thumbs up.

“Yeah, I can work,” I said.

“Sounds good, Travis said. “I’ll do my part then. Have a pleasant evening, Renee.”

“You, too.”

The next morning, Abby and I sat at the kitchen table, drinking Monsters for breakfast. Theo ate his breakfast at my feet. When he looked up at me, either to chew or to take a break from chewing, his whiskers were laced with chunks of Friskies beef.

“I mean, I get she’s a single mom,” Abby said, venting about her job at the gas station, “But that doesn’t mean the rest of us should lose hours. Like, I’m sorry but I’ve been there a lot longer and I never—”

My phone dinged. “Hold on, babe.” An email from my job; the contract. I tapped on it.

“Is it WeNet?” Abby asked.

“Yeah.”

I read the contract (well . . . skimmed through it really). Everything Travis said was in there: five months, full-time, thirty-an-hour. I signed.

“Okay, done,” I said.

Abby nodded. She was smiling, but her smile looked forced.

“You, okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Abby drained the rest of her Monster. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that the place you’re going to work at is literally in town. I thought the reason you picked up travelling is so you didn’t have to work close to home.”

“Yeah. But with us three months behind rent, the electric bill nearly swallowing us whole, and the car—I really don’t have a choice. This is a blessing, Abby. And besides, you gave me a thumbs up.”

“Yeah, because you don’t need my permission for everything you do.”

“I know that.”

Silence then. I watched as Theo abandoned his food bowl for his perch by the window. Right outside, bumble bees buzzed about the honeysuckle I had planted last month, and Theo watched them work with great interest.

“I just . . .” Abby shook her head. “I need you to know that I’m not your ex.”

I reached across the table and grasped her hand. “I know you’re not.”

She smiled. The ex in question was Devin Byram: an abusive, controlling, shit-stain of a woman who hated all things that couldn’t fit into her tight narcissistic sphere. If darkness is the antithesis of light, then Devin was the antithesis of Abby.

I rose from my seat, kissed the back of Abby’s neck, and took her Monster can to rinse out for the ten cents it would give us at the market. After that, the morning went as humdrum as one could imagine.

Despite my telling Travis that it would take ten minutes to get to Lake Street, I left our apartment thirty minutes prior to my shift. Doubts about my estimated time of arrival proved fruitless however, because I arrived at the Lake House in eight minutes.

Well, I’m here, I thought and knocked on the door.

“Someone’s here!” announced a voice low, slow, and monotonous.

“I’ll get it, Katie,” replied a second woman, her voice cheery and musical.

The door opened and, before I could introduce myself, my voice shrank to gravel in my throat. There was something indiscernibly wrong with the woman’s face. And there was something wrong with me. I felt boneless, like a doll chosen at random by the most abusive of children. I felt as if a large hand gripped me tight with fingers and palm, preparing to swing me around and throw me about.

“Hello,” the woman said, instantly expelling the sensation. “You’re . . .”

When my voice decided to cooperate, I said: “Hi. I’m Renee Conner. I’m the one that decided to take on the contract.”

“Wonderful! Come in.”

I entered the house. On the couch sat a woman watching an old pro wrestling match on a boxed television set, the resolution tinged in the bright yellow of the 1970s. Her eyes narrowed briefly to me, then settled back on the television. Ahead of me, I could see the kitchen via a pass-through. A thin man, his mouth ajar, stared at me from his seat at the kitchen table. I smiled at him. He tilted his head, like a curious puppy, in response.

“I’m Janet,” the woman who invited me in said. “The house manager. We call this the lake house. Sorry for the lack of water and a lighthouse.”

I chuckled at the horrible joke. “Well, I’m here to help. Whatever you need for these guys, consider it done.”

“Wonderful.”

It struck me then as to why her face alarmed me so. Her eyes, her lips, her pigmentation—they were all features twinned to Abby’s own. But her nose, the way her brow slightly furrowed when she smiled, her towering height—all resembled Devin.

“Is everything alright?” Janet asked.

“Yeah,” I said, cringing at the squeak in my own voice. “Like I said: whatever you need.”

Beyond the kitchen, from the hallway, a door opened. A short man, wearing sunglasses and using a mobility cane to navigate, found his way to the kitchen table where he pulled out a chair and sat in it.

“Someone here?” the blind man asked.

