Mr. Ashcroft’s Voices

NTT Short Story for 10/10/2024

This short story is for my fellow blogger Kevin’s No Theme Thursday for 10/10/24. Every week, Kevin puts up an amazing assortment of digital art for this event. Please check it out!

It started with the headaches. And not just the two-Tylenol kind; monsters that started out like a distant squall line on the horizon and gradually grew closer and meaner until the first splattering drops turned to hail and lightning and I felt like my head was splitting in two. 

Soon there was confusion, nausea. I started forgetting things, I felt wobbly on my feet, I couldn’t hold a pen. Sandy insisted on taking me in for tests.

Three weeks later, I sat in the consultation room with three neurologists and a PA. Sandy held my hand and the lead doctor looked troubled. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“It’s a glioblastoma, grade 4,” he said uncomfortably. “Inoperable.” He looked at his colleagues, then back at me. “I’m sorry.”

There was no cure for my kind of aggressive brain cancer, but they gave me something with a pump that released a slow, continuous stream of chemo. It was supposed to give me up to a year. I laid in my bed in the hospital watching some guy flipping a house on HGTV as the pump hummed. It made me smell something like exhaust fumes.

Weeks went by. I returned to the hospital each Thursday for my treatment and once a month, they did scans. On the last treatment, the lead doctor stood by my bed with my chart. He didn’t look happy.

He cleared his throat. “Mr. Ashcroft,” he said. “I’ve reviewed your latest scan.” He looked at Sandy, sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed. “The lesion has grown. The treatment doesn’t seem to be working.” I swallowed hard. Sandy gripped my hand.

“I want to refer you to a specialist,” he continued. “She’s working with an experimental technique that looks promising. I’m sorry.” He shook my hand. Oh yeah, we’re best buddies. “Good luck,” he said.

Just like that, I was on my own. At sixty, I was sliding down the chute to the trash compactor. 

My first glimpse of Dr. Victoria Middleton was not reassuring. She had red hair and looked young enough to be my granddaughter. She stood up from behind her desk, offered a faint smile and her hand. I shook it and we sat down. What is this kid gonna do for me?

She cleared her throat and flipped to the last page of my chart. “So Mr. Ashcroft,” she said. Her voice was brisk, businesslike. “We’re going to be giving you a new class of drug that hasn’t been approved yet by the FDA. We’re also going to try a new surgical technique followed by targeted beam therapy.” She looked at me and I tried to read her expression. The afternoon sun made her red hair glow like fire.

“You’ll have to sign some papers and there’s no guarantee of the outcome,” she said. She saw my expression and quickly continued. “But preliminary results have been promising. Let’s hope for the best.”

This time, the IV made me smell a metallic odor. When I was ten, I hit my face on the monkey bars; it was that kind of smell.

They wheeled me into the OR where the surgical team waited. A guy wearing a mask smiled at me; I could see it in his eyes. “So,” he said. “Do you have any questions?” I shook my head. He nodded to a nurse who attached my IV port to a bag hanging from a hook. “OK, then,” he said. “We’ll see you on the other side.” 

The nurse injected something into my port and I stared at the digital OR clock. It was 8:01:03 am and the second hand hadn’t even gone past 8:01:15 when everything turned dark. Sound faded away and I fell into emptiness.

The first thing I saw after waking up was the clock in my room: 3:47 pm. It was quickly followed by Sandy’s face. She laughed and cried at the same time. “Oh, Tim,” she said. “It was a success. The doctors are very pleased.” As I let this sink in, the guy behind the mask came in; I recognized the eyes. He put a hand on my knee. 

“Mr. Ashcroft,” he said. He was smiling again. I thought he’d be a good guy to hang around with. “How are you feeling?”

We made some polite doctor/patient post-op conversation and I guess it was the anesthesia…but he seemed to be enveloped in a faint greenish fog. I blinked several times but it remained. 

“Well, you’ll probably be sleepy the rest of the day. You rest and I’ll check on you tomorrow.” He squeezed my knee, shook Sandy’s hand and left. 

Sandy stroked my forehead and smiled. She also seemed to be enveloped in a faint fog, but hers was pink. Such a great wife, always thinking about me, our kids, her friends. I lucked out, I thought, as I drifted off again.

Victoria came to see me the next day. I noticed the same strange faint fog; hers was yellow. “Hi, Mr. Ashcroft, how are you feeling? I heard the operation went well.” Faintly, briefly, I heard I wonder if they really got it all. 

I was startled. “What? I thought you said it went well.”

Victoria stared. “It DID go well. I don’t follow you.”

“You just said ‘I wonder if they got it all.’”

