Children of Paranoia

  “What now?” I asked the man holding the smoking gun. I wondered if he was simply planning on dismantling me one small piece at a time.

  “That’s all we want from you,” he said. He slid his gun into the waistband of his pants. “Let’s go,” he said to Catherine. She glanced at me and then at you and then she turned and the two of them walked away. They disappeared over the horizon.

  I looked at you, standing in the sunlight. “He’s moving again, Joe,” you said.

  I flexed my left hand into a fist. The bleeding had already slowed down. “How does it feel?” you asked.

  “It’s okay,” I responded. I concentrated on the pain for a moment. “It’s odd. I can feel the pain in my finger, my whole finger, even though there’s no finger there anymore.”

  “Phantom pain,” you said. “I used to volunteer at a hospital. I worked with amputees. They used to tell me that they could still feel their toes even though their legs were gone.”

  “When did it go away?” I asked.

  “Never,” you replied, shaking your head. “It’s not so easy to let something like that go.” I looked down at my hand. The bleeding had stopped completely now. Now there was just an empty gap.

  “Are we going to be all right, Maria?” I asked you. I couldn’t ask you in real life. In real life, I had to pretend that I knew. It was only in a dream that I could ask you.

  “Yeah, Joe. We’re going to be all right,” you said.

  “Why does it sound like a lie when I say it but the truth when you say it?” I asked.

  “Because you’ve never been all right before, so you don’t know what it feels like.”

  I woke up as the sun began to rise behind us. I’ve never been one to read too much into dreams. I was just happy to have had a good dream for once. It had been a long time.

  I started the car, put it in gear, and stepped on the gas again. I had filled up our gas tank about 150 miles ago. We still had a half a tank of gas. I drove for miles before I saw another sign of civilization.

  Eighteen

  We’ve been in Aztec, New Mexico, for over three weeks. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but so far, everything’s been calm. It’s serene here. It’s hot during the day but you seem to be managing the heat well. It’s nice and cool in the evenings. We probably should have gone farther. We probably should have kept driving. Maybe L.A., maybe farther. Maybe Mexico would have been safer. I don’t know. But here we are, still in Aztec. I think you’ve decided that you want to stay here. I don’t think we’ll leave unless someone chases us away. That could happen at any minute. We’re ready. I think we’re more ready than last time. But for now, this place seems like home.

  It was a lot easier to find work here than in Charleston. I knew a trade now. At least I knew enough to lie about how much I knew. Frank was a good teacher. I like the guys that I work with here. My boss is Mexican. His son works with us too. He was born in New Mexico. I’m the gringo. They like that. They like that the white guy is the low man on the totem pole.

  We found a place to live. Jumping from place to place didn’t help us any before, so we decided that staying in one place might be less conspicuous. We’re renting a small house out in the desert. We pay weekly, up-front, in cash. There’s no one else around us. When you look out the back windows, you can see for miles. Most importantly, we got you in to see a doctor. He wants to see you regularly from now through the birth. I told him that there was only so much we could afford. He didn’t want to hear it. “Just come in every two weeks,” he said. Maybe someday we can repay him somehow. Our son is doing well. We’re not out of the woods yet, but he’s still growing, still developing. There haven’t been any complications since we’ve been here. Still, on the doctor’s advice, you stay off your feet as much as possible, lying in bed, reading books I buy for you from the convenience store in town. Your stomach gets bigger every day, your body changing shape for our son.

  We never planned on staying, not in Aztec. When we got here, you needed to eat. You’d slept for almost twelve hours straight and were starving. We pulled into a small place for breakfast and sat at the counter. You began talking to the woman behind the counter who was serving us. She’d lived in Aztec her whole life. You started asking questions. She told us where we could find a place to stay if we wanted one. When I told her I was a carpenter, she mentioned a couple places where I might be able to find work. She didn’t ask us questions. She didn’t ask where we’d come from. She didn’t seem to care. People pass through Aztec. That’s just the type of place it is. I wonder how many people who pass through here are running from something.

  After breakfast, we decided to take a little walk before getting back into the car to stretch our legs. It was a bright and sunny day. A few other people were out on the street, just enough to drive out the silence but no more than that. The little street was lined with shops. We seemed to pass a church every few blocks. You looked into the windows of the stores as we passed. I just kept looking at the faces of the other people on the street, looking to see if I would recognize one from that night in Charleston. We were walking slowly, worn out, and in no rush to get back into the car, since we didn’t have a destination anyway. We were tired, tired of running and just plain tired.

  One of the shops we passed advertised itself as a UFO museum, though it was a bit of a stretch to call it a museum. As soon as you saw it, though, you asked me if we could go inside. I couldn’t see why not. The place didn’t seem any less safe than any other place. We stepped inside, walking down a long aisle full of movies and books about UFOs that were for sale. There wasn’t really much to look at except some old photos. You seemed to find it all fascinating. You walked toward the back of the museum, running your fingers over the old VHS tapes. Each one claimed to show, beyond a shadow of a doubt, evidence of alien visitations. While I didn’t have an opinion on the matter, I didn’t doubt that something like that could be covered up. The old man behind the counter looked up from his book for only a second, eyeing you as you perused his collection of memorabilia. He smiled at you and then went on with his reading. You walked to the back wall to look at some pictures. They were pictures taken at festivals celebrating the UFOs. You placed your hands behind your back and leaned forward, peering at the faces of the people in the pictures. You walked past more books, more videotapes. I stood near the door, trying not to forget that we still had to be careful. You pulled one of the VHS tapes off the wall, looked at the cover, and smiled. It was good to see you smile.

