Life is complicated. At times, as hard as we try, we are unable to make amends for our transgressions.

Then, when we least expect it, a twist of fate enables us to recapture the past we thought we had lost, as becomes evident in . . .

My Impossible Dream

It did not occur to me you might be standing on the corner that Thursday

     in May.

I walked toward you, unsure of how you would respond to what I had to say.

You stood alone, appearing lost in thought, adrift in your own world, traveling 

     to some distant place.

Your body was rigid, like a statue on the lawn of an estate, poised to

     stand fast and resist any interface.

I had not seen you for over three months, since the gloomy Saturday           

     afternoon you told me to leave.

It broke my heart, but I could not think of a way to ask you for a reprieve.

Did our relationship have to end this way, or would it have been possible for 

     you to accept my apology?

I had planned to come to you to plead my case, but the timing never           

     seemed right, and I began to believe our parting was meant to be.

However, seeing you again gave me renewed hope that I might have a        

     chance to explain.

But you are not looking in my direction, so how do I approach you without  

     causing further pain?

Should I just turn and leave, walk away again, and live my life without          

     you—alone and distraught?

God, I have made a mess of things and lost the best thing that ever    

     happened to me, I thought.

Engulfed in my own grief, I wallowed in self-pity—believing I probably   

     did not deserve you anyway.

I closed my eyes and prayed for the chance to make right the wrongs of

     my past and to see a brighter day.

Then, without warning, I heard the screeching of brakes, and my body 

     flew through the air.

I felt nothing, but this could not be. To be taken without the opportunity to  

     mend my ways was not fair.

The lights in the tunnel to hell burned bright, as my soul twisted and 

     turned in anguish and dismay.

But hell has no light and darkness prevails to punish the sins of those         

     whose souls are chosen to be taken away.

I drifted in puzzlement, not knowing what to make of the inconsistencies

     of thought that passed through my mind.

I longed for the answer to my question about a love lost, but knew in my      

     heart it was not mine to find.

Heart—heart beating loudly, but how can this be, for my soul exited and

     left my body behind?

Noises—machines, people—what in heaven’s name does this mean?

     For the answer, I pined.

    

I am being touched—softly, with kindness. Is this God coming to rescue

     me from my dying hell?

A voice. I think I hear words, but this is impossible, for I died and from

     the Lord’s grace I fell.

The words are getting louder. “Wallace, can you hear me? My dearest        

     Wallace, please take my hand.”

I reached out and grasped the warm palm of an angel, whose fingers          

     intertwined with mine, moving my wedding band.

Wedding band—but I am not married—and I am dead, so this cannot be.

“Wallace, do not try to speak. It is me, your wife, Laura. Open your 

     eyes and see.”

My eyes flooded with tears when I saw Laura standing over me, as     

     beautiful as the day I noticed her on the corner that Thursday

     in May.

“I thought I had lost you forever, my darling, when that drunken driver’s

     car hit you and came close to taking your life away.

“I could not believe our twenty years of marriage might be stolen by that      

     brute, causing me great strife.

I need you, the man of my dreams, father of our three children, and the 

     love of my life.”

Twenty years, three children? Confused, I could not utter a word, but the    

     warmth in my heart radiated through the smile on my face.

The only woman I ever loved touched my heart and soul, and I did not

     want to be in any other place.

Somehow, at sometime, Laura did accept my apology for what I had

     done, but the answer of how and when may elude me for eternity.

But does it really matter? My life is now complete and, in spite of this lack    

     of clarity, “My Impossible Dream” has become a reality.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

When we focus on our past, we may discover someone who should have played a larger role in our life.

It saddens me when I think about my grandfather—my father’s father. I always wondered what my life would have been like . . .

Had I Met Him Earlier

     I might have had a relationship with him had I taken the time to do so. Instead, I let him languish in his room in front of the TV at my aunt’s house, while I mingled with other members of the family.

