Sanderson Returns

After his mother died, an imaginary friend returns. But just imaginary is he?

          It was on this very highway that Sanderson returned home. I watched him walk along through the heat shimmers in the distance, on two legs with pants that were tattered and torn and wearing an old silk shirt that was as ragged as his very soul. His doghead hung low, his tail drooped to the ground and a great big tongue lolled out of his muzzle. My imaginary friend had returned again for reasons that could only be known to him. He arrived, walking down the highway, ignoring the old and broken houses on each side as he strolled through the center of town, right up to mom's old steps where I sat, with my heart weighed down with regret and hurt. He looked me up and down, giving me a sad tailwag and said, "You wouldn't believe how hot it is down in hell."
          I gritted my teeth and looked out to the highway. "Oh come on," he growled, "after all this time, you're not going to say hello to your old pal?"
          "You said," I whispered, "that you'd be right back."
          A dark, painful look crossed Sandeson's face. His ears folded back, his fur bristled. "Well, we'll talk to your dad about that."
          "Did you talk to mom?"
          Sanderson didn't answer for a moment, looking into the house. His tail giving that short wag that I'd somehow knew as nervousness. How did I know that? Perhaps born from my imagination he grew...
          "I'm not from your imagination," Sanderson said. "I'm something else."
          "Did you talk to my mother?"
          "When was the last time you talked to her. Before, well, you know..." Of course I knew. There was a reason the funeral next week was going to be closed casket.
          "You remember what they did to me, right? What they did to you?"
          Cold hallways. Hushed rooms. Light that cut through my brain like razor blades, slicing me to the core. Two blankets, one of them heated and I still felt cold. Dad would come into the room, tell me to "cheer up sport! We got it on the run." He was strong. Tall. Short, buzzed style hair. He shook my foot, but there was a look in his eyes. Then suddenly...
          I was back in the Florida sunshine. "Holy shit," I gasped. "What was that?"
          "Your sixth birthday," Sanderson said. He started walking into the house, his ears perking up, his tail wagging slowly, left to right, left to right. Sanderson the clown was now present. He was determined to make me laugh. Laughter must always follow the bad.
          I gritted my teeth but looked down. Stress response. It had to be a stress response. Mom died so suddenly, so violently. Her throat ripped out, her bedding torn to shreds. It was as if a wild animal came in the middle of the night and didn't just feast upon her frail body, but played with it like a dog playing with a rope. That had to be why Sanderson returned. That had to be it, right?
          "You didn't visit mom, did you," I asked again.
          He dodged the question in his trademark fashion. Smiling slightly, with a tailwag and a playful shove. "Come on," Sanderson said. "Let's go cheer you up."
          We entered the house, a home I hadn't stepped foot in until two days ago when I got the phone call. Dark curtains and sparse furniture. Mom had dressed the place for a funeral. The house was mourning the death of a distant loved one, someone it had rarely visited. I turned towards the living room where I knew dad was, Sanderson following me, his foot claws clicking delicately on the hardwood floor, clickclack...click...clickclack. In that strange way he enjoyed moving from room to room. The Sandeson dance. One of the thousand he had. If I went back and looked, I knew I could find scratch marks from his toe claws.
          "You want to hear a joke?" His jokes where always the kind that had a dirty word at the end or a filthy meaning behind it. The sort of jokes mechanics and soldiers would tell each other at the end of a long, hard shift over alcohol and thick cigarette smoke.
          "No," I grumbled, feeling the floor shift beneath me almost. Stress. Had to be. Sanderson would go in a bit. Everything would be okay. I could go back to my crummy apartment, and pretend it all was just a bad dream. After the coffin is lowered I don't have to see dad until his funeral. Don't feed it. Don't feed it. Don't feed it!
          Sanderson's ears perked up, his tail wagging. "I promise, it won't be dirty! Not the first one, I promise," he shouted, dancing around. "Come on, you need to hear it!" He giggled in that weird way that always reminded me of a fat kid with horn-rimmed glasses for some reason. Do not feed the damn dog, I thought and shut the screen door on my way into the house.
          "Oh, why don't feed the dog," he grumbled, his tail stopping it's wag. "I'll tell you my joke anyway. Even though you're mean." He stuck his tongue out at me overly dramatic as I entered the living room.
          "Johnny took a bath with bubbles. That's the clean joke," Sanderson said, his voice rising. "Johnny took a bath with bubbles! Johnny took a bath with bubbles! JOHNNY TOOK A BATH WITH BUBBLES!!!" He began to sing the song louder and louder, his voice taking on this weird singsong quality as he did so. That's the girl next door, I thought as I patted dad on the shoulder, getting his attention. "You okay," I asked, or tried too.
