Chapter 12

The next time I wake up, I’m delirious and Fertility is sitting on the edge of my bed, massaging cheap petroleum-based moisturizer into my chest and arms. “Welcome back,” she says. “We almost thought you weren’t going to make it.” Where am I? Fertility looks around. “You’re in a Maplewood Chateau with the midrange interior package,” she says. “Seamless linoleum in the kitchen, no-wax vinyl floor covering in the two bathrooms. It’s got easy-clean patterned vinyl wallboard instead of Sheetrock, and this one is decorated in the blue-and-green Seaside theme.”

No, I whisper, where in the world? Fertility says, “I knew that’s what you meant.” A sign goes by the window saying, Detour Ahead. The room around us is different than I remember. A wallpaper border of dancing elephants goes around next to the ceiling. The bed I’m in has a canopy and white machine-made lace curtains hanging around it and tied back with pink satin ribbons. White louvered shutters flank the windows. The reflection of Fertility and me is framed in a heart-shaped mirror on the wall. I ask, What happened to the Maison? “That was two houses ago,” Fertility says. “We’re in Kansas now. In half a four-bedroom Maplewood Chateau. It’s the top of the line in manufactured houses.” So it’s really nice? “Adam says it’s the best,” she says, smoothing the covers over me. “It comes with color-coordinated bed linens, and there are dishes in the dining-room cabinets that match the mauve of the velvet sofa and love seat in the living room. There’s even color-coordinated mauve towels in the bathroom. There’s no kitchen though, at least not in this half. But I’m sure wherever it’s at, the kitchen is mauve.” I ask, Where’s Adam? “Sleeping.” He wasn’t worried about me? “I told him how this was all going to work out,” Fertility says. “Actually, he’s very happy.” The bed curtains dance and swing with the movement of the house. A sign goes by the window saying, Caution. I hate that Fertility knows everything. Fertility says, “I know that you hate that I know everything.” I ask if she knows I killed her brother. As easy as that, the truth comes out. My whole deathbed confession. “I know you talked to him the night he died,” she says, “but Trevor killed himself.” And I wasn’t his homosexual lover. “I knew that, too.” And I was the voice on the crisis hotline she talked dirty to. “I know.” She rubs a handful of moisturizer between her palms and then smooths it into my shoulders. “Trevor called your fake crisis hotline because he was looking for a surprise. I’ve been after you for the same thing.” With my eyes closed, I ask if she knows how this will all turn out. “Long-term or short-term?” she asks. Both. “Long-term,” she says, “we’re all going to die. Then our bodies will rot. No surprise there. Short-term, we’re going to live happily ever after.” Really? “Really,” she says. “So don’t sweat it.” I look at myself getting older in the heart-shaped mirror. A sign goes by the window saying, Drive to Stay Alive. A sign goes by the window saying, Speed Checked by Radar. A sign goes by the window saying, Lights On for Safety. Fertility says, “Can you just relax and let things happen?” I ask, does she mean, like disasters, like pain, like misery? Can I just let all that happen? “And Joy,” she says, “and Serenity, and Happiness, and Contentment.” She says all the wings of the Columbia Memorial Mausoleum. “You don’t have to control everything,” she says. “You can’t control everything.” But you can be ready for disaster. A sign goes by saying, Buckle Up. “If you worry about disaster all the time, that’s what you’re going to get,” Fertility says. A sign goes by saying, Watch Out for Falling Rocks. A sign goes by saying, Dangerous Curves Ahead. A sign goes by saying, Slippery When Wet. Outside the window, Nebraska is getting closer by the minute. The whole world is a disaster waiting to happen. “I want you to know I won’t always be here,” Fertility says, “but I’ll always find you.” A sign goes by the window saying, Oklahoma 25 Miles. “No matter what happens,” Fertility says, “no matter what you do or your brother does, it’s the right thing.” She says, “You have to trust me.” I ask, Can I just have some Chap Stick? For my lips. They’re chapped. A sign goes by saying, Yield. “Okay,” she says. “I’ve forgiven your sins. If it helps you relax a little, I guess I can get you some Chap Stick.”