Whole, p.3
Whole, page 3
“Morning,” he says cheerily as I trudge by and grunt an ‘mmm’ in response.
When I come back from the laundry room, fully dressed, he comes up and wraps his arms around me, giving me a little squeeze.
“Thanks for doing this with me,” he says. “It’ll be over before you know it, I promise.”
We take the Riverwalk down to the lake, me running a few steps behind Jake as usual, my legs feeling the familiar throb. The air is already starting to get hot and muggy, but the sun coming off of the water and the glass high-rises downtown is simply beautiful, and I can see why Jake likes going this way. We dodge around bikers and strolling tourists, occasionally jumping over into the grass and then back on the path. I look on either side of me to see the riverside restaurants, tour boats, and kayak shops getting ready to open for the day. We turn at the lake and start jogging south, watching the boats float out on the water. There’s hardly any people out this early, and it’s peaceful despite the pain in my legs. I jog along contentedly, watching the muscles move in Jake’s back a few steps in front of me, thinking I’m glad he pushed me to do this because I always feel better after a run.
Just before we reach the campus of museums on the south end of downtown, we make a ninety-degree turn and start heading back, weaving our way through skyscrapers, people, and cars, bustling and loud. The peacefulness I was feeling near the lake immediately vanishes, and the heaviness in my legs becomes more apparent, like I’m wearing bricks on my feet instead of shoes. The first half of the run is always ok, pleasant even, but I dread the return when the scenery is less serene. Up ahead I can see a construction site, excavators and front loaders digging up the street and moving large piles of rocks and dirt back and forth.
Jake runs out into the road to get around a construction worker who's busy jackhammering into the ground. I move to follow him, but just as my foot leaves the sidewalk and lands in the street, a cloud of construction dust kicks up and engulfs me, blinding my sight. I pinch my eyes shut to keep the dirt out and stop in my tracks to flail my arms around, trying to free myself from the dust tornado. When it finally settles, I open my eyes, and to my surprise, I find that I’m no longer in Chicago. Instead, I’m standing in the middle of a desert, dry sand stretching all the way to the horizon. I frantically spin in circles, my brain looking for something familiar, trying to make sense of what’s happening, but there’s nothing around me but sand. Then my eyes land on a man standing about ten feet away from me, dressed in some sort of military gear from the looks of it, a large pack stuffed with supplies on his back. I could swear he wasn’t there just a moment ago—could this be a mirage? I rub my eyes to clear them of any remaining dust and look again. It’s Jake. Thank god. At least he’s still with me. But where did he get those clothes?
“Jake!” I yell as I run toward him. “What just happened? Where are we?”
“Here,” he says coldly, tossing a similarly stuffed pack in my direction. “Put this on and follow me. We don’t have much time.”
He turns and starts jogging, and I scramble to get the pack on my back before chasing after him, shouting his name. He completely ignores this and instead keeps running, out into the nothingness of sand. I try again, yelling, “Jake! Wait! Where are we going?” panicking now, but still I get no response, just the rattling noise of his backpack bouncing up and down in front of me. I’m starting to hyperventilate as I chase after him, sucking in the dry dust my feet are kicking up into the air with every step. The hot sun beats down on my back and I feel like I might vomit at any moment, but I don’t want to lose sight of him, so I keep running. My chest is tight with anxiety as my eyes dart around me. How did we get here? My throat is starting to ache from breathing in the dry air, and I yell after Jake one more time, but my voice is cut short as I choke on a mouthful of dust. He glances back to check on me then turns forward again and continues running, silent. I’ve had enough. This is ridiculous. What is his problem? What is happening? I deserve answers. I stop running, drop the pack on the ground, and sit down.
“I can’t do this anymore!” I yell at his back, tears streaming from my eyes. “Please, just tell me what’s going on!”