     He became the mystery man in my life. The dance instructor turned haberdasher and then recluse in his senior years. I thought of him as the tortured man, the man maligned by my grandmother.

     I never took the time to know the real person inside the old, beaten body. My father’s father was an enigma to me. He did not drive. He did not appear to have an opinion. When he came to the family table, he said little of consequence. And after the meal, he drifted back to his room on the second floor of the house.

     I visited my aunt’s home most weekends. Grandpa Jack was always there, but then he never was. He was an afterthought, like an old relic placed in the corner of the room to be viewed, but never really seen. I could excuse my indifference to him as a child, as it seemed to go both ways. But as I got older, I should have taken time to visit with him, but I did not.

     Then I went away to college in upstate New York, and my father’s father became a distant memory. I did not consider how long he might be in my life, because I never considered him as being there in the first place.

     During my sophomore year at the University of Rochester, my father’s company was purchased and he, my mother, and sister moved to California so he could continue working at the job he knew and loved. Later that year, we all received an invitation to my eldest cousin Suzie’s wedding.

     Having just moved 3,000 miles away, my parents did not have the energy or the money to return to New York for the nuptials. Since I still attended school only 400 miles away, they designated me to represent the family.

     Now at the behest of my father, I had made the decision to transfer to UCLA so I could be near him, my mother, and sister. The wedding could be the last time I would see my grandfather. For after the celebration, I would board a plane for the West Coast.

     At the festivities after the service, my grandfather disappeared into a crowd of guests and I hung with the younger set. When I returned to my aunt’s home that evening, I received a call from my father. Since I was leaving for California the next day, he asked me to speak with my grandfather, something I had never done at length before.

     I climbed the steps to his room and stared at him sitting in his chair looking at the television’s empty screen. “Grandpa, may I talk to you?” I muttered. 

     He motioned to me to sit on the bed next to his chair. Not really knowing this man, I felt a bit uncomfortable. And then he began to speak—about my youth, my passion for bowling, my interest in writing and drawing, my graduating as salutatorian of my high school senior class, and my choice of the University of Rochester to continue my education.

     The man I thought had no idea who I was knew me intimately, but I had never met him before. I had no knowledge of his background, interests, desires. He was a stranger to me. I was meeting him for the first time and this brought tears to my eyes.

     I left the next day for my new life in California and would never see my grandfather again. He died two years later. After his death, one thought has plagued me to this day, Had I met him earlier, how might he have changed my life and me his?

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Marriages can be stormy. Simple things get blown all out of proportion.

At times, we tend to be blind to the obvious. As tensions mount, highly emotional conflicts can lead to . . .

The Parting Of The Ways

     It was a drizzly Friday night in the middle of April. Jake and Melinda sat at the kitchen table after dinner in utter silence. Then Jake let out one of the loudest farts ever heard.

     “Oh, my, what’d you do, Jake?” Melinda asked.

     “Huh, do what?”

     “You don’t know?”

     “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Melinda.”

     “My God! You’ve got to be kidding.”

     “Kidding? About what?”

     “What you just did. You live trapped in your own little world. You can’t see past the end of your nose. There’s a large universe all around you, Jake. And I’m part of it. Don’t you know that?”

     “Yeah, I know that. But what’s your problem?”

     “You. You’re my problem.”

     “What’d I do now to upset you, Melinda?”

     “The least you could’ve done was say, ‘Excuse me.’”

     “For what?”

     “Don’t you know what you did, Jake?

     “Sure, I had a biological explosion. So what? We all have gas from time to time. It’s a normal thing the human body goes through. I can’t believe it upset you so much.”

     “It annoys me because you’re so inconsiderate. You don’t care about my feelings, do you?”

     “You’re getting all bent out of shape over a lousy fart? What’s the big deal?”

     “If it was just the gas, I’d let it drop. But it’s everything, Jake.”

     “Now what’re you talking about? We’ve been married twenty-two years. Some problems are going to arise. It happens in all marriages.”

