Two Truths, at Once

by Justin Creps

A high-pitched, monotone beep echoes off sterile walls reeking of bleach. Tanner Depriest, asleep under paper-thin sheets, stirs without opening his eyes–furrowing his brow at the irritating noise.

Then he notices something. Outside of the constant ringing, there is no other sound–no announcements over the loudspeaker, no nurses gossiping in the hallway, no meal carts squealing under the weight of half-eaten lunches. The hospital is quieter than he’s ever heard it.

He opens his eyes.

Mark Davidson sits in a chair beside his bed–short blonde hair glittering silver, oval glasses magnifying pale blue eyes. It is a face Tanner sees in his nightmares.

Adrenaline burns through Tanner’s veins as he scrambles to the corner of his bed, flailing limbs tangled in linen.

“Calm down,” Mark sighs. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“It’s you!” Tanner freezes.

“Guilty.”

“You can't be here. You're...”

“Dead?”

“Yes.” All color drains from Tanner’s cheeks.

“Well... so are you.”

“What?”

“Too harsh?” Mark feigns concern. “Best to rip off the band-aid.”

Tanner rubs his hands up and down his chest. “I can't be….”

“Hear that heart-rate monitor?” Mark raises his finger, bringing Tanner’s attention back to the high-pitched sound which had awoken him. “Doesn’t it seem to be missing something? Say... I’m not sure... a heartbeat?”

Tanner stands, swaying dizzily, palms massaging his forehead.

“That’s right, move around. It’s a lot to take in.” Mark points to the bed. “But that should clear things up.”

Tanner’s lifeless body remains under the sheets. 

“What the fuck!” he shouts as his spectral legs turn to jelly. The lights in the room flicker. Mark has to grab him beneath the armpits to keep him from collapsing. “This can’t be real!”

“I promise you; it is. That liver you abused finally called it quits. Your drinking got us both in the end. Sure, you were able to watch your kid grow up, but who’s keeping score?” Mark pauses, excitement betraying his otherwise dead-pan delivery. “Wait a second… I am!”

Tanner’s breathing slows as he gazes at his own corpse, acceptance numbing his senses. “What do you mean?”

Ding

The elevator at the end of the hall, beyond the nurses’ station, signals its approach.

“Welcome to the pearly gates, Tanner. I’m your personal St. Peter.”

“What?”

Mark bows. “Today I am Charon, and we’ll be sailing the River Styx.”

Ding

The sound sends a chill through Tanner as he begins to understand. “Are you saying that you decide whether I go to heaven or…”

“... hell?” Mark grins.

“Y-yes,” Tanner stutters.

“Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“This isn’t fair!”

“If there’s one lesson I learned from you, Mr. Depriest, it’s that life–and what’s beyond–are rarely fair.”

Tanner grabs Mark by his shirt. “I changed after what happened. I became a good man.”

“We’ll get to that.” Mark shakes free and moves to the door. “Come. It’s a long hall.”

Tanner reaches for his IV stand, but Mark waves him off. “You won't need that anymore.”

They walk into the hallway, cold tiles chilling Tanner’s bare feet–hospital gown hanging loose from his ghostly form. “None of this makes sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

They enter the first room on the right. Inside a small boy–maybe eight years old–lays on a hospital bed. Beside him, a second Mark–a few pounds lighter, hair tinted more red than gray, no glasses–embraces the boy in his sleep.

“Is this the past?” Tanner asks.

“Yes and no,” Mark answers. “Time is different here.”

“But that’s you, so this had to have already happened?”

“It has. But it’s also happening right now and will happen again.”

Tanner inspects the pair closer, noticing the boy is strapped to monitors and machines. “Is that your son?”

“Yes. Jason.”

“Was he sick?”

“Nothing serious. Appendicitis. We had a rough go of it… three days in the hospital. Scared us more than anything.”

Tanner shifts, averting his eyes as though witnessing something he shouldn’t. “Why are we here?”

“This journey isn’t all about you,” Mark explains. “Our stories are intertwined. You made it so.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Mark ignores the question. “I never left his side those three days.” His eyes well. “I was a good dad.”

Tanner stares at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll see.”

Ding

“Ah,” Mark exhales. “Best keep moving.”

Tanner walks into the hall, but–despite his suggestion–Mark lingers a moment longer, brushing Jason’s hair from his forehead.