          Sanderson's voice kept rising. I wasn't sure if I shouted over him or tried to talk normally. But my voice still disappeared in the tide that was Sanderson. "BUBBLES IS THE GIRL NEXT DOOR! BUBBLES IS THE GIRL NEXT DOOR! BUBBLES IS THE GIRL NEXT DOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!!!" Sanderson took a bow, his eyes twinkling a bit as he set his sights on dear old dad. A chill ran through me. Those eyes weren't the eyes of a regular Sanderson let's all have fun visit. They were the eyes of a killer. A starving predator who had at last found his prey. It was then I was sure. He had visited mom.
          For a moment my entire world changed. I was no longer standing in the living room looking at mom's old collection of porcelain children or down at my weather beaten father. He wasn't old, wrinkly and gray anymore. He was the way I remembered him. Tall, strong. He looked as if he could lift the entire world himself on his shoulders. He was wearing a white lab coat, staring down at a clip board in his hands. I was seated on a medical exam table, my legs swinging the way children do when seated anywhere they can. Kids always have all the energy in the world, their legs, arms, and head have to constantly move.
          A folder was seated next to me. I looked down at it, being six I could barely read now, so I spelled it and sounded it out. "P-R-O-J-E-C-T A-D-A-M" Dad turned, his eyes alight with mischief, or was that fear and....
          I was standing in mom's house again. Dad staring up at me. He was frail, his arms had become sticks wrapped in wrinkled papery skin. Fear was in his eyes, like I had stabbed him through the heart. "Wh-what did you say," he gasped.
          I looked over at Sanderson who only smiled wider and winked at me as he took a bow, then danced as he went into the kitchen.
          "What the hell do you know about that?" This was the most me and dad had talked since high school. After I'd graduated, he moved on. Assignment over. Child successfully navigated through basic education and life requirements. The rest is now on him. The very night, while I was out with friends having one last hurrah, he packed a suitcase and moved away. A week later, mom moved me out so she could leave herself. Run three states away in fact, until she ended up in a small, no name town of Florida, who's largest cash crop was meth, and second largest was marijuana. Neither one of them fought, or even said an ill word to each other the entire time. Two co-workers had just finished another project together and was being moved to separate teams. Ah well, life moves on. See you around the water cooler.
          His voice dropped down to a hoarse whisper. "What the hell do you know about Project Adam? What do you remember?" His eyes grew dark as he glanced around, looking for something. "You're not supposed to remember anything," he whispered. "You're not supposed to be alive."
          He was whispering in a house that was supposed to be nothing but me and him. Her remains were still with her. Family had mostly sent condolence cards and said they weren't coming. Relatives, her very sisters and brothers, my aunts and uncles, treated mom's passing as if it was nothing more than the death of a distant cousin's family dog. Sorry to hear about that bud! Better luck next time!
          There was no one else in the house to hear? Why did he bother whispering? What was he so afraid of? "I don't remember much," I said. "Just lots of medical tables and cold exams."
          "Tell him about me," Sanderson said. He danced back into the room now, his eyes glowing red. "Tell him about me. Tell him I'm alive. I'm alive damn it, he didn't kill me. Tell him I'm here!"
          "And, something about my imaginary friend, too." I told him. Dad stood and walked to the window. He looked down the street as if he was staring at something. "Yeah, your imaginary friend. Whatever happened to that cat, anyway?"
          "Cat?" me and Sanderson said at the exact same time. "What?!"
          "You know, Whiskers, your imaginary friend." Dad said it in such a way that told me I shouldn't argue with him on this. I nodded and said, "yeah, Whiskers." Sanderson just tilted his head like a confused pup.
          As he stepped away from the window, a lone van rolled towards the house and stopped. It's white panels gleamed in the powerful mid-afternoon florida sun. "Come, we have to get a few more things." Dad began walking towards the back. He was wearing his usual work shirt and pants pulled up around his armpits, the way old people always seem to do. He stepped into the bathroom, and opened the door. "Just a couple more things," he said. "Then the charities can fight over what's left."
          Two powerful clawed hands gripped my shoulder. "Before you step foot in there," Sanderson growled in my ear, "you're going to remember what happened back there."
          Eight years of empty memories hit me like a shotgun blast. I rocked and staggered backward, Sanderson holding me up with his strength alone. Years of cold exam tables. Painful surgeries. Cold rooms filled with only the canned laughter of forgotten sitcoms at night as you wait. Wondering what other children are doing. Wondering if you're the only living boy left on the planet. And Sanderson by your side through the entire ordeal. Dancing. Laughing. Joking. Being the only thing keeping you alive.
          I stepped through the door, and dad reached into my pocket. Soon my cell phone was flying into the hallway, Sanderson diving after it like a football player making the game winning touchdown. I just hoped he didn't spike the ball.
          "Hey," I shouted. The comment was cut off with a sharp glare though, as dad pulled the bathroom door shut, and turned on both the water faucet and the shower.
          "Now," he said in a low voice. "You still see him?"
          My throat went dry. I nodded.