     “Yes, you’re right. But it’s happening much too much in ours. And you’re not even aware of it.”

     “So, it’s not just the gas?”

     “Jake, you’re unbelievable. The gas is the least of our concerns. There are hundreds of others I could list.”

     “Okay, start listing. I dare you to do it. But remember, I get my turn, too.”

     “Your turn? What do you think this is, some sort of competition?”

     “Well, that’s what you’re making it. Isn’t it, Melinda?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. Silence fell upon the room. They just sat there staring off into space, when the phone rang.

     “Aren’t you going to get that, Jake?”

     “Why can’t you? It’s usually one of your hussy friends.”

     “My what?”

     “You heard me.”

     The phone kept ringing. Both Melinda and Jake remained frozen in their seats. Neither one reached for it. Then it stopped.

     “Well, Jake, are you happy now?”

     “About what?”

     “Somebody called us and you just let it ring. It might’ve been important.”

     “I just let it ring? You could’ve answered it. The phone is as close to you as it is to me. Besides, if it were that important, they would’ve left a message. Right, Melinda?”

     “How should I know? If you’d answered it, we wouldn’t have to sit here guessing.”

     “There you go again. I’m always the one who’s wrong. I fart too much. I don’t answer the phone when it rings. I . . . I . . . I cause all the problems.”

     “So what am I supposed to say? You’re right. Yes, you’re right.”

     “I’m what? You’re off your rocker, Melinda. I’m out of here.”

     “Yup, that’s what you always do—run away. You don’t confront the issues. Don’t try to solve the problems. Just disappear into your fantasy world.”

     “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

     “You do that. Maybe I’ll get some peace for once.”

     Their paths didn’t cross the rest of the evening. Yet the anger over what appeared to be an irreparable situation boiled within them.

     With the guest room shutters not completely closed, the early morning sun lit up the room waking Jake. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs. He looked around and wondered why he’d slept in the guest room. He seemed to have buried last evening’s confrontation with Melinda deep within the recesses of his mind. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eight o’clock jumped out at him. Saturday morning, don’t have to go to work today, he thought.

     He dragged his lethargic body out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, where he heard noises. “Ah,” he muttered, “Melinda must be getting breakfast ready.” His stomach growling, he thought to himself, I’m starving. He pictured the table set with rolls and bread in a basket, bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling on the stove, and a pot of coffee brewing in a way that made his mouth water.

     He ambled into the kitchen. Melinda sat at the table tapping a spoon and sipping a cup of coffee left over from yesterday, while reading the newspaper. The table was vacant—no food in sight. The stovetop resembled an empty parking lot—no pots or pans in evidence. He looked at Melinda and grunted, “When’s breakfast?”

     She pointed to the refrigerator without looking up at him and groaned, “That’s where the food is. Take what you want.”

     “You mean you’re not going to make it?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. She kept her head buried in the paper.

     “Why the hell are you avoiding me, Melinda? What’d I do?”

     “Nothing. And therein lies the problem. You never do anything around here. So, now I’m on strike.”

     “On strike? What in God’s name does that mean?”

     “New house rules. If you want something, get it yourself. If you need something done, do it yourself. Maybe then your teensy weensy mind will grasp the importance of my role in your life.”

     “You’re impossible, Melinda. You’re behaving like an imperial dictator. I don’t know how I ever loved you.”

     “You don’t know how you ever loved me. That’s a laugh. I must’ve had my eyes closed when I consented to marry you. You’re an ignorant jerk, who cares only about yourself.”

     “I’ve had it, Melinda. This isn’t going anywhere. Each time we try to speak to one another, you drive another nail further into our coffin of “dead love.” When that last nail is banged in, we’ll dig a hole in the backyard and bury it.”

     Melinda grit her teeth. She wanted to avoid saying anything more she might regret, if there was anything left. Jake paced in front of her, trying to avoid making eye contact. Two creatures lost in a battle that couldn’t be won. Was it time for the parting of the Ways?

