Adjustments

I sat alone in the cold gray waiting room, picking at the crusty edge of a tear in the orange vinyl seat cushion. Frosted glass slid open, and I heard my name.

“She’s ready for you,” the faceless voice said.

The door buzzed, and I went in. The doctor welcomed me back and showed me to a slightly more comfortable seat. She had big kind eyes but a slit for a mouth. I don’t know why that stood out for me. Never noticed that before.

“Do you know why you’re here today, Mr. Sloane?” She lifted a thick notebook with frayed edges from the low table between us.

“Dante. Please, call me Dante. I’m here often enough my wife’s jealous of the time we spend together.” I was met with a cold stare. “That’s a joke. Obviously, I don’t talk about anything that happens here. And, regarding why I’m here today,. I’m not sure.” I tugged at my over-starched collar. This tie Allison got me was too thin. I look like an aged-out hipster wannabe.

She pursed her razor-thin lips as she consulted her notes. “You work in S7-”

“Yes, that’s correct,” I answered.

“That wasn’t a question, Dante,” she snipped.

“Sorry, go on.”

“That’s an extremely sensitive area of the complex. The focus required of you, as well as the ability to compartmentalize, seems to be taking a toll on you.” She spoke to her notes rather than to me.

I didn’t much like that.

“Is that why I’m here? Is someone questioning my work?” I removed my glasses and fought to clean them with the insufferably thin tie.

“We want to make sure you’re able to fulfill your duties without risk to the program and yourself, of course. You understand, right, Dante?” She clicked her pen and wrote something in her notes.

“Yes. Yes, I understand completely. It’s nothing to worry about. Nothing really.” I couldn’t decide how much I wanted to talk about what was eating at me. There was something eating at me.

How could they know?

Dr. Slitmouth’s long fingers danced through pages and pages of Dante Sloane’s backstory until she settled on a well-worn section. “Are you having the dream again?”

How could she know?

“It’s nothing, really. I’ve got everything under control. I mean, there’s no trouble. It’s just a dumb dream.” There must be a page heading labeled ‘triggers’ they use to agitate us.

“Tell me about this dream,” she said.

“Same as the one on the page you’re looking at. Hasn’t changed in forty-five years.” I really didn’t want to discuss this again in the waking world. That just enpowers it, makes it more real. I’d just as soon forget. If even possible.

“Start at the beginning,” she insisted.

I looked at the clock. Three PM already. I’d never get back to my office if I dragged this out. Besides, they are just covering their asses. I know the game. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you again. Just know this doesn’t make things any better. To talk about it, I mean. It's a meaningless dream.”

“Why do you suppose you’ve had this dream for forty-five years?” She raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head. “I dunno, doc, maybe I’m just unimaginative.”

She stared at me, waiting for the story to begin.

“I don’t know when the dream started, but it must have been shortly after I was sick, maybe when I was seven or eight. We lived in a raised-ranch style house in Westport, Mass. I remember a U-shaped driveway with blue gravel.

“In the dream, it was the beginning of autumn, well, I guess people call it fall around here. Or maybe ‘summer-lite?’

“How do you know it’s fall?” The doctor asked.

“The leaves have changed. There are red and yellow maple leaves all over the yard. So much that I can’t see the grass or much of the driveway. I’m wearing a flannel, but I’m still chilly. I don’t mind, though. It’s a party. I’m happy.”

“A party?” She made another note in her damned book.

“Yeah, we were having some sort of party in the yard. I don’t explicitly recall who else was there. The faces were a blur, but it felt like family. I sat in the back of one of Dad’s cars in the garage. It was a station wagon, but a special one. He sold used cars, so he always had something different he’d bring home from the lot. This was a huge Chevy wagon, the kind where the tailgate could disappear down into the body, like an elevator door—only, up and down, not side to side.

“I’m just sitting there, my legs dangling as I watch the family bring food to a picnic table. The car is in the driveway now. Someone was flipping burgers on a charcoal grill. I can still smell them. There’s a girl here, my sister? I don’t know. I don’t have a sister. But, in the dream, it felt like a sister. She’s older, an adult. She’s wearing this yellow and white summer dress. But it's fall. I never thought about that before. She's dancing or frolicking, as dumb as that sounds. Just spinning around holding the skirt part out, like that scene from The Sound of Music.”

