I'll take that risk.
"But they might kill you."
Good enough. I just need to be the center of a lot of attention. Just one more time.
"Oh, you go to prison, and you'll be the center of attention."
I need moisturizer. I need to be photographed. I'm not like regular people, to survive I need to be constantly interviewed. I need to be in my natural habitat, on television. I need to run free, signing books.
"I'm leaving you alone for a while," Fertility says through the door. "You need a time out."
I hate being mortal.
"Think of this as My Fair Lady or Pygmalion, only backward."
The next time I wake up, I'm delirious and Fertility is sitting on the edge of my bed, massaging cheap petroleum-based moisturizer into my chest and arms.
"Welcome back," she says. "We almost thought you weren't going to make it."
Where am I?
Fertility looks around. "You're in a Maplewood Chateau with the midrange interior package," she says. "Seamless linoleum in the kitchen, no-wax vinyl floor covering in the two bathrooms. It's got easy-clean patterned vinyl wallboard instead of Sheetrock, and this one is decorated in the blue-and-green Seaside theme."
No, I whisper, where in the world?
Fertility says, "I knew that's what you meant."
A sign goes by the window saying, Detour Ahead.
The room around us is different than I remember. A wallpaper border of dancing elephants goes around next to the ceiling. The bed I'm in has a canopy and white machine-made lace curtains hanging around it and tied back with pink satin ribbons. White louvered shutters flank the windows. The reflection of Fertility and me is framed in a heart-shaped mirror on the wall.
I ask, What happened to the Maison?
"That was two houses ago," Fertility says. "We're in Kansas now. In half a four-bedroom Maplewood Chateau. It's the top of the line in manufactured houses."
So it's really nice?
"Adam says it's the best," she says, smoothing the covers over me. "It comes with color-coordinated bed linens, and there are dishes in the dining-room cabinets that match the mauve of the velvet sofa and love seat in the living room. There's even color-coordinated mauve towels in the bathroom. There's no kitchen though, at least not in this half. But I'm sure wherever it's at, the kitchen is mauve."
I ask, Where's Adam?
"Sleeping."
He wasn't worried about me?
"I told him how this was all going to work out," Fertility says. "Actually, he's very happy."
The bed curtains dance and swing with the movement of the house.
A sign goes by the window saying, Caution.
I hate that Fertility knows everything.
Fertility says, "I know that you hate that I know everything."
I ask if she knows I killed her brother.
As easy as that, the truth comes out. My whole deathbed confession.
"I know you talked to him the night he died," she says, "but Trevor killed himself."
And I wasn't his homosexual lover.
"I knew that, too."
And I was the voice on the crisis hotline she talked dirty to.
"I know."
She rubs a handful of moisturizer between her palms and then smooths it into my shoulders. "Trevor called your fake crisis hotline because he was looking for a surprise. I've been after you for the same thing."
With my eyes closed, I ask if she knows how this will all turn out.
"Long-term or short-term?" she asks.
Both.
"Long-term," she says, "we're all going to die. Then our bodies will rot. No surprise there. Short-term, we're going to live happily ever after."
Really?
"Really," she says. "So don't sweat it."
I look at myself getting older in the heart-shaped mirror.
A sign goes by the window saying, Drive to Stay Alive.
A sign goes by the window saying, Speed Checked by Radar.
A sign goes by the window saying, Lights On for Safety.
Fertility says, "Can you just relax and let things happen?"
I ask, does she mean, like disasters, like pain, like misery? Can I just let all that happen?
"And Joy," she says, "and Serenity, and Happiness, and Contentment." She says all the wings of the Columbia Memorial Mausoleum. "You don't have to control everything," she says. "You can't control everything."
But you can be ready for disaster.
A sign goes by saying, Buckle Up.
"If you worry about disaster all the time, that's what you're going to get," Fertility says.
A sign goes by saying, Watch Out for Falling Rocks.
A sign goes by saying, Dangerous Curves Ahead.
A sign goes by saying, Slippery When Wet.
Outside the window, Nebraska is getting closer by the minute.
The whole world is a disaster waiting to happen.
"I want you to know I won't always be here," Fertility says, "but I'll always find you."
A sign goes by the window saying, Oklahoma 25 Miles.
"No matter what happens," Fertility says, "no matter what you do or your brother does, it's the right thing."
She says, "You have to trust me."
I ask, Can I just have some Chap Stick? For my lips. They're chapped.
A sign goes by saying, Yield.
"Okay," she says. "I've forgiven your sins. If it helps you relax a little, I guess I can get you some Chap Stick."
Of course, we lose Fertility at a truck stop outside Denver, Colorado. Even I could see that coming. She sneaks off to get me some Chap Stick while the truck driver is out taking a leak. Adam and me are both asleep until we hear her screaming.
And of course she planned it this way.
In the dark, in the moonlight through the windows, I stumble through the furniture to where Adam has thrown open the two front doors.
We're pulling away from the truck stop, gaining speed as the driver upshifts with Fertility running after us. Her one hand outstretched with the little tube of Chap Stick. Her red hair is flagging out behind her. Her shoes slap the pavement.
Adam is stretching his one hand out to save her. His other hand is gripping the doorframe.
With the shaking of the house, a marble-topped little occasional table falls over and rolls past Adam out the doors. Fertility dodges as the table smashes in the street.
Adam is saying, "Take my hand. You can reach it."
A dining-room chair shakes out of the house and smashes, almost hitting Fertility, and she says, "No."
Her words almost lost in the roar of the truck engine, she says, "Take the Chap Stick."
Adam says, "No. If I can't reach you, we'll jump. We have to stay together."
"No," Fertility says. "Take the Chap Stick, he needs it."
Adam says, "He needs you more."
The windows we left open suck air inside, and the easy-living open floor plan channels this airstream out through the front doors. Embroidered throw pillows blow off the sofa and bounce out the front doors around Adam. They fly at Fertility, hitting her in the face and almost tripping her. Framed decorative art, botanical print reproductions mostly and tasteful racehorse prints, flap off the walls and sail out to explode into shards of glass and wood slivers and art.
The way I feel, I want to help, but I'm weak. I've lost too much attention in the last few days. I can hardly stand. My blood sugar levels are all over the map. I can only watch as Fertility falls behind and Adam risks leaning out farther and farther.
The silk flower arrangements topple and red silk roses, red silk geraniums, and blue iris sail out the door and flutter around Fertility. The symbols of forgetfulness, poppies, land in the road, and she sprints over them. The wind throws mock orange and sweet peas, white and pink, baby's breath and orchids, white and purple, at Fertility's feet.