     For three days Melinda and Jake stayed as far away from one another as two people, living under the same roof, could. And then, early Wednesday morning their paths crossed in the hallway. Melinda looked Jake in the eye and . . .

     “I’ve had it with you Mr. Ways. You’ve ruined my life.”

     Then she reached under her bathrobe and pulled out a Beretta Nano and pointed it at Jake and fired twice, hitting him in the chest and left arm. As he collapsed, he pulled a Glock 22 from the right pocket of his robe and, with his last dying breath, fired one shot, which hit Melinda directly in the heart. She screamed and fell to the floor with a thud.

    

And now, the question I need your help in answering. I am considering three possible endings to the story. Please review them below and let me know, at slolowe@icloud.com, which one of the three would provide the best ending. Thank you in advance for your help.

Ending I

     Then, from the end of the corridor, a tall, balding man yelled, “cut.” He trudged down the hallway, as Jake and Melinda stood up and straightened their costumes. “That was good, folks. But we’ll do one more take of the last scene of The Parting of the Ways before calling it a wrap.”

Ending II

     And so, the final nail entered the coffin, ensuring the “parting of the Ways” from a world neither of them knew how to handle. But in the hereafter, would they again reunite? A frightening possibility, one ponders.

Ending III

     She lay sprawled on the ground for a few minutes, until she was sure Jake wasn’t moving. Then she got up and checked his pulse. Removing her cell phone from her robe pocket, she punched in a phone number. “Vivian, he’s gone—dead as a doornail. That bulletproof vest you lent me worked like a charm. The Ways have now parted.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Friendship is something we all value. We try to be there for our friends and help them out when needed.

However, sometimes, the advice we provide may be wrong. This could be the case in . . .

She

     Early Monday morning, the doorbell rang. I had finished breakfast and busied myself straightening up the kitchen. I glanced at the clock. Not quite nine. Who could it be at this hour? I thought. I hustled to the front door and swung it open. Cindy appeared in the doorway, with a frown on her face.

     “What’s wrong?” I asked.

     She stared at me. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks. Her hands shook and her breathing became labored. I closed the front door and reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

     “Cindy, you’re scaring me. Please say something.”

     She stood there without saying a word. But I could see her chest heaving as she attempted to speak. She started to gasp, as the words came pouring out of her mouth. “Irene, Frank left me. He’s gone. Disappeared. Didn’t leave a message.”

     “How long has he been gone?”

     Wheezing, she sputtered, “Two days.”

     “Two days? Just two days?”

     “But he’s never done that before. He’s always told me when he’s going to be away. I’m beside myself. I thought we had a strong relationship. Could he be dating someone else? Irene, I don’t know what to do.”

     “Take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself.”

     “Okay, I’ll try. I’m sorry for my outburst. But he means so much to me.”

     “Cindy, I know you care about him. He seemed like a nice guy when we met him at the Sunset Senior Singles dance at the clubhouse in April. But that was just eight weeks ago. I didn’t know you guys had agreed not to date others.”

     “Well, no. We never discussed it.”

     “And you don’t live together. Maybe he’s been busy.”

     “But he would have called. Wouldn’t he?”

     “How should I know? I only saw the man that one time. I think you may be overreacting.”

     “I don’t know. We have such a great time when we’re together. We seem to have so much in common. He’s close to my age. In the past, the only guys who have shown an interest in me have been over eighty.”

     “You don’t know that he’s left you. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

     “But maybe he’s found someone else,” Cindy whimpered.

     “In two days? Cindy, Frank, you, and I are all in our early seventies. We don’t move that fast.”

     “But he’s a man. In our senior community, he’s in demand. He can have any woman he wants.”

     “Yeah, that might be true. But men take forever just trying to decide what they want for dinner. How could two days be long enough for him to find and make a decision about another woman? So don’t get so upset about this. He’ll call.”

     Cindy seemed to relax a bit. I caught a hint of a smile on her face. She turned to leave. As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she looked back at me.

