... And No Word from You
" ... three months, and no word from you. Why won't you acknowledge me? That I'm here?"
Field's paws held the letter. Blue-grey eyes squinted, scanning. Searching in the dim, dim light (on this, a young spring's night).
"Let me know you're okay? Your silence is killing me."
And that was all. All that was written. All that was there.
The mouse swallowed. He'd found this letter in his mailbox. With no stamp. No return address. Nothing on the envelope, but ... this letter, it was inside. And it was just like the letter he'd gotten yesterday. And the day before. Just like the letters he'd been getting for the past week.
He would stand, twitching, sniffing ... wind-swept in this Hoosier plain, before the pastures. The breeze would stir his fur. And the sun would force him to squint. He would step onto the gravel of the road, and he would open the mailbox ... and the letter would be there. A new letter. Saying the same things (or variations of them).
And he didn't understand it.
He would pace, pace, pace the brick walk that led from the gravel driveway to the concrete steps of the porch. Would pace in the yard, in the grass. Would sit and stare at the daffodils, the yellow, yellow daffodils, and would ask them, "Who are these from? Did you see them? Did you see them come?"
The mail-fur. Maybe the mail-fur was putting them in the mailbox. But how could that be ... if there was no address on the envelope? If the envelope was bare? How would he know to put it there?
In this rural, rustic air, the mystery of this, the potential danger of it ... was such a contrast. This was something broken. It needed repair.
The words in the letter, Field reasoned, sounded as if ... the writer was talking to a mate. A mate who'd scorned the writer. Who was being a coward. Going quiet ... rather than responding. But Field ... was in no relationship. And the last one he'd been in ... had been nearly a year ago. And had ended badly. And ...
... this wasn't from that. No, this was not for Field. It couldn't be for Field. And yet ... someone was putting these letters in his mailbox. As if they WERE for him. As if ... he were wronging somebody. But ... that made no sense. And, so, Field would lie on his belly, bare on his bed. Wondering at the purpose of these events.
Today, he folded the letter, put it back in its envelope ... and set it on the wood of the Hoosier cabinet. With the others. And stared at them. White and wanting. White, the color of purity, of cleanliness. And those words, of such loneliness ... seemed to bleed black through the pages they were written on. Through the envelope itself. And seemed to taunt the mouse. Telling him that he should KNOW this. What it was about.
Field kept to himself. Not by choice, maybe. Maybe out of necessity ... he had emotional issues. He didn't fit in. He was a farm mouse, and loved the rural life, and he lived out here. And kept to himself. But these letters were almost threatening. Almost menacing. They were disturbing him. It was as if eyes were watching him. And not the eyes of God (though they were), but other eyes. Eyes that the mouse felt he SHOULD know, but didn't.
He took a shower. Afterward, stood in front of the mirror. Wiped a paw across it (to clear the fog). And he looked at his reflection. Really looked. Which always unnerved him. He was SO self-conscious. This always unnerved him. But he looked, and he tilted his head. Eying the slenderness of his energetic form. Eying the trimness of his furry body. The honey-tan fur. The swivel ears. The whiskers (and their twitching). The nose. The tail (and its swish-swishing). The mouse at his constant, tiny jerking. Letting him know his survival instincts were working.
And he felt something brush his foot-paw, and he squeaked and stumbled back ... watching a spider as it scurried cross the floor. Disappeared into a crack.
And, shaking, he met his reflection again, swearing that he could see through it. That his reflection was fading on him. As if he were ... a ghost. A specter. But there were no ghosts. Were no specters. Demons? Yes. Angels? Yes. No ghosts ...
No, I'm not a ghost, he reasoned.
And he turned. Arched. Chittered. Nodded.
I'm here.
I'm not crazy.
I'm here.
But it was later that night ... that the phone calls started.
He hated phones. Oh, he hated phones, and he ... oh, he dreaded answering them. He would pick it up (off the receiver), and say, shakily, "Hello? This is Field." In his shy, wispy voice. Almost effeminate voice. Mousey voice. "Hello?"
"Tomorrow's your birthday, and ... I NEED you to be here," said the voice on the other end. Femme.
Field blinked. "What?"
"I know you can hear me," she whispered.
