A Manipulation of Murder - Part I

         I sat there, breathless, in the middle of a whitened room -- bright with the lights of the ceiling above me.
         “Why am I here?  What did I do?”
         I was drowsy.  As if someone just hit me on the back of the head with a ten foot pole.  I slightly touched the base of my neck; this excruciating pain pounding in and out, in and out.
         I glanced over at what seemed to be a picture of a family, happy it seemed.  One of those pictures you’d only see on television, or in magazines.  Two parents, two kids, a dog.  “How pathetic,” I said under my breath.  I gently placed the picture on the floor, only to see this man staring back at me.  I almost forgot what I looked like.  Brown hair, brown eyes, a strong jaw line.  This was the face of someone who had forgotten everything, forgot who he was, what he was all about.
         “Honey?”
         She seemed like a vision, her voice was faint, dressed in yellow -- her favorite color.
         “Honey?  Are you going to come downstairs?  Your sons waiting for you to take him to the game.”
         Suddenly, my temples were throbbing.  I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Get out!  Get out!  There is no son!  You aren’t my wife!  Stop following me!”

         “Mr. Bower.  Mr. Bower…Mr. Bower!”
         Her harsh yell awakened my spell.  I suddenly realized where I was again.  I was at the ward, remember?  I was on the floor, dazed…out of it.
         “Mr. Bower, I suggest you get up.  Our session is about to begin.”
         I nodded, looked up at the doctor, a stern look upon her face.  No sympathy as usual.  No remorse.  “Look at her,” I thought, “Dressed in that same crisp, white coat -- I bet she had someone iron it for her this morning.”  I slowly got up, grabbed the base of my neck again, it felt like the pain had worsened.  I groaned.
         She led me to her office, how familiar it seemed.  Pictures of her son in little league, her husband and her on their yacht in Waikiki.  She should have a picture of me up there, I’m sure I’m her favorite patient…or at least the patient that gets on her nerves the most.
         “Sit down, Mr. Bower.”  She motioned for me to take a seat in that oh so familiar brown, leather chair.  I obeyed like a sick dog to its master. 
         “Look, this is all a mistake, I don’t even remember what happened that night.  You’ve asked me countless times, over and over again, what do you want me to tell you?”  I got up, tried pretending to act in an ideal scenario, “Oh Dr. Smith, here it is!  I can tell you crystal clear, there I was eating breakfast, the next thing I knew, they disappeared!  And I know where their bodies are, I know who did it.”  I slammed my hands on her desk, “You want it to be me don’t you.  You want me to be the one with his hands covered in blood.  You want me to be the one whose hands shook when his wife whispered, ‘Please…please don’t.’  You want me to be the guy, huh!  Don’t you!?”
         Dr. Smith, obviously not surprised by my sudden mood swing, sighed, and looked me square in the eye, “Mr. Bower…I already know you did it.  It’s you that’s forgotten.”
         I stared at her, right through her, as if she were invisible and I could see the floor through her body.  I sunk in my seat.  Could this be true?  That picture I looked at minutes ago was my family?  I couldn’t understand it. 

***********

         The summer began beautifully.  I could smell the clean Virginia air driving down Interstate 90.  On my drives alone, I love to listen to the blues, especially that guy, BB King.  It was like one twang of his guitar playing, man, made me feel like I could escape -- escape the world, my job, my wife, my kids.  Just get away.
         The blues kinda’ described my life.  If you were to look at it, you’d say, “Now that’s a cooker cutter, perfect world -- you got a wife that’s superwoman, a son that’s a genius, a daughter who’s the captain of the cheerleading squad, and the dog who doesn’t do anything except wag his tail when you get home.”  Outside, yeah, I’d say it was one of those dream lifestyles, but inside I was a mess.  I was a doggone mess.  Sometimes, I’d tell myself to just shut up inside, quiet down the thoughts of hatred…bitterness…remorse -- but I just couldn’t.  Nothing I tried could.  You’d come to find out, that my life wasn’t it was all cracked up to be.
         I pulled up to the driveway, got out of the car, and gently shut the door behind me.  I took a moment to look at our white picket fence, and above, at our blue shutters.  Even our doorknob was fancy -- my wife picked it out because she said she wanted some European influence on our new home.  I shook my head in disgust.  I know it wasn’t normal to feel this way.  Not normal at all.
         As I opened the door, Keith ran up to me.  “Daddy!” he yelled, excited at my arrival.  And of course the dog, wagging his tail at my magical, yet routine homecoming.
         “Hey buddy,” I said, smiling from ear to ear, as I picked Keith up in my arms.  I learned how to fake it for a number of years.  “Where’s your mom?”
         “In the kitchen, she says we’re having meatloaf tonight!”
         “Oh she did?” I carried him to the kitchen, feeling the pressure of his weight made my knees buckle.  I need to go to the gym soon, I thought.
         “Hi honey.”  There she was, Mrs. Jennifer Bower, wearing the pearls I gave her last Christmas, and the floral apron her mother gave her, passed down from generation to generation.  I couldn’t imagine how unsanitary that thing was.  I mean, it’s been washed countless times, but I also didn’t realize how many years it’s been worn either…or by who.  She kissed me on the cheek, “Did Keith tell you we’re having meatloaf tonight?”
         “He sure did, thank you honey, you‘re the best.”  She smirked and nodded, as if to signal to me, you better say that in front of our son.
         
         We sat at the dinner table, this time with my daughter Claire as well.  Although at times, silence is golden, at our dinner table, silence was normal.  The only chatterbox was Keith -- “I learned this, I saw that, I made this, I watched that.”  Sometimes I’d like to just slip him a five dollar bill under the table, just so he could be quiet, but I knew that starting that would bring him to a nasty habit of anti-socialism and monetary expectation.  Not to mention, one of my wife’s monstrous lectures on being an example to our kids.
         Finally, my wife did her smirk again and asked Claire how school was.
         “Fine,” she mumbled.  I guess kids get to a certain age where they begin to feel like authority is overrated.  Oh sure, the people who taught you to dress yourself and learn how to poop are idiots.  I was getting sick of it.
         “No, Claire, really…tell your mom how school was.  I know more things happened than that.”
         Claire looked at me in disgust.  Wow, did I just invade her personal privacy again? 
         Jennifer dropped her fork, and sighed.  “She doesn’t have to tell me every detail, Nathan, okay?  If she wants to respond to me with a simple fine, that okay.”
         I just stared at her in disappointment.  See, this was why our parenting produced someone like Claire.  We just could never agree on anything -- not ONE thing!  In my fury, I threw my napkin on my plate, and charged out of the room.  She didn’t follow me to talk about the matter privately…of course not!  She had too much pride for that, no man was going to tell her what to do.

         That night, I just laid in bed, glancing at the clock every ten minutes.  My wife seemed to toss and turn more than usual that night.  Me?  I couldn’t sleep a wink.  Not with knowing that this was the bed my wife had an affair in.  Tragic, I know.  But I was the type of person that held his fury inside.  I was the type of person you could mess with for a little while, until you said one final remark (it didn’t even have to be that insulting) and I would just blow up.  My wife experienced that with me several times.  Her constant nagging account would get to its peak, until I withdrew from it with my anger, she would cry, and then a few weeks later, start building her nagging account back up again.  Same pattern -- it would never change.