     “I feel like such an idiot,” she murmured. I’ve been so lonely since Jack died. It’s been a hard two years. I need someone in my life and I thought Frank was the one.”

     “He might be, Cindy. But you can’t rush into a serious relationship. Take your time.”

     She threw her arms around me and hugged me so tight, I had trouble catching my breath. Then she turned away, opened the front door, and left.

     Two days passed. That afternoon, Donna and I went to our Mystery Novel meeting up at the clubhouse. Eleven women and one man, Gordon, attended the session. He seemed to be trying to make points with the ladies by monopolizing the conversation. I thought Zelda was about to throw something at him to shut him up. She had a rolled up wad of paper in her hand and had begun to move it into a throwing position when our group leader, Maryann, adjourned the meeting.

     I looked at Donna. “Typical man—a know-it-all who wants to be in control,” I quipped.

     “Yeah, but he’s good looking. I wouldn’t mind if he controlled me.“

     “You’re nuts,” I replied.

     As we exited the room, Donna changed the subject. “So, what’s the latest scoop on Cindy and her man? Has he contacted her?”

     “I don’t know. I haven’t heard a word from her since she left my house on Monday.”

     “Everything must be fine then. I wish I had a man in my life. You know, tall, dark, and handsome. Maybe about thirty-five, with bulging muscles.”

     “Keep dreaming, lady. The only way that’s going to happen is to cut a seventy year old in half.”

     “All right. If you’ll hold him down, I’ll do the cutting.”

     We both giggled like teenage girls at a slumber party. As we approached the lodge’s main entrance, I gulped and squealed, “Oh, my God, look at that.”

     “At what?” Donna queried.

     “Over there.” I pointed to a crowd—one man surrounded by four women.

     “So?”

     “The man is Frank. Cindy’s Frank. I guess Cindy was right to be concerned about his not calling. What a creep. What a son of a . . .”

     “Control yourself, girl.”

     “What am I going to tell Cindy? How am I going to break the news to her? This will destroy her.”

     “Shouldn’t you find out what’s going on before thinking the worst?”

     “Well, isn’t it obvious? He’s a womanizer. A creep. A son of a . . .”

     “Not that again. Let’s walk over and say hello and see how he reacts. Do a little detective work.”

     “But I’m no Angela Lansbury on Murder She Wrote. I’ll make a fool of myself.”

     “Do you want to help Cindy, or don’t you, Irene?”

     “Okay, but how should I do this? Or maybe I shouldn’t. There could be a legitimate reason for him being with the women—like working together on a project or something. I wish I could see their faces. I know those who are the real man chasers in the singles group.”

     “Then you’re going to have to march yourself right up to that gathering, get the women to turn around, and snap a picture with your iPhone. Then you’ll have the evidence you’ll need to prove to Cindy what a heel Frank is.” 

     “But he knows me. Why don’t you do it, Donna?”

     “Me? This isn’t my problem. It’s yours.”

     I stood there confused. If I do it, it could be the most awkward thing I’ve ever done in my life. And if I don’t, I could be letting down a very good friend, who needs my help and support. Oh my, what do I do?

     At that moment, Donna nudged me, interrupting my concentration. “Irene, you better look at what’s happening now.”

     I lifted my head and stared at Frank passionately kissing one of the women, while the others cheered. It was awful. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had failed my friend. “That woman, who is she?” I groaned.

     What happened devastated me. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and spun around. In total shock, I found myself staring into Cindy’s bright eyes, illuminated by her smiling face.

     “Hi Irene, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

     “Cindy, I need to tell you something, but you better sit down first.”

     “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m so happy, I can handle anything you have to say.”

     “I don’t think so. Not this.”

     “Come on, Irene. Let’s get it over with. Just give it to me straight.”

     “Yeah, Irene, tell her already,” Donna implored.

     “Oh, hello, Donna,” Cindy said in a cheery voice.