Tanner’s eyes are drawn to the elevator, a bright light shines through the seam between polished chrome.

Mark notices. “Not yet.”

A door across the hall swings open, and the two spirits advance inside. Another boy on a hospital bed, a mother asleep in the chair beside. Tanner recognizes his wife and son, Patrick, whose left arm is in a cast to the shoulder.

“Spot the difference?” Mark asks pointedly.

“When was this?”

“Don’t you remember?” he mocks. “I guess you wouldn't, seeing as you’re not in the room. Too drunk? Too high? Maybe both?”

Tanner opens his mouth to speak… but doesn't.

“It was your son’s seventh birthday. He broke his arm in the championship hockey game–compound fracture, pretty nasty stuff.”

Tanner remains silent.

“It was a Saturday morning. You’d probably have trouble remembering you even had a son back then.”

“I never forgot that.” Tanner shakes his head. “Believe it or not, I was a better dad than mine ever was.”

“Let’s not do the victim thing. I’m not interested in excuses.” Mark groans. “At least this time you had the good sense to sleep it off and not–I don’t know–drive to the hospital. Now that would have been irresponsible.”

Ding

“Let’s go,” Mark says. “The next stop’s a doozy.”

Tanner follows him into the hall. A distinct sobbing sound emanates from the room to their left.

“This is gonna suck.” Mark scrunches his nose. “After you.”

He grabs a hesitant Tanner by the wrist and forces him inside. Mark’s son, Jason–now a few years older–stands arm-in-arm with his mother. A doctor rests a pitying hand on her shoulder while speaking hushed words. “He lost too much blood. We did everything we could.” He removes his facemask. “He was out on that road for so long. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Jason breaks free of his mother’s grasp. “Dad!”

He throws himself onto the hospital bed, atop a body covered in sheets.

“Jason!” his mom shrieks, pulling her son into a hug. “It’s going to be okay.” She whispers to him–and to herself–rocking back and forth. “We’re going to be okay.”

“Stop this!” Tanner yells while bolting toward the exit, but Mark steps in front of him, blocking his path. “Let me out!”

“This is your story, too,” Mark says. “My end is your new beginning. There is not one without the other.”

“I’m sorry! I swear to you, I changed!”

“So you’ve said.”

“I did!” he cries. “I never drank again!”

“I know.” Mark nods. “But that doesn’t erase this. Two things can be true at once. You must own all of it.”

The screams of a fatherless son and husbandless wife fill the halls of an empty hospital.

Ding

For the first time, Tanner is grateful for the sound.

“C’mon,” Mark growls.

Wisps of smoke leak through the bottom crack of the elevator’s frame, crawling over sanitizer-streaked tiles. “In here.” Mark pushes open a pair of double doors that lead into a conference room.

“This shouldn’t be here…” Tanner says.

“There is no here.” Exasperation grows in Mark’s voice.

A dozen people are seated in a circle near the center of the room. A skeleton-pale man stands, legs shaking beneath him. “Hello. My name is Tanner Depriest and I'm an alcoholic.”

“Hello, Tanner,” the others answer in unison.

“Welcome,” a woman with olive skin and hazel eyes adds.

“I haven’t been sober in–fuck I dunno–years,” his voice breaks. “Not just alcohol, neither...”

Several heads in the group nod. The woman speaks again, “It’s okay, Tanner. We’re happy you’re here.”

“But that all changed…” He cuts himself off, scratching his arm. “I’m done."

“That’s wonderful,” she says, but her face is tight with thinly-veiled skepticism. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“That’s okay.” She smiles warmly.

Spectral-Tanner whispers to Mark, “She didn’t believe me.”

“Who would?”

“That’s fair,” he shrugs. “But I did it. Never had a sip from that day on.”

“I’m aware.”

“I wish I would have realized sooner…”

“It’s not like that.” Mark scoffs. “You were only in this room because of what happened in the last room.”

“Yeah, but what if–”

“THERE’S NO ‘WHAT IF!’” Mark’s voice shakes the walls.

A crack propagates down the lens in front of his right eye, and a drop of blood splatters on his cheek. He composes himself, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes the blood and removes his glasses–rubbing the broken lens between his thumb and finger as if removing a smudge of dirt. When he returns the glasses to his nose, the crack is gone.

