Don't Follow Me, Maria

Donald couldn’t find his wisdom. Serenity, he had in buckets. He accepted long ago that he could not change the insatiable hunger for what he could not have in the second stomach where his heart should have been. And courage he could muster just fine if he needed to. He’d saved up courage for years, just waiting until the perfect moment to finally restore what once was. 

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom…”

He found it odd that wisdom came last in the prayer. They called it the serenity prayer. But it wasn’t serenity he needed. This only occurred to him tonight, as he lied in a bed that was not his, repeating the words over and over, loud enough that his temporary roommate could hear but not so loud he couldn’t fall asleep to the drone. His roommate - Jim was his name - was saying it in his own head anyway.

“God, grant me the serenity, the courage, the wisdom…”

There was a cross just above Donald’s bed. Nightly, he fell to his knees before it and apologized for being this way. Occasionally he slept under the bed that wasn’t his so the cross couldn’t see him. The room offered no other decoration or distraction besides a single window between the heads of their beds. There was snow on the trees outside. The building was only one story. Maybe so no one would hurt themselves trying to jump out. But he wasn’t in danger of hurting himself and neither was Jim. Jim only admitted himself to the facility three days before. Donald already knew his darkest secrets and biggest regrets, but not his last name. Jim knew all that about Donald too, how he tried to be a novelist when a traditional career failed. How that may have been what screwed everything up. He’d been a fool to think he could bridge the gap between what was in his head and what wasn’t. His stories were only a way to feed that extra stomach and, of course, they lacked heart. After a few tireless years of writing, his documents were all erased and his hard copies were nothing but ash.

“God, grant me the serenity to change the things I can, the courage to change the things I cannot change and the wisdom…”

This was Donald’s first time sharing a room with someone besides his wife since before he was ten. Then, it had been his younger sister, Rebecca. Despite being younger than him by a year, she was always taller, always stronger, always smarter. She didn’t need to pray for it. She was born with the wisdom to.... The wisdom to…

I had it once, though, didn’t I? He asked someone inside his head. It couldn’t have been God, because he was talking to God out loud already. But what was really the difference?

“God, grant me the courage to accept the things I can…”

He turned away from the cross and looked at Jim’s bed. Rebecca was lying in it, her head turned toward him, her eyelids drooping. That’s why he started telling stories in the first place. Rebecca insisted on them or she wouldn’t fall asleep. But with that insatiable second stomach of his, how could he let his only listener fall asleep? 

“The serenity to change the things I cannot, and the wisdom…”

Whenever her eyelids began to droop he made the story more interesting. Said something shocking- a sudden explosion, a secret portal, a zombie with machine guns for arms. He knew nothing of story structure back then, but it didn’t matter to Rebecca. She would gasp so hard she coughed, and if the story scared her enough she would pull the covers up until only her wide eyes were visible. He didn’t know back then how rare and beautiful a gift little Rebecca’s wide eyes were. 

“And the wisdom...”

Rebecca was not a little girl though, as she lay in Jim’s bed. She was 19, her brown hair was short and boyish under her helmet, her features had sharpened and been covered in something dark, and he could see the tan camo suit and full belt of ammo across her chest sticking out from under the covers. 

“To change the things I cannot change, the courage to accept the things I can and the-”

“That’s not how it goes, Donald,” Jim said, turning his head on his pillow. The white of the snow created enough light on its own that Donald could see shininess on Jim’s cheek. It was harder for Jim. His wife already filed for divorce. She had the kids sleeping on the couches at her mom’s house for a month before Jim even noticed they weren’t there. It must have been easier before he noticed. Now he was sober and painfully aware of what was not there. Jim sighed and started the prayer over. 

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”

Rebecca looked too sleepy for Donald’s comfort. He needed a shocking twist, but he couldn’t even remember what story he’d been telling.

“The courage to change the things I can.” 

Jim and Rebecca were both in Jim’s bed, but in two entirely different spaces. This was the reality of Donald’s sobriety. At any given moment, he was taking steps or praying or speaking to people in both worlds. One world had everything that was here, which was never very much. The other world had everything else. Drinking sent both worlds spinning until he wasn’t in either. 

“And the wisdom to…”

Donald sat up so he had a better view of the snow. He thought of his daughter, Maria. Of holding her up by the armpits so she could see through the window. It’s like Donald was always watching two movies at once. No, it was like he was inside of both movies at once. And one was real and one was not but he’d alway struggled to-

“Know the difference.”

Maria was there, staring at the snow, planning her snowmen and angels. She couldn’t really be there. She’d never been in the same room as Rebecca, who was nearly asleep in Jim’s bed, where Jim repeated the prayer again. Donald was 34, which meant Rebecca should be 33 and Maria should be tall enough to see out the window on her own. But he hadn’t seen Rebecca since she was 19 and there was no way to know where she was. He just knew she was probably with everything else that wasn’t here. Swinging to push his bare feet against the cold linoleum and leaning toward his girls, he started a new story.