     “Hi, Cindy. Now tell her, Irene.”

     “I hate to do this to you, Cindy,” I muttered.

     I placed my hands on her shoulders and pointed her in the direction of the group of four women and one man. “Look at the woman in the middle of the group. She’s the one,” I voiced with emphasis.

     “She’s the one what?” Cindy asked, somewhat bewildered.

     “Try to hold yourself together, my friend. She’s the one who just kissed Frank in a very passionate way.”

     Cindy burst out laughing. “But that’s not Frank.”

     “What?” I gasped.

     “That’s his identical twin brother, Floyd. And the “she” you’re talking about is his wife. That’s why Frank disappeared from my life for two days. Floyd and Margie eloped to Reno and Frank went with them . . . as their best man. He didn’t tell me because they left at midnight on Friday, the night I last saw him. He called me Monday afternoon when they returned from Reno.

     “Well, when you found out what happened, why didn’t you tell me?”

     “I tried to. But when I called Monday, after I spoke to Frank, to let you know I’d made a big deal out of nothing, you weren’t home. So I attempted to leave a message, but your answering machine said, ‘Memory full.’ Then I got caught up in the whole marriage celebration thing and didn’t get back to you. I’m sorry. Oh, by the way, will you be my maid of honor at my wedding?”

     “Will it take place before or after I wring your neck for what you put me through?”

     “Before, I hope,” she chanted.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Finding oneself is a difficult task. We often live in a world of confusion, our destiny unknown.

Troubled, we search for answers. And, if we discover them, it may be in unexpected ways, as becomes evident in . . .

The Garden Of His Dreams

     Milton Hadley was a sad man. Alone in a world he despised, he had one love—music. His fingers played an imaginary piano. And he strummed an air guitar, as he pranced though the alleys near his small flat in London.

     Tunes flowed through his mind, and he danced to the rhythm of a band only he could hear. His head moved back and forth to the beat of the drum that caused his eyes to lose focus, as he wobbled amongst neighbors who wished he would disappear.

     A mystery to all, including himself, he never acknowledged the other beings in the audience who watched his disjointed performance in disbelief. They shook their heads, as this troubled soul weaved in and out between them. He both amused and scared them.

     As darkness fell upon the neighborhood, he returned to his one bedroom domicile, cluttered with junk he collected as he wandered the streets surrounding his home. Without undressing or washing up, he crawled into his sleeping bag that rested on an old, tattered mattress he had found in a dumpster behind his apartment building.

     Tonight he slept soundly, a rare occurrence for this troubled creature. But then music, loud rumbling sounds, entered his peaceful world. He wiggled out of his bedroll, his hands moving to the tempo storming through his mind, his feet stomping in an awkward manner that made him unstable as he moved toward the bathroom.

     He threw water on his face, as his body swayed back and forth, much of it traveling to the mirror above the sink covered with dirt that obscured his pockmarked facial image. Water dribbled off the mirror, making tinny sounds as it fell into the basin and ran down the drain. He pulled a grungy towel off the bar that hung askew on the wall and rubbed his face with it.

     Another cloudy day had arrived, and once again the music in his head began to blare. His hands moved, as if conducting a 100-piece orchestra. His soiled, wrinkled jacket made waves around his arms. The music playing made no sense. This scared him, as he could not remember this ever happening before.

     He began to tremble. His whole body rocked, but it was out of sync with the music. This could not be, he thought. It did not work this way. Had he lost control? Or did he ever have it? He closed his eyes to try to regain command of the symphony that ruled his life. Then the music faded and he heard strange melodic voices, but they were not singing—just speaking.

     “Milton Hadley was a great man. We lost him all too soon. Only fifty-six, but an accomplished musician and conductor, he reached his lofty goal and performed in ‘The Garden of His Dreams’ at Buckingham Palace, before the Queen of England. To commemorate his passing a year ago, I ask you to pray with me.

      “Another note has dropped

                                 from the scale of life.