“Robert,” Janet said. “This is Renee. She’s going to be helping us for a few months.”

“Oh okay. Hey there, Renee.”

“Hello,” I said.

“Everyone here’s pretty cool. Except Agnus. She’s a bitch.”

From down the hall: “I’m not a bitch!”

“She’s not a bitch, Robert,” Janet said

“Yeah, yeah.”

I regarded Janet. “Um . . . is there any other staff coming?”

“Unfortunately, no. No one wants to work. Maybe they would if we got paid more, but . . .” She shrugged as if that made her point.

“Yeah,” I said, having no intention of telling Janet my payrate.

The thin man, seated at the kitchen table across from Robert, continued to stare at me. His eyes were very green. Suddenly, a strong stench, like rotting newspapers or old paperbacks soaked in flood waters, assaulted my nostrils. Then the stench was gone, and I smiled my best nurse-smile and asked him his name.

“That is Jared,” Janet said. “He is a non-verbal autistic. But that does not mean you let him get away with everything. Right, Jared?”

At this, Jared scowled.

Another door opened and a short woman, in the same fun polka-dot pajamas my grandmother wore when I was a child, entered the kitchen.

“My back hurts,” she said.

“Does it?” Janet asked—and in a way that all, but shouted, condescension.

“Yes.”

Janet sighed. She left the kitchen, went into one of the rooms down the hall, and returned with a small jar of Tiger Bomb and a pair of blue Nitrile gloves. She handed them to me.

“Could you bring Agnus to the bathroom and rub some of this on her back?”

“Of course,” I said. “The bathroom’s down the hall?”

“Third door on your right.”

“Okay. Come on, Agnes.”

Agnes followed me and we went into the bathroom together. It was roomy—three of mine and Abby’s bathrooms—with a handicap chair stationed right outside the shower.

“Do you want to sit or stand?” I asked.

“Stand,” she said.

“Okay. Just remove your shirt.”

She did and handed it to me. I folded it and placed it atop the toilet tank.

“It hurts so bad,” she said.

“Okay.” I gloved up, uncapped the Tiger Bomb, and combed up two fingers-worth of the medicine.

“That feels so good,” she said, as I rubbed the reddish-yellow ointment onto her back.

“This stuff does work good,” I agreed.

“Oh yeah.”

As I was about to scoop another finger’s worth of bomb, a crash sounded from outside the bathroom.

“You know damn well what you were supposed to do?” I heard Janet shout.

“Is everything alright?” I hollered.

“Please don’t stop,” Agnus said.

We were in front of the mirror, and I saw in the reflection that Agnus’s expression had not changed. My own face, however, had paled, my brow furrowed in clear puzzlement. There was that smell again: an earthy-wet mildewy stench. And the Tiger Bomb in my hand felt . . . fuzzy.

Another crash, followed by a shriek of indignation. I placed the Tiger Bomb on the seat of the toilet and told Agnus to wait there.

“But—”

I ignored her, left the bathroom, and was assaulted by the sight of Jared’s beaten body lying on the kitchen floor. Janet stood over him, a hammer in her hand and a smile on her face.

“I told you, Renee. You can’t just let him get away with it. He’s supposed to signal us when he’s got to use the bathroom. He didn’t. Now he gets punished.”

I ran out of the house, hurried down the steps, down the sidewalk, and away from the Lake House. Walking, I fished my phone out of my pocket, and dialed the police.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

I’m a CNA. My name’s Renee Conner. I’m currently working contract at a group home and the house manager just murdered one of the residents. She’s psychotic. Please send someone now.

That was what I wanted to say, what my mind and lips expected from my vocal cords. Instead, I said: “Hi. My name’s Renee Conner. I just want to tell you that the group home I’m working at is absolutely amazing.”

“Ma’am,” said the now reproachful voice on the other end. “This line is for emergencies only. Do you have an emergency?”

Yes! The house manager killed Jared! But I said: “Not at all. I was just so excited about how awesome it is here that I needed to tell someone.”

“Well, tell your friends, not the police. Goodbye.”

The call ended.

“Are you serious?”

Someone tapped on my shoulder then. I spun around, expecting Janet, but—“Abby?”

“Hey,” Abby said. In her hand was a white plastic bag carrying the aroma of oil-rich fried chicken. “You, okay?”