She looked at me, then Sandy. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I didn’t say that.” She gave me an odd look.

I was sure I heard it, but didn’t see the sense in arguing. We talked a bit more, then she put her hand on my knee; I guess they taught in medical school. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned to go. THAT was weird.

“Huh?” I asked. “What was weird?”

She turned, her eyes wary. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t just say ‘That was weird’?”

She looked guarded. “No.” She hurried from the room. I looked at Sandy. “Did you hear anything?” She shook her head.

In the days that followed, the auras and voices continued; and with each dose of the experimental chemo they became more pronounced. Everybody I saw was enveloped in a bright light of varying colors. The hospital chaplain’s was white; no voices with him.

The only black one I saw was from a heavily tattooed male orderly. He didn’t look at me or say anything, he just made up the bed next to me and cleaned the bathroom. I didn’t hear any words but had flashes of violent scenes. He gave me the creeps.

The voices rose from faint whispers to conversational volume, except that no one’s lips moved. I saw Victoria every day and once while she was discussing my treatment I heard shit shit shit hope he can’t hear me, what the hell is this, I don’t wanna think about me and Steve in the hot tub last night think about some else but damn it was so hot but THINK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE

I stared. Her face reddened, she made an excuse and a quick exit. After that, I didn’t see her again.

Once home, it got worse. Everybody… the neighbors, the mailman, the people at the grocery store…their lips didn’t move but they might as well have. I was amazed at how many people thought about sex, especially older ones. Most of them never turned or gawked, but as they encountered young attractive young people—especially if they were provocatively dressed—their thoughts were positively scandalous.

Crowds were unbearable. It was a cacophonous babble, like being on a plane or subway train where everyone was shouting. I couldn’t understand any of it. I had to stop going to public places.

The only exception was Sandy. I still saw her pink aura, but I never heard any thoughts. I don’t know why, maybe it was being together for 38 years, for making three kids together, for all the countless times we’d made love… I don’t know. But no voice. Except once. And that was enough.

We were watching a movie and there was a steamy scene in the middle. That looks just like the time I screwed Chester Martin while Tim was on that business trip.

I spit out my drink; Sandy looked stricken. Years ago, I attended a two-week training course in Baltimore and when I came home, we made love. Our middle kid was born eight months and two weeks later.

I stared at her in disbelief; she wept uncontrollably. Her mouth was moving but all I heard was oh shit shit shit I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever damn it was one time I was drunk and he was hot and I had my period dates mixed up shit shit shit

Chester Martin was a gym rat who lived next door. As I went upstairs to throw some clothes into a suitcase, I heard her on the phone with him. I came down to find him at the base of the stairs, holding up a hand.

“Now, wait, Tim,” he said. “Let’s not go crazy here. It was one time, years ago.” 

“Outta my way, asshole,” I said. I tried to move around him. Oh shit he’s gonna tell Debbie, she’ll divorce me, I’ll lose everything 

He stepped back and reached behind his belt. I found myself staring down the barrel of a revolver. 

“No, Chester, no!” Sandy screamed. “I can talk to him—“ Bastard is not gonna ruin MY life

There was a deafening roar and everything went black.

I woke up with the worst headache I’d ever had. The nurse who was checking my vitals saw my eyes open and leaned over in concern. “How are you doing?”’she asked. “How’s the headache? Do you want more morphine?” I nodded silently and she fiddled with the plastic valve. Almost immediately the pain lessened.

Victoria knocked and entered. “Hi, Mr. Ashcroft,” she smiled. “Mrs. Ashcroft,” she added. I turned my head slightly and was astonished to see Sandy sitting there, smiling.

Victoria consulted her notes. She looked pleased. “Well, the procedure was a success,” she said, looking up. “I spoke with the surgeon and he’s confident they got it all.”

I was confused. I gingerly touched my forehead expecting to feel a bandage over a bullet hole, but there was nothing. And another weird thing, nobody had any auras. Victoria moved slightly and I could see the clock: 3:47 pm.

Victoria continued. “You’ll have to stay here for another round of chemo, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to go home next week.” She looked from me to Sandy.

“Wait,” I said. “Do you mean… I’ve just now had the operation? I mean, today? Starting this morning around eight?”

Now it was Victoria who looked confused. “Why…yes,” she said. “Why did you ask that?” 

A wave of weariness washed over me and I suddenly felt tired. The whole thing had been a dream. A friggin nightmare, more precisely. Victoria picked up on it and patted my knee. “You get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.” She turned to leave.

I heard it so faintly I almost missed it. But there was no doubt. 

Post-op anesthesia confusion. I’ll make a note in his chart.

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