  You put the videotape back and walked over to the front counter. I just watched you. You walked over to a large fishbowl that was on the counter, full of tiny plastic aliens. You picked one up out of the bowl and held it in your hand. It was a little green man with large eyes and a silver space suit. There was a sign on the fishbowl that said, “Adopt an Alien.” It claimed that for one dollar you could adopt an alien and all donations would go toward UFO research. You lifted the little green man to show it to me. “Look, Joe,” you said. “They love him.” Your faced beamed, you looked happier than I’d seen you since the first week we spent together.

  I adopted you an alien. We haven’t thought about leaving since.

  It’s been over three weeks since that day. I’m sitting in a foldout chair behind our home writing this to you while you nap inside. I’ve started running again. Every day your belly gets bigger and you seem happier. Your skin is darker now, tanned by southern sun. You look vibrant. I look forward every morning to watching you climb out of bed and get dressed. You get up at the first light of dawn so you can cook breakfast for me before I go to work. Every morning I watch you in the dim blue light as you climb out of bed, pull off the T-shirt you were sleeping in, and get dressed. I know that you can feel me watching you. You don’t seem to mind.

  Nineteen

  We went to the doctor again today. He said that everything looks great. The pregnancy has lasted longer than we ever expected. The doctor told us today that you are basically full
term. He expects the baby to come any day now. We’ve now been in Aztec for as long as we were in Charleston. My past recedes further away into my memory with each passing day. I’m happy to forget most things. Some things, I try to remember, just in case.

  You never asked me about what happened the night we ran from Charleston. When I asked you, you told me that nothing happened. You just walked. At times, you thought you heard strange noises but nothing ever happened. I don’t think you liked to talk about it. I think the fact that it had been so easy scared you. I don’t know what I would have told you about how I survived that night even if you did ask me. You never did. I think you’ve finally decided that there are some things you just don’t want to know.

  I still try to figure it out sometimes, how I survived, why I survived. I’ve got some theories but none of them really makes sense. Maybe I should chalk it up to divine intervention. Something stepped in and saved me and our son. I should probably follow your lead. Maybe there are some things that I just don’t want to know.

  Twenty

  Our son was born today. He’s beautiful. He’s more than perfect. Perfection wouldn’t be this special. His name is Christopher. He has your eyes. The doctor said that often, when they get older, their eye color changes. I hope his doesn’t. I hope he has your eyes forever.

  The doctor delivered him in our home. Apparently, it’s not that uncommon an occurrence here. So many people, like us, don’t have any insurance. He said he was just happy to help, that it was his favorite part of his job. You were so strong. I’ve never seen such strength in my entire life. You were quiet and determined, as if pain were just a nuisance you didn’t have time for. I hope Christopher knows how lucky he is to have you for a mother. I hope he knows that nothing in the world will ever compare to the love and sacrifices that you’ve made for him. The look on your face when the doctor handed him to you for the first time was one that I will never forget. That look made everything I’ve gone through in my entire life all worth it. I’ve finally given something meaningful to the world.

  I was glad we were able to have him at home. I was afraid of going back to the hospital after the debacle in Charleston. Besides, now Christopher was born off the grid. Now there’s no record that he even exists. There’s no way for anyone to know where he came from. Officially, he was born to ghosts. Hopefully, that will help to keep him safe.

  I don’t even have words to describe how I feel. Maybe I’m too tired. Maybe the words just don’t exist. Our son was born today. I feel like I was reborn with him. Thank you, Maria. You’ve given me such a gift. You’ve given me more than I deserve.

  Twenty-one

  It’s a little after three in the morning. You’re asleep in the bedroom. Little Christopher really hasn’t figured out the difference between day and night yet. I’m sure it will come. It’s only been a week and a half. It’s nice for now. We couldn’t afford for me to stop working, so this way I get to see our little boy. He’s so small. He wakes up crying at pretty much the same times every night. Most of the time he’s crying because he’s hungry and you have to get up with him. But around three o’clock every morning he wakes up just because he wants to be held. I can’t blame him. It’s scary to be alone.

  When he wakes up at three, I try to let you sleep. His feeding schedule has kept you pretty exhausted. Besides, I like having the time alone with him, just the men. I like that I can stop his crying just by picking him up and holding him. Sometimes I imagine that he cries at night even when he’s not hungry because he’s knows that I’ll come for him. He knows that it’s daddy who will hold him. When I pick him up out of his bassinet and place him in my lap he often reaches out and grabs hold of one of my fingers. Our boy’s got quite a grip. He holds on to my finger like he’d go tumbling through the universe if he let it go.

