There is a man lying in bed with me but he is not my husband. He looks like my husband. Same blue eyes, same scratchy mustache, same angular cheeks. But it’s not him. When he lies on his side, his hair – black-speckled grey and curly – topples over his forehead just like my husband’s does. He smells the same after his nightly shower – citrus soap and deodorant – but he’s not the same man.
Even now, him lying next to me, big spoon to my little, I know it’s not him. I can feel it. The way this man’s hand absent-mindedly cups my breast, rough skin on mine, does not bring me comfort like it did with my husband. The easy naturalness our bodies had shared is replaced with a crawling anxiety. Like his hand is a giant carapaced insect perched on me, ready to bite.
He even responds to my husband’s name.
“Brian…” I say, feigning sleepiness.
“Yes, Hon?” he replies. The voice of my husband, coming out of a stranger.
“Nothing. G’night.”
“Night.”
I don’t know what to say to him.
My husband has been gone for three days. Replaced by this other man. A simulacra. He’s warm and fleshy, like a real person, and he knows everything that my husband would know. I try to trip him up sometimes, but he’s done his homework. Or, a more sinister explanation, he’s somehow absorbed all the knowledge that my husband had. His pet-names for me. His favorite foods. His daily routines. ATM pin codes, phone numbers, how he sometimes cooks a single giant family-sized pancake to please our son.
Lonny, poor Lonny. Unaware that his father has been replaced. And I can’t bring it up to him! Or to anyone else. I have no proof. I need to learn more. I need to push this man a little. Pry my fingers at the edges of him. Get under the fleshy surface and prove that what is underneath that skin is not the beating heart of the man I fell in love with.
#
There is a woman lying in bed with me, but she is not my wife. She looks like my wife. Same long brown hair, same dark eyes, same pink lips hiding her tiny teeth. But it’s not her. When she lies on her side, she pokes just the tip of her feet out from under the blanket, just like my wife does. She smells the same, clean laundry and sea salt, but it’s not the same woman.
Even now, her lying next to me, the little spoon to my big, I know it’s not her. I can feel it. My arm fits perfectly below the hollow of her neck, her long hair tickling my bicep, and I cup her breast like I normally do. But it doesn’t feel the same. That easy familiarity I have with my wife is gone. It feels like I’m holding a warm corpse. My skin crawls.
“Brian…” the woman says my name. Her voice is that of my wife. A mental disconnect that my brain can’t fathom.
“Yes, Hon?” I respond, playing the part.
“Nothing. G’night.”
“Night.”
I don’t know what to say to her.
My wife has been gone for three days. Replaced by this other woman. A golem of some sort. Flesh and blood molded to look like the woman I love, its purpose unknown. Somehow, it knows everything my wife would know. How she squeezes my shoulder when she walks behind me. How long to cook the tater tots in our air fryer. Relative’s birthdays. Email passwords. The names of our son’s fifth-grade teachers.
Lonny. Poor kid! He doesn’t know what is going on. That his mother has been replaced. There is no way I can tell him. Or anyone else for that matter. No one will believe me without proof. But proof, that I can get. So far, this woman has not slipped up. But she will. She will. I just have to shake things up a bit. Poke holes in the fleshy membrane that this creature has so carefully created. I will expose its unnatural insides so everyone can see that it is not the woman that I fell in love with.
#
I got up early, before my parents, to continue my plan. It’s before sun-up. Silence from their bedroom, as expected. I turn on only one kitchen light, to be safe, and open their coffee jar. The ceramic one with the chipped lid. The smell hits me. I hate that smell. I don’t know why adults drink coffee. They seem miserable without it but also miserable with it, too.
When I’m done with the task, for the fourth morning in a row, I close the jar and turn the light off. Then I wait a few minutes for any signs they are awake. Nada. Zilch. Perfect.
The sun is starting to come up now, so I make myself a bowl of cereal and sit at the table. I’m not really hungry. Eating breakfast is only an excuse for me to be up this early. Not that I need one. When my parents finally emerge, they don’t even notice me at first. They are arguing with each other.