“Why did she feel like a sister?” More notes.

“I never have an answer for that. It was just a feeling. No reason, but it always used to make me sad, when I woke up, that she wasn’t real.”

She jotted that down, too. “Used to?”

“It’s been a long time. The effect has worn off, you know?” I shrugged and shifted in my seat. Not as comfortable as I thought.

She raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t believed me. “What happens next?”

“Someone puts their finger on the record.” I saw the dream in my mind. I’d had it so many times I could replay it now with clarity. “Everything slowed to a crawl—the trees swaying in the breeze, the sister’s dress, smoke from the grill. Even my own swinging legs felt like swimming in honey. I look up to the sky, between the tallest trees that separated our property from the neighbors.”

“What do you see?”

“It’s…It’s not what I see. I don’t really see anything. It’s just a feeling. The joy I felt is gone. Replaced with fear. A crippling fear, but manifested as reality. I am literally frozen in place. We all are. I can’t move. I try, but I’m in slo-mo. I feel a presence coming for me from above. Above the trees. Behind the gray clouds. I try to run, but I become a mannequin. Posed, like my family, in this silly attempt to push through the honey.”

“And then?”

“Then nothing. That’s the end of the dream. I wake, and the, what you’d call ‘existential dread’ stays with me for a while until I can recenter my conscious mind and stop trying to make sense of it.”

She jots more notes. “Why do you think the dream has returned? Why now?”

I know what she wants me to say, what she expects me to say. It’s not true, but I say it anyway. “This project has me working harder than usual. I’m sure it’s just stress. I’m not eating right, and I’m sure I’m not getting enough sleep. It comes with the job, right?”

She flipped through more pages and chewed her pen through the little slit hole in her face. There was a pause, then she snapped her notebook closed. “I think you need some time off,” she suggested.

“I’m sure I do, but this project is…”

“It can wait. It will wait. Better done late and correct than on time and flawed. Ever been to a chiropractor?”

Her odd segue took me off guard. “Yeah, a few times, why?”

“An adjustment can do wonders, Dante. Think of the time away as an adjustment.”

“I appreciate the metaphor and the suggestion, but…”

She placed the notebook back on the table and gave me a stern look. “It’s not a suggestion, Mr. Sloane. I can either suspend you for two weeks, or you can choose to take a paid vacation. Which would you prefer?”

***

My wife Allison and I took the last exit from Route 6 onto Main Road. We could have gone anywhere in the world. Something deep in my brain told me this was where I needed to go. I hadn’t been back to my childhood home since 1985. Westport looked so different than it had in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Not as bad as Tampa, where I’d grown up, but the growth, or rather the sprawl, was off-putting.

We turned from Main, and now-spoiled childhood clawed their way up my consciousness. Riding my metallic blue Schwinn Stingray up and down Charlotte White Road. Stickball with the neighborhood kids. Eating the wild grapes Mom told us not to. We drove past the area where Davey’s grandfather’s farm was. It’s acres of apartments now.

Amber maples, on what few stretches of undeveloped land remained, filtered the dappled light. Long shadows stretched across potholed pavement. I reached for the seat heaters but reassessed my choice.

“Probably best not to tax the batteries,” I said.

“You think?” Allison replied as she tucked a loose lock of blonde behind her ear.

“Cold and EVs are a bad mix.” I looked at the range gauge. “We may need juice before we head back. I should have planned better.”

“It’s okay, babe. You’re a physicist, not a meteorologist.” Allison squeezed my arm, smiled, and zipped up her coat. “Besides, we didn’t come to Massachusetts in October for a clam boil, right? We came for foliage and brisk walks on Horseneck Beach.”

Did we, though? That’s not why I came, but I couldn’t tell her that.

I slowed to a crawl as we approached 251, the house Dad built in 1969. I looked to my left, expecting the familiar woods and stone walls built by colonists in the 1600s, but instead saw the entrance to a subdivision. “Wow. Ester’s old land, huh. I thought she’d live forever. So weird.”

“Dante, stop!” Allison screamed.

I swung my head back to the road and jumped on the brakes. “Holy shit, what?”

“Dog.” She pointed at the Old English Sheepdog galloping across the road.