                                 But we still remember his presence,

                                 in the recreation of the music

                                 that flowed with inspiration

                                 from the depths of his soul.

                                 Let him depart the soil

                                 in which he was buried,

                                 to fly with harp-playing angels,

                                 and feel the magic of performing

                                 in heaven’s theater.

                                 Free him from all earthly responsibilities

                                 to again play in the garden of his dreams.

                                 He leaves fragrant blossoms,

                                 flowing from his melodies

                                 from which all can seek comfort.

                                 He will never be forgotten.”

     And so Milton Hadley pushed aside the torment he had taken with him to the grave and released himself from the burdens he had carried during a year in limbo. Not the poor soul he believed he had become, he could now dream of a peaceful existence in the hereafter.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Should a father and son always be open and honest with one another? And what if they’re not.

Family secrets can have strange consequences, as you will see in . . .

Honor Thy Father And Other

     The dark gray clouds, draped like a shroud, obscured the sun. My mind drifted in and out of my own mental fog. I felt confused about life, and what happened next didn’t help matters.

     Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, my father awoke early—about 5:00 a.m. He had to get to the store to secure a place in line to have a chance to buy the newest, magical “iSomething.” Why he needed it, I couldn’t figure out. I didn’t believe he had any idea either.

     I sat at the kitchen table and awaited his return. He had been gone over five hours. I worried about him. Seventy-six years old, legally blind in one eye, with reflexes slowed by age, he still drove his beat up old Ford. I hated that he was still driving, but he’d just received his driver’s license renewal from the DMV. So there was nothing I could say to him that would change his mind.

     “Honor thy father,” he would chant, anytime I disagreed with his stance on an issue. “Just honor thy father.” And so I did.

     The phone rang, shaking me from my stupor. I picked it up off the table. “Hello,” I muttered. “Yes, I can come. Okay, I’ll leave as soon as I dress. How is he?” No answer. Just a click and I was disconnected.

     I raced to the bedroom, threw on a pair of black trousers and the wrinkled plaid shirt I’d worn yesterday, picked up my car keys off the nightstand, and ran to the garage. I backed the car out and headed down Logan Way toward the freeway.

     My heart raced and my hands shook. What the hell did Merritt Hospital want? They just told me to come, but didn’t answer my question about how he was. I swerved in and out of traffic in an attempt to get to the hospital as fast as I could. With one eye glued to the rearview mirror, I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over.

     I exited the freeway at the Merritt Boulevard Exit, turned left, and sped toward the hospital parking lot. Stopping at the control gate, I reached for a parking ticket. The gate rose and I pulled into the first open spot I saw. I’d driven thirty-two miles in just under eighteen minutes. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been stopped for speeding or ended up in a hospital bed after a collision. I got out of the car and bounded into the hospital lobby. I froze in fear of what stood before me—a cop.

     The officer approached. I’m going to get arrested for sure, I thought.

     “Mr. Jackson. Tony Jackson,” he called out.

     I gasped, “How do you know my name?” Must’ve gotten it from tracking my license plate.

     “You are Mr. Jackson?” he inquired, with authority.

     “Uh, yeah, I am.”

     “Please come with me.”

     “Okay. But I only drove as fast as I did to get to the hospital. I think my father has been in an accident. I had to get here. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

     The officer looked at me with a befuddled look on his face. “I don’t have a clue what you are ranting about, sir.”

     I stood stunned by his remark. “Then what do you want?”

     “I need you to come with me.”

     “Why? Am I being arrested?”

     “No, I just need to ask you a couple of questions, in private.”

     “About what? Should I call my attorney?”

     “Call your attorney? I don’t see any reason for you to do that. This isn’t a formal interrogation.”

     “Okay, then I guess it will be all right.”

     “Then follow me, sir.”

     I trudged behind him toward the elevator. When the door opened, we entered. I stood with my head bowed and watched him press the button for the sixth floor. The door closed and the elevator moved from one to two. The door opened, but nobody got on. The door closed and the elevator proceeded to the sixth floor. The door opened and he motioned to me to exit.

