“Goddamn stupid stop lights.” PJ bangs on the steering wheel.
Despite the empty street, the red light goes on forever.
“Fuck it! Change of plans.”
He makes a hard right and the wheels squeal as he accelerates. I can’t tell where we’re going and I don’t know what is faster: his driving or my beating heart. The alien is making everything unbearable, and I’m scared I’m dying. This thing trapped inside is killing me.
The car comes to an abrupt stop and the next thing I know, PJ is helping me out of the car. But we’re not at the hospital, we’re in front of a large, Victorian-style house in a nice neighborhood. We must be in Rockville, we couldn’t have gone very far, but I don’t recognize the surroundings. What’s happening here? None of this makes sense.
“Help! Please, I need help.” PJ is frantic as he guides me into the house.
“What the hell?” A man rushes down an ornate staircase dressed only in boxer shorts. “Who is this? What’s going on here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Please, you’ve got to help him. I think he’s having a stroke. His speech is slurred, and he is shaking uncontrollably.”
“Quickly! Bring him in here and get my medical bag from the closet.”
PJ brings me into a sitting room off the foyer and sits me down in a chair. Tremors course through my body and my breathing is labored as though in the middle of an asthma attack. PJ disappears and I’m alone with the strange man.
He takes my pulse. I look at him and it’s PJ taking care of me. But also, not PJ. The jawline is the same. He has the same coloring and coarse patch of chest hair. But this PJ is much older. His blond hair is receding at the temples. He has wrinkles and more body hair. He is taller and thinner. This is not my PJ! I try to get up. I need to run, I can’t sit still, but the strange man holds me steady.
The real PJ comes back with a brown leather bag. The stoic-looking man takes my blood pressure, listens to my chest, shines a light in my eyes, and takes my pulse again. He turns to PJ who is standing there with tears running down his cheeks.
“PJ, I need you to get me a small brown paper bag. Can you do that?”
PJ leaves and I’m alone again with the man who must be his father. I don’t know why this wasn’t clear to me right away, but there’s no mistaking it now.
“Just relax, you’re going to be fine. I promise. What’s your name, son?”
“S-S-Simon.”
“Simon, good. Focus on your breathing.”
But I can’t breathe, I can’t. I try to tell him, but my speech is too slurred. I don’t think he can make out what I am saying. I don’t even know what I’m saying.
“PJ, where is that paper bag I asked for?” he yells down the hall.
PJ comes back with a woman in a bathrobe and hands his father the bag. “Sorry, it took me a while to find one.”
“Catherine, get this boy a glass of water.” She is also tall and thin with thick, wavy blonde hair. I guess she is his wife and PJ’s mother. “Now, son, I need you to breathe into this paper bag. Nice deep breaths.”
I try to fight it and explain to him that something is wrong. That there is something alive inside my stomach and it’s trying to get out. I don’t think I am making any sense to him.
“Just breathe into the bag, please,” he says, much more firmly this time.
I try to do as he asks, but it’s difficult with my labored breathing.
“Just keep at it, it will get easier. I promise,” he says. “You need to balance your oxygen flow. And get some carbon dioxide back into your lungs and body.” I keep at it, like he asks, and begin to feel a little better.
“Dad, is he having a stroke? Is he going to be okay? Please, tell me he is going to be okay.”
“Yes, PJ, don’t be so dramatic. I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll be right back. Keep him breathing into the bag. Don’t let him stop.”
I keep breathing into the paper bag, and I really do start to feel better.
“Here’s your glass of water.” The tall blonde woman appears out of nowhere, towering over me.
“Mom, stop! Dad says he needs to keep breathing into the bag.”