          "Sanderson is here then."
          I nodded again. "thought so," he murmured. "Listen, I don't have much time left. You were almost a still born. A survivor of a botched abortion. Your mother, your real mother, not Elaine, was told you were dead. Your body was sold to our lab. You," dad stabbed me in the chest with one crooked finger, "were brought back with a mixture of chemicals, and a new technique designed to capture free floating energy in the fourth dimension."
          "Wha?"
          Dad grabbed me and pulled me towards him. "Sanderson. That bastard Sanderson. He pushed the test too far!"
          I pulled into another memory. Laying in bed, too sick to move. Sanderson standing by the door. "I'm going to give that bastard a piece of my mind," he snarled down at me. His ears were pulled back in anger, his lip curled up in a snarl. He looked like a dog ready to attack. My stomach was in knots, my head spun with each movement. Machines beeped along with my life rhythms, steady as she goes, steady along. Marking the march of time.
          When dad walked into the room, Sanderson grabbed him by the collar and physically slammed him into the wall. "What are you doing to us?! You're killing him!"
          Dad gave him a hard glare, trying to glare him in the face, but finding nothing but air. I could see Sanderson. Everyone else could just see the effects. "It's the damn tests! We have to follow the procedure! We have to.." Sanderson picked up the clip board and looked at it, then snarled and threw it across the room. "If I leave, he dies! Don't you understand! You played God, you got me!"
          Another memory. Of sitting on an exam table, a burning injection being pumped into me. Sanderson. Screaming. Shouting, saying his body was literally on fire. Days of screaming. Sanderson standing over me, then, sitting in a hospital bed. He used to be so strong, so solid. But right then, he was a wisp. I could see right through him as if he wasn't even there. He leaned down in a move I could see that pained him. "I'll be right back," he whispered to me. "I promise. Don't let them steal your smile." Gently kissed me on my forehead. That was the last day I remember smiling in the presence of the two people I called mom and dad.
          Then I was back, standing in the middle of the bathroom. "You played God," I whispered. "You brought him to us."
          "N-no," Dad stuttered. "It was a treatment. Make soldiers stronger. Bring those on the cusp of death back to life. Think of it! Soldiers and marines nearly killed in battle could be healed and fighting in a week or two. No expensive surgeries or life long scars deep and horrible enough to scare children! A way to..to..." his stuttering stalled as dad deflated. "I was doing my job," he whispered and looked at me. "I never loved you, but I always tried to treat you with kindness."
          It wasn't a revelation. Dad had never said those words to me or mom. Ours was a home of functions, not a house of love, warmth or kindness. I used to envy other children for the warmth and laughter they had in their home. There was a warmth, a presence there that was alien and wonderful. Something that I knew I'd never truly have.
          "I never loved you either," I said. "But I tried to treat you the same way."
          He nodded and patted me on the back. "Get away as fast as you can as far as you can," dad whispered.
          I swallowed. "Dad, I can't run from Sanderson. He's part of me."
          "Not from him," Dad said. "Now go. And leave your cell phone. Don't take any modern vehicle if you can help it, nothing made after 2012."
          Sanderson then pressed through the wall as if it wasn't there. Two clawed hands grabbed dad by the shirt and slammed him into it. His ears were pinned back, his eyes glowing blood red. His face wasn't the usual happy chocolate brown almost dark. It was a skull. "You said your goodbyes. Now leave us."
          I didn't ask questions. I didn't turn around when I heard the man I called dad scream. When I heard Sanderson declare it for the years of torture that he went through. For the years of coldness that I went through. I just kept walking. Down the steps. Towards the highway. In the opposite direction of where dad was looking. Away from the van and the unmarked car behind it.
          My feet made a staccato rhythm on the pavement. My head down low, watching the black of the asphalt change colors with the cracks and repairs made by the highway departments over the years. As I crossed the train tracks and made my way towards the crossroads, Sanderson fell in beside me, matching me step for step, stride for stride.
          He was the way I remembered seeing him the first time. Tall top hat. Silk shirt that shimmered in the light. And pants that reached down to his clawed feet. Dark fur with blood red eyes. "Two on us now," Sanderson said.
          "I know," I said allowed. "I've missed you." Then I smiled at him.
          "Finally he remembers me," Sanderson said with a wide grin and a tailwag. "I've missed you, too."
          "So, we have two cars," I said. "and what about three people following us?"
          "No," Sanderson said. "About seven people. They're going to try and take you in about fifteen seconds."
          "Shit," I sighed. "Should I be worried?"
          Sanderson gave a dark laugh that I didn't recognize. I looked at him. Beneath his top hat was the dog skull. "No," he growled, "I learned a few tricks while I was gone."
          Later on, the screams would bother me sometimes. Things I wished I'd never have witnessed coming back with the vengeance that death is owed. But right then I just smiled and told Sanderson, "Okay. I guess it's play time."