He takes a deep breath and continues, “How many times did you tempt fate? Every weekend?”

“What do you mean?”

“How many times did you get behind the wheel drunk or high?” he presses harder. “How often did you swerve across the center line? Jump awake after closing your eyes–only for a second–right? How many times?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Too many to count, isn’t it?”

Tanner doesn’t answer.

“Don’t act like this was some sick twist of fate–some unfortunate stroke of luck. This was inevitable. I was just the unlucky bastard on the other side of the road that night.”

“I never forgave myself...”

“But you never turned yourself in, either. You never owned what you did.”

Ding

The smoke is hip-high now–thick and black–and it stains the white walls like charcoal. The next room is strangely bare. There are no linens on the bed, no corded electronics, no plastic bag in the trash bin. A nurse sits bedside, lazily scrolling her phone.

Jason–Mark’s son, now nearing adulthood–lays in bed, tossing and turning through sweat-inducing dreams. Tattoos cover his neck and shoulders, and–perfectly straight–scars line his forearms.

“He took his first drink a month after I died. Thirteen-years-old,” Mark says. “The drugs came later–the cutting not long after that.”

“No...” Tanner pleads.

“It’d be another few years before the successful attempt. But his path was already set at this point.”

Ding

Mark leaves the room without a word. Tanner follows.

The hallway is dim and hazy, stinking of fire-smoke and sulfur. Tanner suppresses a cough. 

“This one.” Mark opens a door that’s barely visible through the darkness.

Patrick lies in a hospital bed, a cast on his right arm this time. Tanner is seated next to his wife, who is snoring lightly, head resting on his shoulder. The boy smiles while rubbing his thumb over a note–written in red marker–on the plaster encasing his arm: Love ya. -Dad

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Mark asks.

“What?”

“In order for your son to gain a father, mine had to lose one.”

Ding

“You might want to cover your mouth.”

The hallway is consumed by turbulent darkness–fluorescent lights powerless to cut through the swirling blanket of ash. The sound of flames lapping against metal bounces off every particulate creating a disorienting sense of claustrophobic chaos. “Take my hand,” Mark orders as he grabs Tanner–who is holding the collar of his gown over his face.

Eyes still closed, Tanner only knows they’ve entered the next room by a blast of cool air against his skin.

A young man trembles in a hospital bed, vomit-bag clutched tightly between bone-thin fingers. Tanner–hair more gray than not–sits beside him. “You’re doing great,” he says. “I’ve been where you are. I know how fucking hard this is. But we’re going to make it.” He crouches next to the bed so their eyes meet. “We’re going to make it. I’m right here with you.”

The room morphs into an apartment. Second-hand furniture rests upon imitation hardwood. The same man–his face full and eyes clear–welcomes Tanner into his home. “Do you know what today is, Mr. Depriest?”

“I do.”

“One year!”

“I’m so proud of you!”

The walls expand and carpet sprouts from the floor until they’re in the same conference room again–chairs circled in the center. A woman with shadowy eyes and concave cheeks stands, “Hello, my name is Heather, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hello, Heather,” the group answers in unison.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Tanner adds, sitting where the woman with the hazel eyes had been before.

The room changes once more, growing further still. The chairs multiply in lined rows and a stage protrudes from one side. Tanner stands above the formal-attired crowd, accepting a plaque, as the assembly hall roars with applause–a true ovation. A voice calls through loudspeakers, “...and more impressive than any of these accomplishments, Tanner Depriest has sponsored over two dozen young people in their battle with alcoholism. Congratulations once again on thirty years sober!”

The crowd erupts to a new crescendo. Tanner’s wife and son are in the front row, beaming with pride.

“Well, look at that,” Mark feigns sincerity. “You’re a goddamn hero, Tanner.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Correct!” Mark shouts. “We do. Just you and me. Our little secret.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Are you?!”

“Yes!” Tanner stands straight. “Doesn’t this prove that? All the people I helped, doesn’t the greater good outweigh–”

“The greater good?!” Mark interrupts. “You think that matters to my wife? To my son? This isn’t a philosophical equation to balance.”

“I reformed–”

“YOU SHOULD HAVE NEVER HAD THE CHANCE TO FUCKING REFORM!”