"Who are you?" he asked. At a terrified whisper. Backing to the wall. Bare foot-paws scuffing the linoleum floor of the kitchen.
"I know you can hear me," she said again, as if she, herself, had not heard HIM. "I pray for you," she confessed.
"Who are you?" he asked. A second time. "What do you want?"
"I love you," she whispered.
And Field, swallowing, heard no more. Just a dead line. As if the words were now out of reach. As if, whoever had been speaking, they had just ... gone quiet.
Field hung up the phone. Staring at it. Backing slowly away (and bumping into the table in the process, squeaking and squealing, spinning around ... sighing, shaking, sitting on the ground).
In the middle of the night, in his dreams (which he never remembered ... they were hazy, cloudy things, things that evaded him; and perhaps that was for the better; perhaps they weren't dreams, after all, but nightmares) ... in the middle of his dreams that were not dreams, he heard ringing, and he sat up.
The phone.
The phone ... was ringing. In the middle of the night. And he knew, just knew ... that if he dared answer it, he would hear that female voice. The haunting sadness of that female voice who would speak to Field, but when Field spoke back ... she would not hear.
Why did she call him? Who was she?
What was going on?
The phone was intermittently ringing through the night. Until the dawn. When it stopped. It never rang during the light of day. It just went quiet and sulked, as if staying out of the way.
Field was on NO sleep. No sleep. He couldn't sleep. The letters, the phone calls ... he would pause between each room in his run-down (though charming and cozy, as a mouse's den would be) little farm-house ... pausing between each room, raising his head, sniffing the air, listening ... before he would walk further. Afraid something would be lying in wait beyond the refrigerator. Or under the coffee table.
Lying in wait.
For him.
But what? And why?
He tried to write down his frustrations. With pen and paper. Would write, in purple ink, "I think I am going insane. And I believe it's for someone else's gain. What do they want with my sanity?"
And, reading what he wrote, he would crumple the paper and put it in the trash. And pace again. Words, words ... he was so sick of words. He didn't want to be TOLD things. He wanted to be SHOWN.
"Show me," he whispered, pleading, turning in a slow circle in his living room (with the candles on the bricks of the fireplace). "Show me," he whispered. "Show me what I need to do. What this means. What they ... what ... "
His voice faltered.
He would go outside. Would crane his neck to the blues of the sky. Would watch the small planes as they motored by (going who-knew-where, and having adventures there). He would lay in the fields (his namesakes). Would watch the clouds (puffy and white, fluffy and bright). Would put his nose in roses and daffodils. Would watch the sparrows on the windowsills.
He would stand, eyes shut. Windswept. Of the earth. Breathing of this air. Rural and rustic. Humility everywhere.
And he would forget about these things. About these pulsing mysteries.
He would forget.
Until he got another letter.
Until the phone rang again.
And until he started hearing the beeping. The beeping. The ...
... beep, beep, beeping.
Like sonar. Like ... something. Beeping.
Beep ... beep ... beep ...
And it would ring in his ears. When he would go to sleep, his ears would be wringing. He would toss and turn and start to cry. Would pray, would plead for it to stop. For this to stop.
"Am I going mad?"
Beep ... beep ...
The last phone call ... during the last call, the female had whispered, "You're nearer to me. I can feel it. Just answer ... can you hear me? Tell me you can."
Beep ... beep ... beep ...
The last letter ... he'd been too scared to read.
Beep ...
And it was 3 AM now, and he shook, soaking wet (from the shower), and he tried not to hyper-ventilate as he, wrapped in a towel, shivered and squeaked and sank to his couch. Lying on his side, unblinking, speaking to the dormant television (from the 80's, complete with rabbit-ear antennae).
Telling the television, "I'm ... not a crazy mouse. I'm not," he panted. Swallowing. Almost crying. "I'm ... I am many things," he confessed. "I am a fur. I'm a Hoosier. I'm American. I'm ... a Christian. I'm ... a student, a son, a grandson, a brother, a nephew ... a Republican, even." He shrugged weakly. Shaking his head, and eyes closing. "I'm a writer. I'm an artist. I'm a photographer. I'm a reader ... I'm a worker. I am so many ... many things." He paused to swallow, to timidly clear his throat. "I've been an anorexic ... obsessive-compulsive. I may be riddled with social anxieties. I may be ... many things. A Trek fan, a Stitch-lover ... I'm ... maybe I'm fanatical about auto racing. About ... "
He paused to collect himself, opening his eyes and telling the television, "I am many things. I have been ... I am ... I will be ... many things. But I never have been, and never will be ... insane. I am NOT," he stressed, through clenched teeth, "a CRAZY MOUSE!"