Once there was a man who lived in two different worlds, he said in one world. Rebecca’s eyes peeled open, but stayed in narrow slits. Maria leaned against the wall, facing him with her body but not her eyes. She was still calculating how best to ruin that perfect coat of snow. His story would have to be good to get her attention. 

The man tried his best to live in one world alone, even with the other one tempting him, singing in beautiful whispers of all the things he’d lost. He tried to live a normal life and he tried to be good. But he failed. 

Rebecca propped her upper half up with her elbow. But Maria was still staring at the snow. It struck him how similar their features were. Maria was closer to Rebecca’s age than he was now.

So when the first world let him down, he tried to bring the other world into it. He built a bridge. He wanted to tell everyone what he saw. He wanted everything that was here and everything that wasn’t. But the bridge wasn’t strong enough.

Maria glanced at him once. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. Fall to his knees and apologize for making her this way. Instead, he continued the story.

The bridge collapsed. People got hurt. People the man loved.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can…” Jim continued, weeping.

So he tried to give up on both worlds. 

Rebecca rolled her eyes and put her head back down on Jim’s pillow. Maria didn’t glance over again and continued to stare at the glimmering blanket of white like he used to stare at a blank page. He wondered if she saw something there nobody else did. Something there that wasn’t. He hoped she didn’t.

Living in neither world didn’t work out.

Rebecca looked so peaceful lying there with her eyes closed. So peaceful it was eerie. The real Rebecca was the loudest, most chaotic presence, knocking him over with bear hugs, howling when she couldn’t contain her glee. He didn’t like to imagine her lying this still. It was presumed she had been for almost fourteen years. But there was no way to know. 

Donald squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to keep her awake, think of a brilliant twist, but the back of his eyelids offered no solutions.

Dad. Maria’s voice alarmed him so much that he leapt to his feet, halting Jim’s prayer. She pointed outside. Donald joined her by the window. A rectangular contraption, the size and shape of a phone booth, or perhaps an elevator, stood just a few meters away, casting a brilliant warm light across the perfect snow, like a yellow brick road leading straight to Donald. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he made out a figure inside of the cage-like rectangle, wearing a square red hat. The figure saw Donald, and slid open a cross hatched metal door with a welcoming smile. There were a series of buttons on the wall inside.

Donald grinned. He was never great at story structure, but a secret portal in the form of an elevator? It couldn’t have been a more fitting twist.

There was only one thing left to try, He told everyone behind him. He unlocked and opened the window. A glorious chill poured into the room. 

“Donald, what are you doing?” Jim asked. 

“I never tried the other world alone,” Donald explained, hoisting one leg over the windowsill. “I tried this one alone, I tried both, I tried neither.”

“You’re leaving?” Jim threw his covers off and stood. “You can’t. What about your daughter?”

Donald turned to everyone in the room. Maria was right behind him, her face lifted, like he wasn’t her disappointment of a father at all, but some sort of angel. 

“Don’t follow me, Maria.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, but she disappeared and he immediately accepted that perhaps she was never there. Rebecca was gone too. The second stomach where his heart should have been lurched and he turned to make sure the old elevator and the man with the red hat were still there. They were. But he wasn’t going to waste another minute. They could disappear any moment like everything else seemed to do. 

“I’m not Maria. My name is Jim,” Jim said behind him. “Donald, you’re better than this. Don’t give up now.”

Donald's feet reached the snow with a crunch, his toes already growing numb. He didn’t have time to explain the other world to Jim, but he did pity him. It must have been hard to only see one world, to only see what was there. 

Jim cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to muster courage. “What about Him?”

Donald took one last look inside the room. Jim was standing in its center, pointing to the cross above the bed. Donald could only chuckle. What did he owe God? God would never fall to His knees and apologize for making him this way. 

He ruined the perfect coat of snow as he followed the yellow brick road to the elevator and the man in the red hat slid the cage door closed behind him. 

“Evening. Can you take me up?” Donald asked, wiping his feet dry on the carpet.

The man shook his head. “This is the top floor.”

“Then, down it is.”

The man nodded, pressed a few buttons and cranked a handle. Gravity seemed to fade just a tad as they began their slow descent into the other world. There, Donald was sure to find everything he’d ever lost; his sister, his wisdom, his manuscript, perhaps even himself. After all, if he was in this other world, he must be a lost thing too, one of the many things that wasn’t there. 

After passing through a foot of snow and several layers of earth, a sky alive with a million lost stars became visible above a colorful landscape of sudden explosions and zombies with machine guns for arms. As the elevator approached the surface, he heard gunshots and monstrous roars. There was a ding as they slowed to a stop, and the man in the red hat slid the cage door open. Donald stepped, finally, into his world without the burden of another one. Piercing through the cacophony was Rebecca’s unmistakable howl of glee.