This gets his attention, finally. Jake stops running and slowly turns around to look at me. Then he starts walking toward me, stopping about a foot from where I’m sitting. For a split second I think that he’s going to help me up, kiss me on the forehead, and tell me this is all an elaborate prank to make running more exciting for me, but he doesn’t do any of that. Instead he kneels down so our faces are at the same level and says in a voice that is not so much uncaring as it is transactional, “I need you to get up. I need you to follow me. If you don’t move now, in minutes we could be dead.”
I weigh this new information as I stare at his lips, trying to read his face. This was not the answer I was expecting, and I need more details.
“What’s in the pack?” I ask, holding it up off my back with one hand.
“Supplies,” he says. “I don’t know how long it will be before you get sent back. I can’t call a portal for some reason, and we might need to eat eventually.”
I have no idea what any of that means. He may as well be speaking in tongues. Call a portal? What is he talking about? A half hour ago I didn’t think I was going to need to worry about surviving in a desert for an indeterminate amount of time, but that appears to be what’s happening now, and I get the feeling if I don’t do what he says my chances of making it out of here are near zero.
I push myself to my feet and click shut the strap on the front of the pack, pulling it taut to acknowledge that I understand the gravity of the situation, though in reality I don’t understand any of this. What I do know is that Jake is acting very serious, and I have no other options but to trust him. Still looking into my eyes, he seems to accept my resolve and stands up and nods at me before turning and jogging off, me lagging a few steps behind like always.
Time passes, but I can’t tell exactly how much with only the sand as a landmark. It stretches on for miles in every direction, so it feels as if we’re running in place. He looks back every so often to check that I’m still there, but other than that he does nothing to acknowledge me. He hasn’t said a word since my outburst earlier.
“You doing ok?” he suddenly shouts at me over his shoulder, as if reading my mind.
“Fine,” is all I can manage to respond.
We must have been running for at least an hour now, our bodies weighed down with the supplies necessary to survive, and my muscles ache. It’s hard to breathe, and I still feel like I might throw up, but I can’t let him see how weak I am. If he knows I’m in pain, surely, he will stop and try to help me, and it doesn’t sound like we can afford to lose any time. Not if our lives are at stake. Not for me, at least.
“Can you tell me where we’re going?” I ask for the fourth time, staring at Jake’s backpack as it bounces slowly up and down in front of me. Silence once again greets me as a response, and he gives off no indication that he even heard me.
“Come on,” I joke. “Maybe I know a shortcut.”
I look around me at the vast desert that completely surrounds us, knowing that the only way out of here must be through. Without turning to look back, he responds with a cryptic, “We’ll know where we’re going when we get some intel or you disappear. Until then, we run.”
The bit about me disappearing has me slightly concerned, but I doubt he would provide me with much reassurance if I ask him to clarify. It’s becoming clearer that this is not the Jake that I’m used to—not the one I live with back in Chicago. They look the same, but there’s something…off about him. Where my Jake is fun-loving and easy-going, always smiling or laughing, this new Jake is stoic. All business. Nothing on his face but determination. I may have thought this wasn’t Jake at all—just a stranger with a coincidentally similar face—if it weren’t for his eyes.
Those eyes, dark brown with flecks of green that widen just slightly, as if in surprise, every time he looks at me. Those eyes that can see straight into my soul and reflect back concern, longing, and love even if his face gives nothing away. I would know those eyes anywhere, and they could only be Jake’s.
Suddenly he stops running and puts his arm back to signal me to stop as well. He looks back at me and puts a finger to his lips: the universal sign for ‘keep quiet.’ I look frantically around, unsure of what’s happening. All I see is desert for miles. No one could possibly be sneaking up on us without so much as a tree to hide behind, so why are we stopping? I tuck my hair behind my ear as I wait for more instructions.
