scissored out.
You can imagine that this was like a cave of wonders for me, piled high with riches, with clues, and each box almost trembled with mystery. There was a collection of costume jewelry, and old coins and keys; here were his old lesson plans and grade books, the names of former students penciled in alongside their attendance and grades and small comments (“messy”; “lazy”; “shows potential!”) racked up in columns. Here were photos and letters: a gold mine!
One afternoon, I was kneeling before his box of letters when I heard the front door open. Naturally, I was very still. I heard the front door close, and then Mr. Mickleson muttering to himself. I tensed as he said, “Okay, well, never mind,” and read aloud from a bit of junk mail he’d gotten, using a nasal, theatrical voice: “ ‘A special gift for you enclosed!’ How lovely!” he mocked. I crouched there over his cardboard box, looking at a boyhood photo of him and what must have been his sister, circa 1952, sitting in the lap of an artificially bearded Santa. I heard him chuckling as he opened the freezer and took something out. Then he turned on the TV in the living room, and voices leapt out at me.
It never felt like danger. I was convinced of my own powers of stealth and invisibility. He would not see me because that was not part of the story I was telling myself: I was the Detective!I sensed a cool, hollow spot in my stomach, but I could glide easily behind him as he sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner, staring at the blue glow of the television, watching the news. He didn’t shudder as the dark shape of me passed behind him. He couldn’t see me unless I chose to be seen.
I had my first blackout that day I left Mickleson’s house, not long after I’d sneaked behind him and crept out the back door. I don’t know whether “blackout” is the best term, with its redolence of alcoholic excess and catatonic states, but I’m not sure what else to say. I stepped into the backyard and I remember walking cautiously along a line of weedy flower beds toward the gate that led to the alley. I had taken the Santa photo and I stared at it. It could have been a photograph of me when I was five, and I shuddered at the eerie similarity. An obese calico cat was hurrying down the alley in front of me, disappearing into a hedge that bordered someone else’s backyard.
A few seconds later, I found myself at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family. I was in the process of bringing an ear of buttered corn to my mouth and it felt something like waking up, only faster, as if I’d been transported in a blink from one place to another. My family had not seemed to notice that I was gone. They were all eating silently, grimly, as if everything were normal. My father was cutting his meat, his jaw firmly locked, and my mother’s eyes were on her plate, as if she were watching a small round television. No one seemed surprised by my sudden appearance.
It was kind of alarming. At first, it just seemed odd—like,“Oh, how did I get here?” But then, the more I thought about it, the more my skin crawled. I looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall, a grinning black cat with a clock face for a belly and a pendulum tail and eyes that shifted from left to right with each tick. I had somehow lost a considerable amount of time—at least a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. The last thing I clearly recalled was staring at that photo—Mr. Mickleson or myself, sitting on Santa’s knee. And then, somehow, I had left my body. I sat there, thinking, but there wasn’t even a blur of memory. There was only a blank spot.
Once, I tried to explain it to my wife.
“A
blank
spot?” she said, and her voice grew stiff and concerned, as if I’d found a lump beneath my skin. “Do you mean a blackout? You have
blackouts
?”
“No, no,” I said, and tried to smile reassuringly. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” she said. “Listen, Andy,” she said.
You can imagine that this was like a cave of wonders for me, piled high with riches, with clues, and each box almost trembled with mystery. There was a collection of costume jewelry, and old coins and keys; here were his old lesson plans and grade books, the names of former students penciled in alongside their attendance and grades and small comments (“messy”; “lazy”; “shows potential!”) racked up in columns. Here were photos and letters: a gold mine!
One afternoon, I was kneeling before his box of letters when I heard the front door open. Naturally, I was very still. I heard the front door close, and then Mr. Mickleson muttering to himself. I tensed as he said, “Okay, well, never mind,” and read aloud from a bit of junk mail he’d gotten, using a nasal, theatrical voice: “ ‘A special gift for you enclosed!’ How lovely!” he mocked. I crouched there over his cardboard box, looking at a boyhood photo of him and what must have been his sister, circa 1952, sitting in the lap of an artificially bearded Santa. I heard him chuckling as he opened the freezer and took something out. Then he turned on the TV in the living room, and voices leapt out at me.
It never felt like danger. I was convinced of my own powers of stealth and invisibility. He would not see me because that was not part of the story I was telling myself: I was the Detective!I sensed a cool, hollow spot in my stomach, but I could glide easily behind him as he sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner, staring at the blue glow of the television, watching the news. He didn’t shudder as the dark shape of me passed behind him. He couldn’t see me unless I chose to be seen.
I had my first blackout that day I left Mickleson’s house, not long after I’d sneaked behind him and crept out the back door. I don’t know whether “blackout” is the best term, with its redolence of alcoholic excess and catatonic states, but I’m not sure what else to say. I stepped into the backyard and I remember walking cautiously along a line of weedy flower beds toward the gate that led to the alley. I had taken the Santa photo and I stared at it. It could have been a photograph of me when I was five, and I shuddered at the eerie similarity. An obese calico cat was hurrying down the alley in front of me, disappearing into a hedge that bordered someone else’s backyard.
A few seconds later, I found myself at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family. I was in the process of bringing an ear of buttered corn to my mouth and it felt something like waking up, only faster, as if I’d been transported in a blink from one place to another. My family had not seemed to notice that I was gone. They were all eating silently, grimly, as if everything were normal. My father was cutting his meat, his jaw firmly locked, and my mother’s eyes were on her plate, as if she were watching a small round television. No one seemed surprised by my sudden appearance.
It was kind of alarming. At first, it just seemed odd—like,“Oh, how did I get here?” But then, the more I thought about it, the more my skin crawled. I looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall, a grinning black cat with a clock face for a belly and a pendulum tail and eyes that shifted from left to right with each tick. I had somehow lost a considerable amount of time—at least a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. The last thing I clearly recalled was staring at that photo—Mr. Mickleson or myself, sitting on Santa’s knee. And then, somehow, I had left my body. I sat there, thinking, but there wasn’t even a blur of memory. There was only a blank spot.
Once, I tried to explain it to my wife.
“A
blank
spot?” she said, and her voice grew stiff and concerned, as if I’d found a lump beneath my skin. “Do you mean a blackout? You have
blackouts
?”
“No, no,” I said, and tried to smile reassuringly. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” she said. “Listen, Andy,” she said.
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