Bliss: Chapter 2

Mark had enough empathy to feel guilty about not wanting to be where he was, but he still couldn't bring himself actually want to be there. He knew he should've bought a foreign car, but he just had to be patriotic and go domestic. Now his car was in the shop with electrical problems, and his Ma was chauffeuring him home from the train station, which he hated because she always towed him with her on errands like getting groceries or visiting neighbors. He fought back a sigh as his boots crunched on the snow while they walked to the door. Any sign of impatience, and she would go off on him when they got home, lecturing him about bad manners. Still, he screwed up his face in annoyance as he dusted snow out of his close-cropped, curly black hair.

“Now you mind your manners Mark,” his mother said to him like he was six years old. “Poor Sharon’s been through the ringer. Oh, I dunno what she’s gonna do, gotta raise that child on her own now. Who would have ever guessed Marlon would leave them?”

His mother tut-tutted as she rang the doorbell, and Mark stood blowing into his cupped hands, trying to warm his stinging fingers as they waited to be let in. After a few seconds he heard the lock click and the door swung open.

“Shaaaaroooon” his mother sang at the disheveled looking woman in the doorway. Her black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, with pieces sticking out at odd angles. There were dark circles under her droopy eyes, and her tan skin leaned more toward yellow than brown. She wore frumpy jeans and a cream coloured sweater with a tomato sauce stain on it. She ushered them in and gave him and his mother a weak hug in turn.

“How are you doing dear?” his mother asked.

“Oh, alright.”

“I brought you some of my banana bread.”

“Oh that’s very kind of you, Mariah. Here, I have some tea ready in the living room.” She waited as he and his mother pulled off their winter boots and coats. Mark could hear the TV going upstairs; it was a commercial for therapure lightboxes. He heard the familiar slogan: The best cure for the Vox, is Bliss and the Box. As if Proud pharmaceuticals needed to actually do any marketing. Mark figured commercials must be a habit established back when they actually had some competition, or maybe it was aimed at un-dependants. Did they have TVs at the Monroe Institution? Mark wished he could watch TV now, but he wasn't about to chance it.

Here we go thought Mark despite himself as they filed into the living room. The place smelled like incense, but he didn't dare wrinkle his nose. Sharon directed them over to two white leather sofas seated across from each other with a glass coffee table in between. She poured them tea from a pot on the table and gestured to them to add their own cream and sugar. Mark caught himself just before making a face at the flowery teacup.

Mark noticed her movements were slow and lacklustre, and his guilt returned. It was sad that Sharon’s husband Marlon had left her and her daughter, and he understood that, but it didn’t make him want to sit around listening to his mother chatting any more than before. However, he did his best to keep from looking bored.

“I’m so sorry Sharon. I can’t believe he left.”

Mark settled in for the long haul, and eyed his Ma’s friend sideways. Her lip was trembling a bit, and she bowed her head. The tea cup shook slightly in her hand. Mark was really uncomfortable. What was he supposed to do if she started crying? He looked down into his tea cup like it was the most interesting tea he had ever seen. Sharon was commiserating to his mother.

“You know Mariah, I look around at this gorgeous house, at all Cammy’s toys and video games, the beautiful dinette set and bedroom set that he bought me and I know he loved us. I know he did. Marlon is a good man, so why did he leave?”

His mother tut-tutted and patted her friend’s back.

“It’s his decision to make Sharon. When it’s time to Go, you know.”

“I know Mariah, I know, but…I’m angry! He couldn’t have given us some kind of warning?” She was practically shouting. Mark continued to study his teacup. His mother repeated softly but firmly, “When it’s time to Go, you know.” She was a very religious woman. Mark chanced looking up and saw Sharon shaking her head.

“The last time I saw him was in the hospital. He couldn’t even talk to me then, just lying there in a coma. I stayed with that man until they kicked me out because visiting hours were over, I loved him that much, and then I came back first thing the next morning with Cammy, only to have the doctor tell me Marlon had Gone.” Sharon gave his mother a searching stare. “You mean to tell me when he woke up from that coma he couldn’t wait around to say goodbye? He couldn’t do that for his wife and child?”

His mother gave her a pitying look in return. “Sharon no one knows the how or why of when a person choses to Go but that person, and it’s not for us to judge. You may find yourself Going tomorrow. Don’t be angry with Marlon honey, remember the good times you had together…”

* * *

His mother was shaking his shoulder. Mark had fallen asleep. He could see that she was annoyed and he was going to get it on the way home, but it wasn’t his fault! Who gives their guests chamomile tea? Sure enough she started in on him when they got in her car. The dinging of the seat-belt alert had barely stopped before she started.

“Mark how could you fall asleep?” You know what that woman has been through can’t you show some respect? I was so embarrassed!”

“I’m sorry Ma! I just had a long train ride, plus that tea made me sleepy.”

She paused in her tirade as her attention went to backing the car out of the driveway. “Well you gotta learn to stay awake! You think surgeons get to sleep whenever they want? What if you keel over in the operating room one day, you gonna blame it on chamomile tea?”

He saw his chance to wriggle out of this tongue lashing, and played on her sense of motherly pride.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Come on Ma you know I’ve been studying hard. Med school is no joke you know.” As he’d hoped, her face softened up. She took a hand off the wheel and patted his shoulder.

“OK Mark, baby I know you’re working hard. And I did bring you here right after your long trip home. I made a pork roast, potato salad and my baked macaroni and cheese that you love.”

Mark scowled, “Ma, that’s not me who loves your mac and cheese, that’s Devon.”