  He’s asleep in my lap now. I could put him back in his crib, but I don’t want to. I want to hold him for a little bit longer.

  The moon is bright outside, bright enough that I can write by moonlight. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to keep this journal. I’m not sure I need it anymore. I’m not sure if there’s anything else that I can tell you about me. Now all anybody needs to know about me is bundled up in my lap. That’s the only thing that’s important.

  I still can hardly believe that any of this has happened. I can’t believe that I’m a father. I can’t believe that I’ve abandoned the War. In some ways, it makes sense to me. I have a few random memories of my father from before he was killed. They are all from a time before I knew that the War existed. They’re all innocent memories.

  He used to take me fishing every Sunday morning. It was like our version of church. My sister would come sometimes but she didn’t really like to fish. I didn’t really like to fish, either, but I went because I liked spending time with my father. We’d drive down to a lake near our house. There was a little pier that poked out into the water. It was old and the wood was beginning to rot. I had never seen a boat on it. It was like our own private spot. We’d walk to the end of the pier and sit down, bait our hooks with worms, and cast our lines into the water. My father used to bait my hook for me because I didn’t have the heart to push the hook through the squiggling little worm. Then we’d wait and we’d talk. I think I did most of the talking. I don’t remember what we talked about. I don’t remember my father imparting to me any fatherly wisdom. I just remember being there and being happy, waiting for a fish to nibble at the end of my line, half hoping that it wouldn’t. In some ways, I think it’s better that my father passed away before I learned about the War. I’m glad I never had to talk to him about it. I’m glad my memories of him are more pure than that.

  Someday, maybe I’ll take Christopher fishing. When I do, I’ll bait his hook for him. We can talk all day about nothing and everything will be okay.

  PART II

  Chris,

  I hope with every fiber of my being that you never have to read this, that when all is said and done I’ll be able to protect you. If you are reading this, then something went wrong with part of my plan and I failed you for the second time. If something did happen to you, if I failed you again, then I think it is important for you to know who you really are and who your father was. Your name—the name your father and I gave you—is Christopher Jude. Your last name isn’t important. It’s probably better if you don’t know it. My name is Maria. I’m your mother. Your father’s name was Joseph. We had you when we were very young, myself especially. I know how dangerous the world I brought you into is. Trust me, I’ve seen the danger up close. I need you to know that I’m doing everything I can to protect you. I might not always make the right decisions, but I’m trying. Your father tried too. We so wanted a normal life for you. For a little while, we had illusions that we could give it to you.

  You were born in New Mexico. After running for almost nine months, your father and I had settled down in a small white house on the edge of the red sand deserts. We thought we had finally found a safe place, an oasis. We tried to stay to ourselves. We tried not to bother anyone. I’m sure you don’t remember but for a little while, we were like a normal, happy little family. I remember beautiful moments when I actually forgot that we were running. I think that even your father, at times, indulged himself and let himself believe that they’d forgotten us. We were so naive, lost in our own little dream world, believing that wanting something bad enough could make it happen, hoping that what we’d already sacrificed would be enough. We gave up everything—everything but each other and you. You were such a blessing, a gift that goes beyond metaphors. Then they came for you. We had four weeks, the four most wonderful weeks of my life. In those four weeks, you gave me more than I can ever repay you.

  I wish that there was some way that I could show you how much you changed your father. I remember watching him hold you. He’d put his hands around you and hold you ever so gently. At times you’d cry and all he had to do was reach for you and the crying would stop. He used to put you on his ches
t as he lay on that ugly green sofa we had in our living room and you’d fall asleep like a tiny angel. Your body would rise and fall as your father breathed. We talked about ways we could make the little house nicer so that you could grow up there and be like a normal kid. We had an old gray knotted tree in the backyard, the last tree before miles of empty desert. Your father talked all the time about tying a tire to one of the branches to make a swing for when you got older. I wish he could have given that to you. I wish I had real memories of your father pushing you on the tire swing instead of just dreams of memories that never existed.

  Sometimes I tried to pretend that we really were a normal family. We wouldn’t talk about the War for days on end. No matter how much we pretended, no matter how much your father acted like everything was normal, he never forgot who we were or what we were doing alone, hiding on the edge of the world. He was always thinking about it. I know because he used to talk to himself in his sleep. He used to mutter and scream. But during the day, he acted normal for my sake and for yours. We wanted so badly to spend our lives with you, to forget and to be forgotten. We just wanted them to leave us alone. But it wasn’t over. They didn’t forget us, Chris. If you only remember one thing that I try to teach you, remember that they never forget.

  They came for you on a Sunday afternoon. Sometimes I feel like I have no memories except for my memories of that day, like every other memory I ever had was washed clean by five men with guns. It seemed like a normal, peaceful Sunday until I heard a knock on the front door. In the months that we had lived in that tiny house, not a single person had knocked on our door until that day. Who would knock? We barely spoke to anyone other than the doctor who delivered you and the guys your father worked with. Your father demanded that we keep a low profile for your protection. It was all for naught. They knew where we were from the very beginning.