Silence.
"I'm not a crazy mouse," he repeated in frantic whisper.
The television ignored him.
"I don't care what you think," he told it. And he sat up, shaking, looking to the vase of daffodils on the coffee table. "And I don't care what you think, either," he told the flowers. "I am not a crazy mouse!" He practically squeaked it, screamed it ... and the sound of his own voice scared him. Enough to make him lie down again. Enough to make him shiver, to clutch at his towel (still wet from the shower).
Beep ...
He jerked. Eyes wide. Eyes wearing a hunted look.
Beep ...
Field's eyes watered.
Beep ...
He clamped his paws over his ears.
Stop, stop, stop!
Beep ... beep ... beep ...
He had to get away from it. Had to ... get away! He stood, scurried (with no destination in mind; just that he needed to scurry), and he clumsily tripped, teetered, and ...
... bonked his head on the coffee table.
The pain! And he went black ...
... and he felt stiff as he blinked. Blinked himself back to consciousness. Trying to move, but unable. Weak. So weak. He felt so weak. He tried to sit up.
And a paw pushed down on his bare chest. Gently. Keeping him down.
"It's alright," she whispered.
He blinked.
"It's alright, Hem," she whispered. She was a rabbit. And she was speaking to him. Him. Hem? Why was she calling him Hem? As if that were his name ... no, his name was Field. He was Field. He was ...
" ... awake. You're awake." There were tears in her eyes. Bright, blue eyes. White, white fur. "Darling, you're awake. It's ... it's your birthday." Her voice caught.
He looked at his paw. It was a different color. It wasn't honey-tan. It was mahogany. He looked at himself. He was not a mouse. He was a squirrel.
This was a dream. He'd slammed his head on the coffee table, and now he had a concussion, and ...
"Hem, I'm ... you've been in a coma for three months," she whispered. And she put a paw on his cheek. And she leaned down. Put her forehead to his. Tears were streaming down her furry cheeks. "I didn't think ... I had hope, and I had faith, but ... sometimes, I thought you would never wake up." Her voice caught. She was wearing a ring on her finger. A mating ring. And she was speaking to him as if ... " ... my mate," she whispered. "You're still my mate. I would never leave you," she whispered into his ear.
"I don't ... remember," he whispered. "I don't ... "
"It'll take a few days. You're groggy," she whispered. The room was dim. It was early, early in the morning. No doctors were about, but they were in a hospital room. And the beeping ... was the beeping of the machine that was keeping track of his pulse. His heart rate. The beeping.
"I spoke to you ... all the time. Could ... could you hear me?" she whispered. A hope burning bright in her.
The letters. The phone calls. Her voice. Reaching to him ... in a coma? Had her words brought him out of this?
Was this real?
Field/Hem ... whoever he was, he ... reeled. Breathing quietly. Had Field's 21 years been a feverish three-month dream? Did the mouse not exist? Was he, instead, this squirrel? Hem? What was he like? Was he just like Field? Did they have the same personality? Was Field just a mirror of Hem? Or a broken reflection?
"You're back now," she whispered to him, kissing his cheek. Once. Twice. "You're awake," she whispered.
He didn't know her name. She professed to be his mate, and he didn't know her name. And he wasn't entirely sure that ... this wasn't the dream. That Field was real, and Field was unconscious in his house, bleeding of a gash to the head. Dreaming this.
Dreaming about waking from a dream.
Trapped in dreams.
Perhaps was life was unreal. Perhaps some distant Dreamer was dreaming everything. These plot twists, these turns. Being written on whims.
She squeezed his paw. And it felt real.
The beeping ... sounded real.
"Am I ... going to be okay?" the squirrel whispered.
And he got a hug in response. Eliciting no words from him. Only tears.
Real or not, he must be alive. You couldn't cry if you didn't exist.