NOTES

I open my eyes to a strange world. There is light filtering in through a window to my right and a scratchy blanket pins me to the bed. There is an empty place next to mine. Where’s Nancy? She must have gotten up before me. A terrible odor slithers up my nose, but I can’t yet identify the source. A neon orange square on the neighboring pillow catches my eye, which reads: 

Make the bed. Then go to the vanity. 

The message is voiceless, bodiless, faceless, yet I obey it. There is an authority radiating from the little square that I cannot disobey. It’s Devin’s chicken-scratch handwriting, not Nancy’s swirly, curly cursive. My head is empty as I push the blankets back into place and smooth them out. After plumping my pillow with a few squeezes, I turn and recognize a bathroom vanity and mirror across the room, adjacent to a closed door with a sign that reads, “Toilet and Shower.” Once up to the vanity, I study the old man peering back at me through the mirror. Jesus, where is that putrid smell coming from? 

Another orange sticky note waits for me on the mirror: 

Brush your teeth. Then go downstairs. 

For some visceral reason, I trust these notes wholeheartedly as a prophet trusts the word of God. Am I an Atheist or a Catholic? Damned if I know. I think I’m too old for that kind of thing to matter. Devin used to take Nancy to Saturday Mass, but they haven’t gone in a while. Sometimes he takes me to the cemetery so the three of us can be together. I should call him today. My eyes linger down to the counter where a toothbrush waits for me in a cup next to a rolled up toothpaste bottle, squeezed toward its final uses. I coax a drop from the flattened bottle and obediently scrub at my teeth. 

I can follow orders, that’s for damn sure. Spent three years in Vietnam. I’d be standing upright if my spine would cooperate. Fuck. I can’t remember anything except the jungles, the booms, the screams, and the penny smell of my friends when they became limbs, puzzle pieces to put together. The smell, that smell: rotting meat, fruity undertones. Putrid, like that stench haunting my house now. I’ll have to call Devin to come see if there’s a dead rat in the walls again. 

Out of the bedroom and shuffling down the hallway, I find that the smell is strongest here, but the sticky note doesn’t permit me to investigate. I clench my nose as I pass a closed door labeled “Devin’s Room- Knock First.” Devin is our teenager- no, he’s a man. Fuck, he’s gotta be forty, no sixty by now. We’re so damn old, aren’t we? No grandkids to show for it because Devin’s a fucking pansy. Sorry, Nancy hates it when I call him that. She’s the one who raised a pussy, not me. If I had my way, my boy would have had friends, kids, a wife…. 

Carefully I climb down the stairs, clutching to the railing. I am fragile like a bottle of whisky, sloshing down the stairs. Do I like whisky? I think I look like the kind of guy who likes an ice cold Old Fashioned. At least I hope I am. Hate to be one of those Busch Light kind of guys. My equilibrium’s fucked. Have I been drinking? No, I just woke up. God, that smell. After I go downstairs, I’m gonna call Devin.

Downstairs, I’m greeted by a dingy, rooster themed kitchen. Nancy’s got some taste. We’ve never even lived on a farm, but she wanted fucking chickens in the kitchen.
Suddenly, I check my hands for a ring, but I can’t remember which hand it’s supposed to be on. Neither hand has a ring. A phantom slithers around my finger for a moment before dissipating into the air. Nancy would hate to find out I forgot my ring. A few tangos with the gals downtown and suddenly every night I gotta be home by eight. Where is Nancy, anyways? 

Why am I down here? A neon orange square catches my eye, stuck to a coffee pot. I shuffle up to it: 

Three scoops. Fill to the line with water. You like to drink two cups black.

The smell of coffee momentarily drowns out the mystery odor. While the coffee maker gurgles, I look around. Orange-toned wood cabinets, sticky beige countertops, a stainless-steel sink filled with coffee mugs, offensive fluorescent lights with one bulb burned out, a black-and-white tiled linoleum floor. God, that awful smell is overpowering the coffee now, isn’t it? After my two cups black I’ll call Devin. A large piece of notebook paper is taped to the yellowy, off-white fridge: 

Dad-

You have dementia. Follow the notes. I will be down soon to administer your medications. Drink your coffee and stay in the kitchen while you wait. I mean it. Stay put.

-Devin

So I’m a fucking mental patient, huh? That explains the sticky notes. After he stopped taking Nancy to Mass, Devin moved in to take care of me. The coffee pot stops gurgling, and I glance around the overhead cabinets until I see one with a sign reading, “Cups.” It’s empty. All of the cups are in the sink. That smell refuses to go away. I scavenge for a cleanish-looking one from the pit, rinsing it out slightly before filling it with coffee. I guess I take it black. It’s bitter and dark and scalds my tongue. I love it. Two cups go down easily. 

I wait. Devin has always been a late riser. If the clock decked out in roosters at each number can be trusted, it’s past 9:30. The all-mighty note on the fridge commanded me to stay in the kitchen. Not sure how to pass the time, I explore the cabinets. Pots, pans, plates, bowls, utensils, cans of food- food! My stomach rumbles. I open the fridge and find a package of bagels. Well, a bagel. There’s only one left in the bag, and I’m not sure if there’s cream cheese. A brief rummaging reveals a container of cream cheese, nearly scraped clean. The toaster is simple enough to locate. I’ll have to ask Devin to get us more groceries. 

I eat my bagel and watch the clock. Time passes, it’s creeping into the afternoon. The clock cuckoos at the top of each hour that passes. Noon comes and goes. 

I’m supposed to stay in the kitchen. But Devin was supposed to be down already, according to the note. He’ll be late for school. That smell is really getting on my nerves. 

I’ll go up and check on him. I begin my trek up the stairs, steadying myself with that damned handrail. I wonder if I’ve ever fallen down these stairs? There’s a trepidation in my bones regarding this staircase. Am I so old and withered now that I fall down the stairs? 

Why am I at the top of these stairs? I’m standing in front of a door labeled, “Devin’s Room- Knock First.” With a shrug, I obey, rapping on the door with my livered, frail knuckles. Oh God, I’m so old and pathetic. That rotten odor is radiating from the other side of the door. Silence. I knock again. What’s he doing in there?

The silence dislodges my curiosity, replacing it with dread. Mustering up my resolve, I dare to disobey the all-knowing note and unlatch Devin’s door. I push it open and immediately the smell rushes me like a stampede. It’s even worse inside. In the bed is Devin, but he’s a pale, shrunken version of himself. Flies are buzzing around the room, and maggots have started to gnaw on his body. Going by the smell, it’s been about a week since he passed. 

God damnit. 

The phone. I need to call someone. Stiffening my back, I turn away. There’s a phone on the wall in the kitchen. I hobble back down the stairs, entering a god-awful chicken-themed kitchen. Nancy insisted on the decor. The phone. The phone is on the wall to the right of the stairs. I pick it up. Who am I calling? Doesn’t matter, I’ll just call Devin. His number is taped below the receiver.

Why am I calling? I should remember to ask Devin if he’s stopping by today.