Just then a hole opens up in mid-air, right in front of my eyes, and a man falls out of it, landing softly about five feet away from us, barely making a sound. He’s dressed to the nines, in a full-on tuxedo, as if he’s just come from his own wedding, and he looks so out of place here in the middle of the desert that I almost laugh out loud. I hardly have time to process what’s happening when Jake reaches back and shoves me out of the way as a streak of light shoots past me, just inches from my head. Dazed, I start to stand back up, but Jake yells back to me, “Get down!” and then lunges at the man in the tuxedo, tackling him to the ground. I watch from my place in the sand, terrified now, as Jake and the man wrestle each other a few feet away. I look around for something that can be used as a weapon to help Jake in this fight—a rock or a stick, anything—but there’s nothing but sand. I can’t just sit here and watch my best friend get pummeled, even if he might not be my best friend, exactly. As I stand up to join the fight, however, two hands clamp down on my shoulders, lifting me into the air by my pack.
I scream out in shock and both Jake and the man turn to look at me, allowing Jake the millisecond of distraction he needs to get a hand on the weapon that’s clasped to his belt. Before I can blink I’m back on the ground, two tuxedoed men laying around me, unmoving, my backpack still in the hands of the one who grabbed me. Jake comes over, panting a bit but still stone-faced, and reaches out a hand to help me off the ground. As I grab hold of it we lock eyes, and for a second I’m looking at my Jake—the real Jake—a hint of solace and relief clearly visible on his face, but just as quickly he turns his head and it flickers away.
“Put this on,” he says, holding out my pack. “We need to keep moving.”
I want him to wrap his arms around me and hold me until I stop shaking, the way that he would if we were at home, but we’re not at home and I have no idea if we ever will be again, so I have to learn to be brave on my own for now. At least Jake is still here with me, though he feels miles away. I swallow the lump that’s forming in my throat, take the pack from his hands, and strap it onto my back. He lingers there just a moment longer, looking into my eyes, before turning and jogging away into the sand once again.
We run for a while longer without another encounter, me lagging a few steps behind, keeping my eyes on his back so I don’t lose him, when suddenly the wind blows, a great howling wind, and sand starts to kick up all around us. I shut my eyes tight to keep from being blinded, but I don’t stop running, afraid if I do he’ll keep going and I’ll be left alone. He is on a mission, focused on reaching a goal. I’m still unsure whether I want to be a part of this noticeably dangerous, unknown escapade, but for now I don’t have a choice. If I stop I will surely lose him, maybe forever. Then the wind dies down and I slowly open my eyes.
The sand is gone, and we’re back on the streets of Chicago. It’s still summer, hot and muggy, just like it was when everything changed. Jake jogs backward a few steps ahead of me, laughing.
“That dust was pretty bad, huh?” he says.
I look behind me and see the trucks and cranes. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. They’re tearing up the road, fixing potholes like they were before on this windy Chicago day. Dust from the construction swirls like a small tornado just a few inches higher than my head. The man with the jackhammer has stopped now and is moving his tool to position it in a new spot on the street. I look back at Jake and he’s still jogging backward, grinning widely at me.
“Yeah,” I say, my mind spinning. “Yeah, it was pretty bad.”
Chapter 5
The next week passes like any other week. Jake and I get up in the morning, me an hour earlier than him, and head to work separately as usual. I take the bus to the bakery and Jake takes the train to his tech job downtown. We buy groceries, and he makes me dinner at home. We watch movies. We take the dog to the park and watch him run around chasing the other dogs until he tires and lays down, licking his front paws. Jake shows no sign of recollection of our weird run last Saturday, and everything seems so normal that I start to think I must be going crazy. I vow to keep the events to myself, at least until I can confirm my mental stability. Was that some sort of vivid waking dream? The beginning stages of a psychotic episode, perhaps, or maybe the effects of an undiagnosed brain tumor? I make a mental note to get an appointment with my doctor as soon as possible.
On Friday night, Jake and I decide to stay in for our typical dinner and a movie. As I’m standing in the kitchen sipping a glass of wine and trying to stay out of Jake’s way—I’m a baker, after all, he’s more of a chef—I decide to tentatively broach the subject of my potential mental decline.