My mind flashed back to Smoky, the Sheepdog we had when I was little. He was a horse. We had a harness for him. In the winter, we’d ride the toboggan down the icy street, and he’d tow us back to the top. He was a good dog. Not the smartest, but good. My mind skipped ahead, and I recalled the police chief’s daughter running him over, driving drunk up our street in a snowstorm. Dog in road. Drunk behind the wheel…in a snowstorm. None of those things was supposed to happen. We never had another dog after that. I think it broke Dad’s heart. I shook the memory off and kept it to myself.

I hit the hazards and put the car in park. The dog barked at us, but carried on across the street. I looked back to my right and saw an older woman coming up the driveway. She moved slowly and deliberately. Her cane had four feet and a little glass cylinder holding a long dead carnation. She waved at us and then covered a cough. I hopped from the car.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” I zipped my flannel from the chill and pulled a knit hat over my graying hair.

“That dog will be the death of me,” she said.

The dog loitered near the gate to the community across the road. “What’s his name?” I assumed it was a male, not sure why.

“Ashe. Which is what he’ll be if he gets himself killed out there.”

I smiled at her gallows humor. “Ashe, com’ere boy.” I slapped my hands on my corduroys and beckoned the beast. He cocked his head and let loose a low woof in my direction. I approached. He sat. I grabbed his collar. “Who’s a bad boy? Your mamma shouldn’t have to chase you.”

He let out a whine as if he understood me. I know he didn’t. He seemed focused on something beyond the gate. To be honest, I kinda was, too.

Hunched at my waist, I walked the dog back to the old woman. “I had one just like him as a kid. Same gray coat.” I took off my hat. “Runs in the family.”

She reached out gnarled, arthritic hands and offered me a leather leash. “He loves to dart out the door before I can hook that damned thing on.”

I clipped it in and handed the lead back. “Well, good thing I was stopping, then. Glad I could help.” I looked over her head into the yard at the house I grew up in.

“You moving in somewhere near here?” she asked.

“Oh, uh, no.” I pointed to the car in the street. “My wife and I are just here for, well, that’s not important.” I pointed to the house. “My dad built that house. I used to live here.”

Her eyebrows ascended her forehead. “Zat so? When was that?”

“We lived here until 1985. My dad was sick of the cold winters, and my uncle was living in Florida, Tampa, actually, and he convinced my dad to sell the house and move us down.”

Ashe walked in a tight circle between us, sniffing my boots and the ground beneath them.

“Folks that sold me the place bought it in the ‘90s, so I guess it's changed hands a few times since then.” She pulled at the leash until Ashe heeled.

Behind me, Allison got out of the car. “Babe, the screen says ten percent, that’s bad, right?”

“Ten percent battery left? Holy hell, yeah, that’s bad. We won’t make it back on that.” I looked at the old woman. “It was thirty-five a minute ago. That’s what I get for renting an electric car in this weather.”

“Yeah, they ain’t so popular up here. Especially once winter rolls in.” She pointed past the house to an open, detached garage. “I’m a if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it sorta gal.

Parked inside was a 1971 Chevrolet Kingswood wagon. I knew a lot of cars, but that one I knew too well. Same shade of blue. What are the odds?

“Nice,” I muttered.

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the garage. “Previous owners had a charging thingy installed in there. I’ll make you a deal since you were so kind fetching my bastard of a dog.”

“I’m listening.”

“You pull in here and charge as much as you like, but you and your wife gotta come inside, get warm, and have some tea. Hell, we’re practically family. Ashe likes you, anyway.” She didn’t wait for an answer; instead turned and headed back to the house. “Come on, you,” she tugged the leash. Ashe stopped and lifted a leg on a shrub, staring at me the entire time.

“I’m sure we’ll each have some interesting stories to share. About this house, I mean.” I walked back to Allison and the car.

“We’re having tea,” I said to her.

“”Excellent,” she squealed in delight.

***

From the dinette, I could see the car charging in the backyard. It was soon covered with fallen leaves of red and yellow. A few orangey ones, but mostly yellow.

In the kitchen, a teapot whistled. A scent of cinnamon rolls mixed with the old hardwood floors and the sixty years of wax and life lived on them. Allison smiled at me. She loves this sort of thing. Going to new places, meeting strangers, and asking them about their lives. This was the perfect mix for her. I could see it on her face, giddy, like we just stepped into a Lifetime holiday movie.

