Read Online Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus - Free Book Online Page A

figment’s pale white fist is on top of mine. It’s clenched around one of those half-forks, half-spoons. She’s jammed it right into the top of my hand. I didn’t even see her pick it up, she was that fast.
    And like a little girl I say, ‘Ow! That hurts!’
    And my figment, she says with a devilish tone, ‘Do not scream, Jerry.’
    She says, ‘We do not have much time. I need you to come with me, now.’
    She says, ‘I do not know why you think I am not real, but I can assure you, I am as real as this pain in your hand. Do you feel that?’
    And she applies more pressure to the spork.
    I wince a ‘yes’. Now I’m the one who’s eyes are watering.
    ‘Good,’ she says. ‘My name is Epiphany, and I have been looking for you for a long time.’

8
Elmer Fudd
    W hen you think something isn’t real you just don’t pay too much attention to it. But you sober up quickly when your imaginary friend stabs you with a spork. The shock, well it’s like finding out angels are real. Or devils.
    We’ve been walking in silence for a little over ten minutes, Epiphany and I. Epiphany, my not-so-figment. ‘That’s a weird name,’ I say. She doesn’t reply. ‘Were your parents hippies or something?’
    Since we’ve left the diner, Epiphany seems to have taken on more depth, more detail. Her body is small. Her pants hang loose around her hips; barely held up by a thick belt that could wrap around her twice. There’s a small bulge of something in her left back pocket. She’s no taller than five foot six. Her fingers are thin and long. Longer than mine anyway.
    All my fear and anxiety have been replaced with an odd euphoria. Maybe it’s from overdosing on the medicine; my body trying to get it to work its way out of my system. Or maybe it’s because this is great news.
    I say, ‘You look more like an Amber, or a Lacy.’
    I’m humouring her right now. I wouldn’t have left the diner with her, but the cops took off as I was busy using a napkin to dab my blood from the spork attack. That’s when it hit me: if she’s real, I’m innocent.
    She said we had to run an errand. Don’t get me wrong, I had so many questions for her, but it wasn’t the time. When your exoneration tells you to go with her, you go and you don’t let her out of your sight.
    At the Lincoln Park Post Office she removes the bulge from her back pocket. The package is small, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes.The post office is closed but there’s a drop bin next to the automated stamp machine. The sign reads ‘Envelopes and small packages only. Last pickup, 8 p.m.’ I look at my dad’s gold watch.
    ‘We have to hurry,’ Epiphany says and taps the stamp machine’s keypad a few times. On screen, the price reads: $37.46.
    And, trying to sound light-hearted, relaxed, I say, ‘Where are you sending that thing? China?’
    She seems both annoyed and confused by my new attitude. ‘You have a credit card. Give it to me,’ she orders as if to reinforce who’s in charge. ‘I only have dollars.’
    ‘I don’t have one,’ I lie, thinking the longer I can stall the greater the chance a cop will drive by. But Epiphany gets that look on her face. ‘OK, OK,’ I say, trying to rub the memory of the spork attack from my hand, ‘Don’t have a lot left on the account, that’s all.’
    ‘It does not matter, this is the last time you will be able to use it.’
    And who the hell knows what she means by that? She’s crazier than I am. As she takes my card, the package slips from her hand. I scoop it up and her body goes tense. I can’t read the address. It’s written in pencil on the brown shipping paper and the green glow of the stamp machine’s screen isn’t enough to illuminate it.
    ‘Give it to me,’ she says.
    And I think: Dr Phil . I think: Oprah . I think of every bullshit daytime talk show that has ever interviewed the families of victims of a hostage situation. Because that’s what this basically is, a hostage situation. The advice