“So,” I say, trying to remain casual. “That run last Saturday…”
“Yeah?” he asks, stirring the pasta as it boils in the pot. “Was it too much?”
“It was a little...long...don’t you think?” I say, trying to see if he’ll take the bait.
“Come on, Mara,” he laughs. “We’ve gone that far before. Buck up—you’re stronger than you think.”
“Tell that to the guys in the tuxedos,” I say, flippantly.
“Huh?” he says, clearly confused. “What guys?”
Ok, there’s no way he saw what I did, but how is that possible? He was there, with me, trudging through the sand and fighting off well-dressed men who...fell out of the sky. The more I think about it, the crazier I feel. I have to know if what happened was real, and I suspect there’s only one way to find out.
“Never mind,” I say to Jake, “it’s just an expression. But anyway, if it wasn’t that long, should we go again tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, what?” he says, in mocking shock. “You want to go on a long run? Wow, I really must be rubbing off on you.” Then he turns his attention back to the pasta, more serious now but still smiling. “You know I’d love to, but I can’t. I have band practice in the morning.”
Oh yeah, that’s right. I forgot about his additional band practice, getting in extra time leading up to his big show next month. It’s the first time his band has been booked as an opener for a major show. It’s at a small venue in Adams Park, but they’re playing before an extremely popular folk singer, and it’s a huge deal for the band. He’ll have extra practices for the next two weekends, and I can’t wait that long, here on the brink of insanity. I’ll have to go alone. Besides, if it happens again, that will give me a chance to see if the dour version of Jake shows up or not. Yes, I think, sipping my wine, I’ll have to go alone.
Jake sets the plates down on the table, and I snap back to reality, taking in the meal in front of me. It’s a mess of spaghetti and roasted vegetables, piled high on top of one another. He’s an excellent cook, but his presentation is haphazard at best, quickly thrown together in a similar style to how he puts his clothes away—pants, shirts, and underwear all shoved into the same drawer. His innate messiness is one of his less appealing qualities, I must admit, but the way he barely seems to notice is almost endearing.
“Let’s eat!” he says, beaming.
That night my sleep is unsettled, tossing and turning while visions of tuxedoed men dragging me into gaping holes in the sky dance through my brain. I dream of the little boy from the bus stop too, his blue eyes locked on mine as he implores me to go with him. In the morning, I blink my eyes open to see Jake’s face, smiling back at me.
“Good morning,” he says. “Did you know you’re adorable when you’re sleeping? You make these little noises sometimes like you’re trying to call out to me.”
I must have been talking in my sleep because of the nightmares. “You’re pretty adorable yourself,” I say, glad to see him there after my troubling dreams. “Especially when you snore so loud it wakes up Rufio.”
He hits me in the face with his pillow, teasingly, and I laugh as I bat it away. Then he curls up close and wraps his arms around me.
“I love you,” he says, still smiling.
“Same.”
After Jake leaves for band practice, I pace around the living room, biting into an apple and planning my route. Should I go the exact same way as last time to try to recreate the events, or should I try a new route to see whether or not my location matters? What if the construction is gone? Will I still be transported to the desert, or will it take me somewhere else? I’m not keen on re-doing such a long run, but I decide the most logical thing to do is to stick as closely to my original route as possible, retracing my steps as best I can. Not that there’s anything logical at all going on here. I throw the apple core in the trash, double knot my laces, take a deep breath, and head out the door.
Outside the air is warm, but luckily, it’s not too humid today, not yet at least. I do a few calf stretches on the front steps of our house before heading off down the road. As I approach the Riverwalk the cool breeze coming off the water greets me, a welcome reprieve from the hot sun. I breathe in the summer air as I weave around bikers and walkers, making my way to the lake. My pace is much slower than it would be if Jake were with me, but still, I’m proud of myself for making it this far without giving up. Not that I have much of a choice. If I give up now I might never find out what’s happening to me. I have to get to the bottom of it. I have to try, at least. My mental state depends on it.
