Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus

know what to say; me looking at her, her looking at me. In the space between us the phone rings again. Then again, and my mom answers. Her replies are short.
    ‘Yes, this is,’ she says into the phone.
    ‘He’s here with me now,’ she says and looks at me.
    ‘What do you mean?’ And then, ‘I don’t understand.’
    By the time she’s hung up her face has gone white.
    ‘Mom,’ I say, ‘I–’
    But out of nowhere a flood of violence breaks across my mom’s face. ‘What did you do?’ she screams, striking me with the palm of her hand. ‘What did you do to him?’ She howls and hits me again. And again. She cries and tells me that was the police. They asked if I was here. If I was calm. They wanted to come over and have a chat with her. Roland, it seems, has died.
    The next hit draws blood as she scratches my face. I yell that I don’t know what I did. I tell her that I’ve been sick again, that I’ve been seeing things. She doesn’t care. Her eyes are full of rage. She hits me again and I slip off the edge of the bed.
    And really, what do you do in a situation like this? I mean, you shouldn’t exactly hit your mom back. I am getting the shit kicked out of me by a fifty-five-year-old Joan of Arc expert, though. So I reach for the nightstand to grab whatever I can get a hold of and swing it.
    The slapping stops. My mom, she’s recoiled in fear. When she removes her hand from her face a long red mark, a mark that’s curved like a large banana, appears on her cheek. In my hand El Captain ™ pulsates. His testicle sack full of synthetic semen jiggles. And I know this isn’t the time, but I almost want to give it a squeeze, just to see how it works.
    Mom, she slinks back to the bed, holding her face, sobbing. And in this moment, with her hair tangled in different directions and the age lines of her face made more visible by her crying, it’s the first time I realise she’s getting old, and I have a sudden overwhelming need for her to be young again and reading me a bedtime story about Joan of Arc.
    I want to plead for her forgiveness, but I’m stopped cold when I catch someone from the corner of my eye. It’s my figment. She’s watching me from outside the bedroom window. My pills, they haven’t worked.
    And to my mom I say, ‘I’m so sorry.’ I tremble, ‘It’s not me. I’m seeing things again.’
    But Mom, she just cries.
    ‘I always knew you would end up like this,’ she sobs and my heart sinks. ‘I knew it and I let you down. I should have gotten you the shock therapy. You’re sick, Jerry.’
    ‘Mom–’
    She won’t look at me.
    ‘Just go,’ she says.
    ‘Mom?’
    Her face contorts in a ripple of pain. ‘Go!’ she shrieks.
    And I want to scream ‘But I need you!’, but all I can do is place El Captain ™, wobbling, on the nightstand and leave.

7
Spork
    T he street’s elms and oaks rustle in the biting wind. A police car speeds past in the direction of my mom’s house but the early spring night easily conceals me.
    ‘Jerry?’ a voice says from behind me. The voice, it doesn’t belong to a person. It belongs to my figment. The one with the raven hair and pale white skin. I turn around and she’s standing not two feet behind me. This is the closest we’ve ever been.
    ‘Jerry Dresden?’ it says. ‘I need you to come with me.’ Her voice, it has a hint of desperation.
    I shut my eyes. I tell myself she’s not real. Then I open my eyes and, just so she knows it too, I tell her, ‘You aren’t real.’ Then I turn and walk across the street, averting my gaze, hoping my affirmation has done its job. And I think of bees buzzing around flowers on a spring day.
    I think of colour-correcting a Renoir at my boring job.
    I think of the latest superhero movie staring Hugh Fox.
    My first shrink taught me that your mind can only consciously be aware of seven things at any one time. So if you’re thinking about your mortgage, focusing on driving, listening to the car radio, tapping