     “Where are we going,” I stammered.

     “You’ll know when we get there,” he replied. “Just do as I say.”

     I felt like telling him to take a flying leap off a tall building, but I kept my mouth shut. I just wanted to know what happened to my father and hoped this civil servant could provide the answer.

     We walked down a long, dimly lit corridor. The rooms we passed all had locks on them. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice quivering.

     “You’ll soon find out,” he said, in a way that sent chills running down my spine. “Now keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

     “What kind of cop are you?” I asked in a not so nice manner. He didn’t answer. He just grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head hit a low hanging pipe and I collapsed into a sea of darkness.

     When I came to, I found myself alone in a sterile room tied down to a hospital bed. I tried to free myself, but to no avail. I heard voices coming down the hall. Then it became quiet. A key being placed in the lock of the door made a clicking sound as it turned. I had no idea what to expect, so I pretended to be asleep.

     Three men entered the room, all dressed in gray suits and blue and gray striped ties. They wore badges, not police badges, but what looked like military badges. Perplexed by this, I became anxious. Then the largest of the three men turned to the tallest of the other two and spoke, “General, I believe he is ready.”

     Ready? Ready for what? I thought. Tension gripped my body. Then a man who appeared to be my father, dressed in a dark black suit, entered the room. My father hadn’t worn a suit like that in over ten years. The three men turned, stood at attention, and saluted him. He returned the salute.

     “At ease men,” he proclaimed in a loud, strong voice.

     “”Dad, what’s happening,” I murmured.

     “Dad? I am not your father. However, I do know the man you are talking about. I have seen him on my frequent visits to the hospital. Some say he is my double. But I am the President of the United States of America, not this other gentleman you are . . .”

     Interrupted in the middle of his sentence by the door of the room being smashed open, he stood silent and stared. Two uniformed hospital guards, accompanied by three city policemen, seized the four men and placed them in restraints. One of the guards, with the appropriate hospital badge affixed to his blue uniform jacket, came over to me and untied me.

     “Mr. Jackson, I’m so sorry for what has happened to you.”

     “Where am I?”

     “You’re in the Psych Ward. There appears to have been an inmate takeover of the ward, one of which we were not aware of, until now.  At least one patient was able to get down to the lobby to greet you. How these patients managed to obtain a police uniform, badges, and dress clothing is a mystery to us, but some ward residents do work in the hospital laundry, which our staff, including city police officers assigned to our public hospital, are permitted to use.”

     “How did you know I was here?”

     “A desk clerk witnessed what occurred in the lobby and reported it.”

     “What about the call I received to come here? Is my father all right?”

     “I don’t know who made the call. However, your father isn’t here.”

     “But that man over there. He is my father, isn’t he?”

     At that moment, a doctor, dressed in a white lab coat entered the room and approached the “President,” who ranted about his right to be free to run the country. “Mr. Jackson, calm down,” the doctor ordered.

     “So he is my father,” I screamed.

     “No,” said the doctor. He is your father’s identical twin brother. He has been here for thirty years. Your father has visited him once a month, during the entire time he has been under our care, including today.”

     “Including today?” I asked, with a puzzled look on my face.

     “Yes, including today.”

     “So he’s my father’s brother?”

     “Yes, the other Mr. Jackson—the one whose existence your father chose to keep secret all these years.”

     This statement upended me. I paused for a second to collect my thoughts. And then mumbled, “You did say my father was here today?”

     “I did. We found him and four ward staff members locked in a room down the hall. We’re bringing him to you, as we speak.”

     Before I could reply, my father entered.

     The “President” took one look at him and then looked me straight in the eye and commanded, “You must honor me, as you do your father. For I am the other . . .”

     At that moment, the guards took hold of him and removed him from the room. I just stared in disbelief. My father embraced me. The entire episode left me speechless—something I’d never been before in my life.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.