This Place Only

Chapter Two - Reboot

Chapter Two

Reboot

I opened my eyes and discovered my daughter pulling on my arm.

“Dah—,” she said, “—Dee!” with each tug.

I yawned, cleared my throat and found late morning sunlight painting everything in swathes of warm yellow. The blinds on the huge bay windows had been twisted open and beyond I could see the front yard. At least a dozen maples and willows dotted the landscape.

“Daddy, I want some Elmo, please?” Shelby said, staring at me with pouty lips.

Everything should have been fine. It was just a typical morning.

But something was wrong. Oddly wrong, though I couldn’t decide what it was. Sliding out of bed, I scooped up my little one and swung her up onto my shoulders. This was accomplished with the practiced ease of having done it a hundred times before. Her giggles filled the morning and made it shine all the brighter.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” I asked her, carrying her down the stairs and depositing her onto the couch in the living room.

“Mommy made French Toast sticks,” she said, finding a pillow and placing it a few feet back from the entertainment center.

“Is Mommy at work?” I asked.

Sitting down on the pillow, Shelby looked up at me strangely.

“It’s Saturday, Daddy. No school. No work.”

I slid an Elmo DVD into the player and turned on the TV. It felt as if the floor beneath me were slowly rotating. Not second-hand rotation, nor even minute-hand. It was more like the near-undetectable movement of a clock’s hour hand. This caused me to stare intently at the hardwood floor, looking for evidence of the phantom movement. And then, in a weird revelation, I felt that the spinning was not beneath me, but within me.

“Do you want to watch with me?” Shelby asked, scooting over to make room on her pillow.

“No, honey. Thanks, though. Maybe in a little bit.”

Saturday. It was Saturday? Was that right? That’s probably what caused the disorientation—I had my days all mixed up. Leaving my daughter to the music of Sesame Street and Grouchland, I went into the kitchen and found Stephanie.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re up,” she said. “I think something’s wrong with the new toaster oven. I burned eight French toast sticks before I got it right.”

For the longest moment, I stood there and stared at my wife. We were married in Stowe, Vermont a little over twelve years ago. Our daughter was born three years ago. We’ve been living in this house only two years, having moved from Vermont back to my hometown of Monroe, New York.

I knew all of this, but something was wrong. Not something I could come right out and name, but watching Stephanie unplug the toaster oven and move it over to the breakfast nook, I felt like I was watching something staged. A movie. Or a dream. Something unreal, though you give into it with all your heart and question nothing.

Stephanie looked up, wiping greasy hands on her pants.

“What’s wrong, Sweetie?” she asked, reading me perfectly.

“I put Elmo on for Shelby,” was the first thing that came to me.

“That will make it an even eight billion times she’s seen that movie,” she smiled. Then frowned.

“Really, Will, what’s wrong?” She took a few steps toward me and reached up to touch my forehead. I don’t know why, but I flinched from her. Why would I do such a thing?