(No.) “Yeah. She (killed one of the residents with a hammer) let me go early.”

“Oh. Okay.” She held up the bag. “Want some fried chicken?”

“Thanks. (I can’t stomach food right now!) Let’s go home.”

We did, my mind racing, my expression pleasant.

The next morning, at a quarter to eight, my phone rang.

“Hello?” I said, hoping it wasn’t spam that woke me up.

“Hi, Renee,” Janet’s voice. I sat up, my heart racing. She sounded so affable.

I meant to hang up on her but couldn’t move the phone from my ear. I felt paralyzed. My gaze narrowed to Abby, sleeping soundly, snoring lightly, and showing no sign that I had stirred her awake even a little.

“Is this a bad time?” Janet asked

(Yes!) “Not at all. Sorry for walking out yesterday.” (I didn’t though! I ran out for my life . . .)

“Not a problem. You looked ill. Not to worry though. I was able to clock you out at ten o’clock as scheduled. So, you won’t be losing any money.”

“Thanks.” (How are you doing this?)

“Will you be coming today?”

(No!) “Absolutely. Let me get dressed.”

Things didn’t match. What I wanted to say, I couldn’t. What I desired for my body to do; it wouldn’t obey. I walked up Prospect Street toward Lake Street against my will. Only . . . it felt like I was in control. It was like . . . have you ever gotten so angry at someone that you say something you would never say under normal circumstances? You ever feel like a complete shit the moment that insult leaves your mouth or that nasty thought enters your mind? This was like that, but worse. Everything was involuntary and felt as if it wasn’t.

I walked up the steps of the group home, knocked on the door, and tried to scream. But my mouth stayed closed, my jaw muscles not even straining.

The door opened. Janet smiled at me. I smiled back.

“It’s so lovely that you were able to come back,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, crossing the threshold and entering the Lake House once more.

On the couch, Katie sat and watched pro wrestling. Looking at the screen, watching the match, I saw that the fight was the same as yesterday’s.

“You like wrestling?” I asked, happy to see I could say something on my own.

“Yeah,” Katie said.

Janet stood beside me; her smile stuck to her face like the squashed remains of a spider smeared on the wall of its death. I kept my eyes on the TV, almost sure I would scream if I regarded Janet even a little. According to the announcer, the wrestling match was between Bob Orton Jr. and Hiro Matsuda. I watched as they fought, surmising that the moves, the back and forth between the wrestlers, was so perfect that an idiot would have to think they’re real.

A door opened from the hallway beyond the kitchen. Like yesterday, Robert came to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and sat in it.

“Someone here?” he asked, sounding the very same.

“Robert,” Janet said. “This is Renee. Remember? She’s going to be helping us for the next few months.

“Oh. Oh ok. Hi Renee.”

“Hi,” I said.

“I don’t remember you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

For a moment—not even a full second—I could see through Robert. And the smell was back, this time so potent I began coughing.

“Are you alright?” Janet asked.

When it subsided, I regarded Janet. In this moment, she neither resembled Devin nor Abby—if she ever had. She was old, her mouth taut and dry like discarded snakeskin, her eyes small and rotten like old apples. For a moment, I felt liberated. I could see the house for what it was: a charred and rat-infested ramshackled house now long forgotten by the living. A house, reeking of earth and mold-mothered disease.

But I couldn’t run. I stood, rooted like a tree. Did she still have control over me? I thought that, maybe, it had been the joining of someone I hated with someone I loved that had warranted her control over me. But—

“It’s hard to maintain manipulation,” Janet said, now looking like Devin and Abby once again. “Even after all this time, I’m losing my strength. And his is just increasing. That’s why I had to kill him. Again.”

“Are you talking about Jared?”

“He’ll come back. He always does. That’s why I need you. You’re alive. I can use you.”

For a moment, I saw reality. No one had lived in this house. No one had lived here in a long time. I had lived in this town my whole life and I remember my school bus passing a sentinel army of grass and weeds. And beyond that jungle, stood a house blackened, its windows and doors concealed with rotting boards. At least, I imagined that they were rotting. How did I forget this? How?

The same way I forgot my parents’ wedding photo hanging on the wall above their TV stand back home. The same way I never thought much about the ornate antique clock that hung in the same kitchen where I suffered many awkward family dinners; its minute and hour hands never moving past six o’clock.