“I’m Grace, by the way. You’ve already met Ashe.” She inclined her head toward the sizable gray mass laying lazily on an oval braided rug in front of the fireplace.

I stood and took the tray from her. Three cups, a teapot, and a plate of those cinnamon rolls I smelled. My stomach growled at the expected treat. “Thank you, Grace. I’m Dante, and this young lady with the eager grin is my wife, Allison.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Baking is not my first love,” Grace said as she sat with us.

Allison took her cup and set it in front of her. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. I think what Dante means is that I’m eager to chat with you. He knows I love to meet colorful people.”

“Allow me.” Lipton logos on the paper handles hung on strings from inside the teapot. I placed Grace’s mug and my own and poured the tea. We each pulled a roll free from the collective.

“Does the house look much different to how you remember it?” Grace asked.

I surveyed as much as I could see from the table. “A bit, yeah.” I pointed to the kitchen. “We had a very ‘70s design aesthetic back then. Avocado appliances and dark wooden cabinets. I think the kitchen floor was some god-awful linoleum that looked like bricks.”

Grace chuckled in a way that suggested she’d been subjected to that very style. “Trends come back around now and again. Glad that one never did.”

“The hardwood floors and the layout seem the same. Everything feels smaller, though.” I blew across my hot tea.

“Everything’s bigger when you’re little.” Grace took a gulp of steaming tea and looked around. “This home is old.”

“So are our memories,” I replied.

“So, if baking’snot your thing—and these rolls are excellent, by the way—then what is your first love?” Allison asked as she reached for another roll.

“I was a physics professor at SMU. Retired about ten years back to spend these twilight years with George.” Her eyes glassed up a bit as she nodded toward the mantle. A black and white photo of George, with a carnation in his lapel and his best gal on his arm, sat next to a powder blue urn.

Allison put her hand across her chest as if to still her escaping sadness. “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh, no, honey, you’re fine. You asked. And the truth is that physics was my first love, not George. He was my last. My only true. This was supposed to be our time, and he up and dies on me. Them’s the breaks, eh?” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and bit into a fresh roll.

“Dante’s a physicist, too. He works in some secret lab in the desert. Nevada. He won’t tell me a thing about it.” Allison feigned contempt.

She knows better.

Grace gave me a knowing glance. “I’m sure your husband is doing important work.”

I took a sip of tea and tried to change the subject. “That wagon is a beauty. How long have you had her?”

“George bought that in 1977, right here in Westport.”

“Dante, dear, didn’t your dad have a car lot here back then?” Allison had that giddy look again.

“Yes, but the odds are-”

Grace tilted her head to the ceiling, where memories are stored. “Mil Motors was the place, up on route six.”

“Holy actual shit,” Allison blurted out.

“Allison! Language,” I shot back.

Grace laughed. “It’s fine. I’m no Bible thumper.”

I huffed, then reset my virtue. “I think you bought that car from my dad. He owned Mil Motors then.”

Something triggered and her face melted from cheery to solemn. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Sorry for what? I think he did pretty well when he sold it.”

“For your brother, I mean.” She leaned in and rested her twisted fingers on my hand.

I looked at Allison, and she returned the glance. The one that said what the hell does that mean?”

“Grace, love, I think you’re mistaken,” I said as sweetly as I could muster.

“Oh, I don’t think so. George told me he got a helluva deal on that car because of what happened to your brother.” She was quite adamant in her conviction.

Before I corrected her again, I thought it better to ask, “And what was it he said happened to my brother?”

“He said he was taken.”

“Taken?”

“Yes. From right in front of him, in his own yard,” she looked off for a moment, “my god, this house, this yard. I never knew that until..” She pointed out the window toward the garage. “He was sat in the back of that wagon, playing, and then he just vanished.”

I tried to open my mouth to speak, but my throat went dry. I felt lightheaded. Allison sat there with a dopey smile on her face. How? How can she hear what I just heard and smile? She knows about my dream. Does she think this is fun for me? I couldn’t process what Grace was saying. I fought the creeping blackness at my peripheral vision. Tried to breathe through it. I lifted my teacup and wet my lips, then my mouth and throat.

“Are you ok, son? Did I stir up a bad memory?” Grace asked.

I gave Allison an angry look. She recoiled, resetting her smile to something more like confusion. A dozen scenarios went through my head, none of them made sense. I fought back a sudden wave of nausea to say, “I haven’t got a brother. Never had a brother.”