I watch how they are acting, to see if my plan is working. Arguing might not be a good sign. Max, my friend who gave me the stuff, said that his parents only got lazy, quiet and agreeable.
“Why are you asking so many questions?” my Dad says to my Mom.
They are both in pajamas. That reminds me of some good memories of weekend mornings when I was really small. Those lazy mornings where we got up late and had a big breakfast and watched cartoons and played games together, laughing and joking. This isn’t one of those.
“What’s wrong with asking questions? Are you scared you’ll give the wrong answers?” my mom replies.
They both pull chairs out from the table, slam down into them, ignoring me completely. I just munch my flakes, watching.
“It’s almost like you’re gathering information about me,” Dad says.
“About you? You’re my husband. Shouldn’t I know everything?”
“You do seem to know an awful lot. But maybe you are on me all morning because your information isn’t one-hundred percent complete. And when it is, what then? Am I next?”
“Are you next for what? You are being defensive now. And I think it’s because you don’t know the answer! Did I finally ask something so obscure that you hadn’t anticipated it? Tell me, where was our first date? Unless you don’t know.”
“Oh, I know the answer. But do you? Is that the final piece of information you need? So you tell me – what is your purpose?”
“My purpose? What is your purpose?!”
They get out of their chairs, and are screaming now, starting to circle around the kitchen like two boxers in a ring. Me, I’m getting alarmed, my cereal spoon frozen halfway between the bowl and my mouth, dripping milk.
Was this argument because of Max’s stuff I’ve been giving them? A little sprinkle into their coffee each morning couldn’t do this, could it? They were supposed to get more agreeable. Care less about things. I mean, Max’s parents took the powder for fun, and they were pretty normal. My parents never fought like this before. I didn’t want to ruin their marriage, I only wanted to get a new Playstation. But now I’m like a deer in the headlights, watching a car-crash happen right in front of my eyes. They are still screaming at each other. The neighbor’s dog has started barking. My parent’s words bounce back and forth at each other in a cacophony of chaos. Nothing they say makes sense.
“What do you want with me?” “Who are you really?” “Where did you come from!” “What have you done with my wife/husband!”
The last was screamed by both of them simultaneously. My mom has inched closer to the dishrack, grabbed a big knife that was drying there. The one she cut a watermelon with last night. My dad has grabbed the large frying pan off the hook above the stove. This time I don’t think he’s going to make his famous family-pancake.
They both strike at the same time, muscles corded, spittle flying, hate and fear widening their big crazy eyes. And I’m just sitting here. What am I to do? The only thing I can manage is to avert my eyes and drop my spoon. My face is splattered with milk. Their screams cut off with a crash.
There is silence in the kitchen. The neighbor’s dog is still barking.
I open my eyes and my parents are gone. Nowhere to be seen. I wipe the milk off of my face with one hand. The liquid is warm. That’s when I see my fingers, smeared red. That wasn’t milk.
My heart, already beating out of my chest, increases its thuds. I stand up, pushing my chair back so hard it tumbles over. My red-fingered hand shaking. My bare feet are ice cold as I stumble backwards.
Now I can see my parents. Both of them lying on the floor, unmoving. My mom’s head cracked open, gunk spilling out. The knife sticking out of my father’s neck. Blood is spilling out of both of their wounds and running together into a single puddle between them. Their limbs are tangled together in an embrace. I can see their vacant open eyes, staring at me. Two accusatory glares, the grimaces of hate still tattooed upon their faces, faces growing paler by the second.
These two people lying on the floor, they are not my parents.
They look like my parents. Same pajamas. Same hair. Same hands. Same teeth.
But it’s not them.
It can’t be them.
Editor’s Note
I love what this tale does with repetition. The echo of the first two characters and what they’re seeing and feeling is wonderfully done. I love these small, domestic type tales.