The lenses of Mark’s glasses shatter to dust. The floor hardens and freezes into ice-covered blacktop, and a winter wind sweeps away the walls like stray leaves in late-autumn.

Mark’s skin rips to tatters of scarlet and asphalt-black as it flaps in frigid gusts. Specks of glass and fluorescent paint embedded in flesh refract starlight across an otherwise night-dark stretch of highway.

An SUV lays overturned, a torso-sized hole in its windshield–wheels still spinning. 

A young Tanner stumbles out of his sedan, crunching a mixture of ice and glass fragments with every footfall. His shaking hands pick up a broken pair of glasses, half-buried in crimson snow. He approaches the man lying in the road. “Fuck me.” He almost trips. “Y’a’right?”

“Help me!” Mark pleads, reaching a hand and grasping Tanner’s ankle. “I have a cell phone in the car. I can’t feel my legs.”

Tanner backs away, heading toward his vehicle.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m s-so s-sorry,” he slurs.

“No. NOO!” Mark’s cries grow more desperate. “Please! Nobody’s on the roads tonight.”

A few feet away, Tanner’s spirit calls out to his former self. “DON’T LEAVE HIM! You coward!”

“You’re wasting your breath.” Mark’s ghost sighs. “Trust me, I know.”

“I can’t deal with this.” Young-Tanner almost falls as he throws the glasses into a roadside ditch.

Mark writhes on the pavement. “I have a family! A son!”

“Me too,” Tanner says as he ducks into his car, turning his key in the ignition.

Mark’s screams are answered by only tail-lights and exhaust fumes, then nothing at all... until they stop altogether.

“A goddamn hero,” Mark says through broken teeth, watching his final moments in third person.

“Stop calling me that!” Tanner breaks. “I never took pride in any of it–never could enjoy another second. I always knew what I was: an irredeemable fraud.”

“Do you think that matters? That you felt bad? Does it change what you stole from my family?”

“Fuck this! We both know where that elevator is going. What I deserve. Let’s get it over with.”

Ding

“Fine.”

When they enter the hall, there’s no smoke, no fire, no bright light. There’s only an elevator beside the nurse’s station, and the doors slide open.

Tanner walks inside of his own accord. There are four buttons: an arrow pointing up, an arrow pointing down, a pair of arrows pointing at each other, and a pair of arrows pointing apart. Mark steps in as well.

“What are you doing?” Tanner asks.

“Shut the fuck up.” Mark presses the arrows pointing at each other, and the doors close. Then he pauses.

“Just do it,” Tanner says. “I don’t blame you. I can’t take back what I did. I wish I could.”

Mark reaches for the panel. “I guess we’ll find out.”

He pushes the arrows pointing apart and the doors open. The hallway is gone. It’s simply another–older–hospital room. A delivery room.

There’s a woman in bed, screaming, with a nurse instructing her to push. A man sits in the corner, barely able to lift his head–bloodshot eyes, yellow skin, breath saturated with whiskey. 

Tanner recognizes his parents. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Again, it doesn’t have to.”

“But why are we here?”

“I’m giving you another chance.”

“What?” If Tanner still had a heart, it would have skipped a beat.

“You’ll be reborn.” 

“I can go back?”

“There is no back. Like I said, time is different here.”

“Why are you doing this? After what I did to you…”

“Two things can be true at once.” Mark chooses his next words deliberately. “You’ve done so much good in your life, Tanner. I can’t send you to hell. But what you did to me and my family… I can’t forgive that either. You need to own all of it.”

Tanner nods, tears forming in his eyes. “Thank you. I really am sorry.”

“I hope you prove that.”

“Will I remember this?”

“No.”

“Then won’t it all play out exactly the same?”

“Perhaps.” Mark shrugs. “Maybe you and I are doomed to meet back here in this hospital over and over for time-unending. But perhaps not. Maybe, if this impacted you as much as you say, something in your soul may have changed just enough to alter your path.”

Tanner nods and looks intently into Mark’s eyes, hoping to convey how badly he wants that to be true.

After a long moment, Tanner turns away. “So, how does this work?”

“Embrace your mother, close your eyes, and let go.”

Tanner walks to the side of the bed and wraps his arms around his mom. When he closes his eyes, instead of blackness, he sees only light.

Infant screams echo off sterile walls reeking of bleach.