Glenn, Grace, and God
by Gwendolyn Lack
“Grace, count down from ten,” the doctor spoke softly. “This will be over soon.”
Something stood in the shadows of my darkness—in the distance my name, a high-pitched repetition of Grace? Couldn’t possibly be? Is that you? The shadow of your jawline looks so…soft?
The shadow stepped into the light, whispering, You’re in a coma—stupid.
What?
You heard me.
The doc just put me—three…two….
See?
Fuck you!
One!
Shadow guy jumped out waving like a five-year-old child whose kindergarten friend rode off on the bus, never to be seen in person again. A scream grew inside me, but he stood face-to-face with me here. Where is here? My inner thoughts didn’t answer; no answer from him or the deepening darkness.
Only, I know where I am and who you are.
He leaned forward, face squinted up like a sloth sucking on sour candy—the darkness melting away. Oh, do you? You are I, and who are you? His mouth began to turn up on one side. What’s more important is, who am I to you? And who are you to me?
His grin. His face looked like mine. But his curved jaw line paired with the depth of hazel eyes—wait? Hazel, no—green? A small, simple nose paired with those higher cheekbones. Maybe?
Or—his hand waved near my face. A memory of sour candies. Was he the memory of my five-year-old bestie, Glenn?
Leaning back. You look like me—no? My voice paused. Are you?
He turned red, but his voice sank to a whisper. Yes.
He is me. Not me, but I. Not in the flesh, but in my memory—maybe? My hand pushes him. Hard. He tears up. My-his face turns a deeper red.
Dude, stop. The push wasn’t that hard. Stop. Growling louder. I’ll do it again.
The volume of my voice forces him to the floor. He sits there all ballerina-dramatic with his legs moving and arms crossed, one hand playing an invisible piano while he silently mimics my words. The checkered floor ripples underneath, moving with the motion of his mouth. Irritation grows inside and when stepping backwards—and swear by the grace of God—he makes my footsteps sound like crunchy frosted flakes. Each brittle step wafting sugar. My fists clench and my eyebrows form a frown that covers my vision. Don’t follow me!
“Doctor, her blood pressure is dropping.” The nurse grabs for a crash cart, slamming the cabinet door in an effort to find life-sustaining medication.
A stained-glass door springs up in front of me. In the colors and design, He findeth the lost? Another door. A darker, thin bifold door. Clearly mine. Next, a larger white one with symmetry in its arches and curves. Of course! Glenn’s door, the last one. A handwritten sign, Don’t Open, displayed above the knob. My hand reaches forward. For a moment when the hinges squeal, my hesitation to listen to its sign leaves me. Still unsure I’m ready to hear the message, I push the door, testing its limits. It bangs back and forth against the wall, knocking the Don’t Open sign to the floor. Roaming through our things, I see an open page in a diary. Tell her—tell her. —Glenn.
“Grace, we need you to wake up now.” The doctor’s voice sounds stern.
What?
I look over to see him leaning against the doorframe, his muscular arm bulging, holding his sign. I always wanted to be like Glenn, never finding a male connection other than him. He wasn’t even boyish. Photos scatter his life on social media. He worked out but wore pastels and suede penny loafers. Last time we saw each other was that damned bus. We were such an odd pair as children. Our playdates consisted of swapping each other’s clothes, always at his house ’cause my dad said, “He ain’t got the right smell.” My dad always had a strong manly smell of grease. Maybe, dirt? No—the alcohol of aftershave? Almost clinical….
“Grace!”
Angry, my dad yanks me from the playdate.
“Grace. I stopped your surgery. You’re allergic to iodine!” One eyelid lifts up, letting in flashes of painful light. A wave of alcohol mixed with Old Spice floods my nostrils.
My eyes water, “It’s too bright, Glenn—”
“Not Glenn, Grace. I’m your doctor. Your breast reduction….”
“What? Whose doctor?”
“Nurse. Bring her father in.” The doctor sounds serious too.
The nurse points my father in the direction of my room, and I watch his face smile.
“Grace, someone named Glenn texted you while you were out.” My father places the phone in my hand. He looks worried.
The screen illuminates my face in the dark room.
I had the craziest dream about you. I miss your tomboy vibe! —Glenn.
Gwendolyn Lack is a nontraditional student at Missouri Western State University. She originally started college late in life to seek a physics degree but fell in love with writing along the way. She likes to take dilapidated houses and remodel them (as she is a huge tomboy). She loves squirrels and flowers. Gwendolyn has a short-short published in Reach, two poems published in Otis Nebula, and two essays published in Discovering the Student Discovering the Self.