“Oh? Well you seem to like it enough when you’re gobbling it up at the dinner table.”

Mark knew he was heading into dangerous waters and backpedaled. “I mean it’s good, I like it, but my favourite is your fish cakes. You sure know how to fry up a mean fish cake.”

“Ah ha, well sorry, Marky. Next time I’ll do up the fish cakes OK? And speaking of your brother Devon, since he can’t stay over for the holiday he sent us tickets to his home game this weekend, and then he’s taking us all out for dinner. Isn’t that nice of him? Every time I think about him out there on the court…I am so proud of that brother of yours.”

“Sounds good,” said Mark. He hadn’t been to one of his brother’s games in a while, what with school and all. Even though it had been almost a year since he had been scouted, he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that his brother was a pro basketball player. Devon was just Devon, his little brother, though lately they didn’t have much time to talk. His parents were over the moon. There was no one they didn’t gush to about their pro-athlete son, not even their other son, who was only becoming a surgeon.

Suddenly Mark leaned forward and grabbed the dashboard, shivering. The whispers were like little ants crawling around in his skull, especially around his sinuses for some reason.

“Mark what’s wrong?”

Mark unzipped his coat and lifted the sleeve of his sweater. The patch on his arm, which had been white when he put it on last night, was now completely blue.

“I need a new Bliss patch,” he said as he quickly undid his seatbelt.

“Is it the Vox? You having an attack, baby?”

Mark didn’t answer his mother. He was busy rummaging around in his bag, which he had thrown in the back seat. He found what he was looking for, yanked a patch off the sheet and slapped it onto his arm before peeling the used one off. The voices and the crawling sensation began to fade. He exhaled loudly.

* * *

Mark lay in bed that night thinking about his brother. The game had been a massacre for the opposition, with Devon going crazy, earning every bit of that pro-athlete salary. Mark didn't get to see much of his younger brother these days, or rather he did, but it was mostly on TV. Even during off season he had training. His brother was paying his way through medical school, and he was grateful, but he’d be paying him back every cent. Besides, he missed just hanging out playing basketball video games, or one-on-on in the driveway, or watching movies…all that brotherly stuff they used to do together.

But there were definite benefits to being Devon Adams big brother, and not just the money. He’d never had so many girls all wanting to get with him. Sure, maybe some of them thought they had a shot at Devon through him, like he’d just be chillin’ at Mark’s little one bedroom place one night when she came over or something. But his current girl, Emma, was a stone-cold dime, 10 all the way, and though it seemed she was into him, he’d never pulled a girl like her before Devon went pro.

Suddenly Mark bolted up in bed. He wasn’t hearing things, the whispers were back. He yanked up the sleeve on his pyjamas. The little circular patch on his arm was completely blue again. He’d been so caught up in studying for midterms that he hadn’t even noticed it was time to change it. He calmly, deliberately reached over to open up his nightstand drawer.

The voices were getting louder, and Mark’s movements became more frantic. His shaky fingers hastily pulled open the flap of the familiar grey box, and pulled out a sheet of white patches. He ripped one off the sheet and slammed it onto his bicep, rubbing to make sure it stuck. He waited. 10 seconds…20…30…the voices began to quiet. Soon, they were gone.

Mark lay back on his bed and let out his breath in a “woosh” of relief. He was afraid that maybe he needed a stronger dose. Hell, there were people out there who couldn’t even take Bliss, like they had become immune to the drug. If that happened Mark knew he’d be in the madhouse, plain and simple. He couldn’t even take two minutes vox penitus.

With the crisis averted his thoughts went back to Emma. She always told him she “liked his mind”. I think it’s so sexy that you want to be a doctor, really make a difference in people’s lives, fix people up, she’d say. He loved when she said stuff like that, even if he knew she was pandering a little bit. Still, he’d joke with her and say, Yeah right, you know if you had the choice you’d take Devon over me.

Absolutely not, she’d say. Your bro is a great guy, a talented athlete, but if you break a bone who are you gonna call, a star basketball player or a doctor? Hell, who’s Devon gonna call if he pulls a hamstring, the point guard, or you?

Those conversations usually led to the bedroom. Emma was kind of right though. Devon worked hard to get where he was, Mark knew that. His brother used to go to practice five days a week, and then bribe Mark to play some one on one on his days off. Mark had long since stopped enjoying balling with his little brother–who could enjoy getting their ass whooped every weekend? But Devon always took him to Up and Up Burger after, or to a movie or something, so Mark gave in.

But Mark worked just as hard, and Emma did have a point: basketball was great, and he loved watching Devon, but doctors were more useful to society in general, no question. Try telling that to his parents though. Yeah, they were proud enough that their son was in medical school. Sometimes his mom would even look at him with stars in her eyes and say, “My youngest a pro basketball player, and my oldest on his way to becoming a surgeon. I am so blessed,” but he hated when she said that, like she couldn't mention Mark’s achievement without somehow contrasting it with Devon’s. Mark could tell his parents just didn't have the same passion for his career as they did for his older brother’s.

It was alright though, because he knew better. He still planned to pay Devon back in full for med school, even though he knew what he would say,

Nah, come on man how you gonna do me like that? What kind of brother would I be, I got all this money and won’t pay to put my bro through med school?

He’d always been generous, that was why Mark had nothing but love for his little bro, could only cheer when he killed it on the court, scream when he threw a clean three-pointer, clap and yell when he dunked. His brother was a decent, hardworking guy, he’d earned his success.

And so would Mark.