Once again, Janet lost her resemblance to Abby and Devin. I took my chance.

“What is this place, really?” I asked.

Janet smiled. “It’s just a group home. One that you’re on contract with.”

Another door opened. Agnus stepped into the kitchen. She complained about her back.

“Just a minute, Agnus,” Janet said. From her left pants pocket, she took out a key and handed it to me. “Second door on your left: we keep the medicines in a locked cabinet. Second shelf on your right, you’ll find the Tiger Bomb right next to the NyQuil.”

I took the key, left the living room, crossed the kitchen, walked a few steps down the hallway, and opened the second door on the left. I entered an office style room with a desk, a computer chair, and a large, locked cabinet. I inserted the key into the cabinet’s keyhole, turned it, and opened it. I took Tiger Bomb from the second shelf as instructed and stared at it in my hand. Without any discernable passing of time, I watched as it became a dying twitching rat, its side open, its guts and warm blood spilling out all over my hand and wrist. Then it was Tiger Bomb again.

Tears welled in my eyes. I began panting as if I had just run a marathon.

“Renee?” Janet called, somehow sounding like Abby now. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice not sounding scared, not sounding anxious, not sounding like anything but a professional nurse’s aide. “Be right there.”

As I began to exit the office, a hand grasped my shoulder and twisted me around. Jared stood there in front of the medicine cabinet; his head cocked, blood dripping from the side of his mashed-in skull like water leaking from a loose pipe. His gaze dug into my own, activating something. Connecting something . . .

Suddenly, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table. From my seat, I saw a younger Janet talking with Katie as she watched her wrestling on TV. Then Janet looked at me. She walked over, sat down next to me at the kitchen table, and grabbed one of my hands.

But they weren’t my hands; they were Jared’s. I was seeing through Jared’s eyes. And he was experiencing his memories with my mind. I could feel him in there somehow. And there was so much hate…

“I know what you are,” Janet said, cupping my thin, boney hand in two of her own. “I know all about the latent power that exists within your mind. Your potential to control mass perception. If not for your unfortunate limitations, you could truly make the entire state think what you want it to think. But . . .” She squeezed my hand (Jared’s hand) tighter. “All that potential rendered limp in the mind and body of a . . . a thing like you. How is it fair? We only sense power like this once in a millennium. And it’s wasted in you!”

I pulled my hand away. Tears spilled from the eyes I shared with Jared. His voice whimpered from our lips.

I’m a person, I could feel Jared wanting to think, wanting to shout. I’m a person. I’m a person.”

How many times have I thought those same words? When my parents tried to send me to that damn conversion camp. When my father openly accepted his man-whore son, but not his gay and loyal daughter? How many times did I cry because they just couldn’t accept me for who I am?

Tears swam in armies down Jared’s cheeks (down my cheeks). And we watched as Janet stood up. We listened as she opened a cabinet door out of sight. We felt as a hammer came down, striking us on the side of our head . . .

Then I was back in the office, facing the medicine cabinet I had forgotten to close. Jared was gone. And I stood there, still holding the Tiger Bomb (the rat, really), still panting as if I had sprinted three miles without stopping. I saw that my hands were, once again, my own.

The door opened, and Janet entered the room, asking, “What is going on—” Then she stopped. Her eyes grew wide. “No! Damn it, no!”

She tried to run, but I stepped forward, grabbed her by her hair, and dragged her back into the room. We struggled, but not for long. She was old and weak. I was young, fit, and a non-smoker. I got Janet against the wall, wrapped my hands around her neck, and began squeezing. I squeezed and screamed, but from my mouth was not my scream, but Jared’s scream. I realized then that it was not me doing this, even though it felt like it was. This was all Jared. Jared, now using my faculties. Jared, now weaponizing a mind like mine; a mind not succumbed to severe mental limitations. A mind where his power could be maximized.

I kept squeezing, even after Janet lost consciousness. I kept squeezing, even after the walls turned black and the floor beneath became moist and blackened with mold and mildew. I kept squeezing, even as a rat bit my ankle, even as the day turned to night, even as my cell phone rang and a worried Abby was somewhere, wondering where I was, perhaps walking by now and calling my name…

… and I keep squeezing, choking a ghost to death, and wondering if Jared will ever let me go.