Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

            I pop open my can of mountain-brewed green nectar and chug as big a gulp as my gullet can hold.  Swallowing the mouthful of sweetened carbonated water, I wait for the expected burn in my throat, but nothing happens.  No delicious lemon-lime bite on my tongue.  No rush of joy that only a can of the best made Pepsi product can bring.  Nothing but the bland taste of the water that was used to boil the cardboard that my food consisted of.

            This is awful.  Whatever happened to me tonight robbed me of the sense of taste.  My tongue is useless, but apparently I can hear like a bat.  According to my ability to see everything perfectly in pitch black, I must have the vision of a jungle cat on meth.  I can pull scents out of the air better than a champion basset hound.  I have the strength of a 'roided up Bruce Lee.  But my taste?  I have the taste buds of an English culinary school dropout (I heard once that British people boil everything and their food tastes awful.  That was the best analogy I could come up with.).

            Sighing, I stare at the food in front of me and then continue eating it with my fingers, but much less enthusiastically.  I might not be able to taste it, but there’s a chance it could quell the deafening growls generating from my gastro-intestinal tract.

            My dad watches me a bit longer before asking, "Is there something wrong with the food?"

            "No.  Yes,” I say and then pause to organize my thoughts.  “Well, no, nothing is wrong with the food.  I think there is something wrong with me, though." This isn't exactly where I wanted to start, but I also don't want to ignore his question and leave him hanging.  "I can't taste it.  At all.  It all tastes," I think for a moment for the best image to create for my father, "like Nana Maria's beans."

            My dad flinches slightly.  "Oh."  (My father's madre is known for making the most tasteless refried beans anybody has ever willingly consumed.  Her boiling and mashing and seasoning process somehow manages to rob the legumes of any possible hint of flavor.  And she makes them all the time.  Their existence continues to haunt my father.)

            I need to tell him something about what's happened tonight.  I don't want to keep all of this to myself.  My original plan to keep all of this a secret and just make up a lie for my father about being in my room all night no longer strikes me as a good idea.  Trying to not lose my nerve, I plunge forward.

            "But that's only the tip of the weird-things-happening-to-Catarina iceberg tonight.  I have a bit of a story for you, and I really hope you believe it more than I do."  I smile at him after that, but from his reaction I'm not sure if he doesn't hear me or just doesn't find it amusing.

            Not sure where to begin recounting everything, I start with a question that I don't know the answer to.  "When was the last time you saw me tonight?"

            He doesn't answer immediately, but when he does it is quietly.  "When you stormed out of the restaurant."

            That's news to me.  "I did?  Why?"

            "Good question.  You and Leyna were arguing about something, and your mother and I got involved.  You got upset, yelled at us and walked out stating you'd meet us at home.  Then several hours later I find you in the kitchen laying on the floor screaming.  I'm a little curious as to how this 'unbelievable story' of yours is going to play out."

            "I don't remember that.  I don't remember any of the fight.  I remember being at the restaurant, and I remember ordering, but then it all gets...fuzzy."  This explains him still being awake and angry at me.  That part at least makes sense.

            "So you want me to believe you have amnesia?  Is that it?  And I'm assuming your memory didn't return until just a few minutes ago when you were lying on the floor.  Is that what you want me to believe?  That you aren't responsible for anything that happened tonight?"

            While listening to him, I finish the rest of the cold noodles.  I wouldn’t say I feel the least bit satiated, but at least my stomach has calmed slightly.  Enough for me to think moderately clearly.

            I don't want to fight with him.  Not after all that's happened tonight.  I just want him to believe me and put his arm around me and console me and explain what's happening.  That thought comforts me while I start to speak, and I hope some of my wishes come across in my voice.  I want him to just be a father to me right now and not be an angry parent.  But I can't ask that out loud.  Not after what I've put him through.  I can’t ask it, but I can still want it.

            "No," I begin.  "My memory begins much earlier than the kitchen."  Do I tell him everything?  Or just most of it?  Is throwing in a dead gringo a little too much?  Maybe I should hold off on that part.  See how he reacts to everything else before I drop that little knowledge bomb on him.

            "So where does it begin then?  Care to enlighten me?"

            Breathing deeply, I stare longingly at the empty foil pan of Moo Goo remains.  It didn't taste good, but it gave me something to do aside from talking. 

            "I was trying to organize my thoughts.  Sorry.  A lot has happened in the last few hours.  The first thing I remember tonight was waking up in an alley.  It was somewhere in the city (I can remember exactly where it was, but I don't think that will add to the narrative right now.).  In a bad part of the city.  I don't know how I got there or why or when."  I pause and try to read his reaction, but his stoic expression gives me nothing.

            "But that's not the weird part.  That's actually in the realm of normal compared to the rest..."

            From there I proceed to tell my father everything I can remember about the night (Which, with my memory, is everything.), including my newly-heightened senses.

            And the guy who tried to mug me.

            And running all the way home (This, by the way, was the first part that seemed to legitimately surprise him.  The rest he could grasp.  But me running?  And for miles in a row?  That he scoffingly laughed at.  Sheesh.).

            And climbing the outside bricks using my fingers.

            And how my stomach won't leave me alone, and how its nagging brought me to the kitchen where the fridge light surprised me.

            I told him about all of it.  Except for the old guy.  I still couldn't bring myself to mention that, yet.