***

The dampness of the back porch made my ass cold. How long had I been sitting there? I needed air. And to be alone. As with the dream, I tried to grasp the waking world and convince myself Grace’s version of history wasn’t real. The longer I sat staring at the tailgate of the Chevy, the more confused I became. The sound of Allison’s inappropriate cackle over running water in the kitchen sink anchored me to this reality.

This reality. Is there another? One where I was abducted as a child? Was that me? One where that happened, and I don’t remember it? There’s no one left alive to ask.

As my mind churned, I walked down to the garage. The keys to the wagon hung from a nail next to a dusty picture of George holding a small fish on a line. I ran my fingers down the chrome bodyline until I reached the tailgate, took the rounded GM key, and inserted it into the lock near the passenger tail light. A quick clockwise turn and the glass was swallowed up into the roof. A twist of the outer ring and the tailgate started receding into the car's bottom. I grabbed the handle and shoved it the rest of the way down. Some things you just never forget. Like that smell. That old car smell.

Will my feet still dangle?

They did not. I’m too tall. I pushed back, deeper in, until they did. For a moment, I was that little kid again. Not a care in the world. Not a fear. I didn’t smell the charcoal, and there was no imaginary sister. She was, wasn’t she? The trees rustled in the cold gray breeze. Crunchy, soothing white noise. They seemed no taller than they had when I was a kid.

Deep breaths.

I lied back and stared at the headliner. Pale metallic blue, same as I remembered.

Deep breaths.

A low rumble crept in under the white noise of amber. It felt familiar. The body of the Chevy vibrated in a comforting way, and I slipped away for a moment into my memories. Memories of a dream. The dream. Was it both?

A pressure on my chest lifted. I sat up, my legs dangled freely again. Slowly. I wasn’t in the garage. The driveway’s blue gravel was hard to see through the maple leaves. My legs were short. I kicked through invisible honey. The scent of burgers called my attention to the yard, to the people. My people. My family. The faces were crystal clear. Mom laughing, Dad holding a beer and a spatula, the red-domed grill bellowing smoke.

Toby and I sat in the back of the wagon. My sister danced across the yard to the song playing on the transistor radio as it sat precariously on the edge of the picnic table.

“Do you feel that?” asked Toby.

“Yeah, it’s making me sleepy,” I answered.

“I’m scared, Dante. I wanna go back in the house.”

“Ok, let’s go.”

Toby jumped from the back of the wagon but never landed. He just hung there like a boy-shaped kite. Mom and Dad stood frozen, too. The sound of the trees left, and the music stretched out to a drone. The sky opened up, gray and hungry. I tried to swim through the honey to my brother, but I was trapped like a fly on that sticky paper.

It took so long to blink. When my eyes opened again, Toby was gone.

***

I heard my name.

“Dante? What in the world are you doing?” Allison stood at the back of the Chevy and nudged my knees until I awoke.

For a moment, I didn’t recognize her. Her red hair blew in the breeze, a colorful contrast to the yellow leaves dancing on the tall trees behind her. Not blonde. Allison is not a blonde. She’s a redhead now. No, always. Yes.

“Your sister wants to know if we’re staying for dinner. What should I tell her?” she asked.

My gaze landed on the dusty picture frame by the nail. Toby and I sat on sister Grace’s lap at the lake, Dad behind us, holding up a fish.

“Grace? Yeah, tell her, yeah, we’ll stay while the car charges,” I answered.

“While the what does what now?” Allison’s face wore confusion.

I looked over at the Subaru rental car in the driveway. “Nevermind. I guess I dozed off.”

“It’s okay, honey. I know how hard coming back here is for you. No pressure. When you’re done with your mini trip down memory lane, we can use your help in the kitchen.” She leaned in and kissed my forehead. “How are you feeling? Has this trip helped at all?”

“Yeah. It’s been an adjustment, but I feel like I’m back on track.”

“Refreshed and eager to get back to work on that, what did you call it, addressable temporal rift?”

I smiled. “I told you about that, huh?”

“Are there things you don’t tell me? I don’t think this marriage would be this well-adjusted if you had to keep secrets from me, do you?”

I thought for a moment about the strange, fleeting memories that slipped away from my mind. “I think we're gonna be alright.”