Alternate Endings

By J. Dean

"Ready or not, your destination awaits..."

In his first short story collection, author J. Dean has put together new and previously released short stories together into a single volume, and invites you to enter into a world of horror and wonder. Step into a place where a doctor's appointment involves more than a man's health, where a careless prank played by teenagers brings about unforeseen and terrifying consequences, and where two friends discover that an invitation to unlimited pleasures carries a high price. Discover exhilaration and terror in Alternate Endings!

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Dean
• Release date: Oct 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301846054

J. Dean

"Taking fantasy in a completely unique direction."This is what J. Dean intends to do with the Vein series. Instead of following the tried and true methods and paths of familiar fantasy mythos, he created an original world for an epic story. From his Michigan residence, he captures the fantasy world of the Vein (and other stories) and imprisons them upon paper, until the day when the words are set free by the imagination of those willing to read them. The Vein series is J. Dean's first venture into serious writing, and he hopes that you will join him on the twists and turns of this ride that is part excitement, part drama, part terror, and all adventure.

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Alternate Endings

J. Dean

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 J. Dean

Other titles by J. Dean at Smashwords.com

The Summoning of Clade Josso

Fraidy-Cat

Jungle Prey

One Favor Before You Go...

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art courtesy of Sanjana Bajinath: http://sanjanasart.com

-For the Just a little WhatNot Shop in Mt. Morris, Michigan. Keep that ice cream coming!

**

The Appointment

Did I tell you what happened the last time I had an appointment?

I missed it. Didn’t care, either.

I hate going to the doctor’s office. For that matter, I hate going to any doctor: pediatrician, dentist, chiropractor, whether it’s for me, my wife, my kids, the goldfish—whatever. Better off to just ride out whatever the ailment might be and stay home. Or stay at work, for that matter. It’s so annoying to have employees call in sick because of a scratchy throat or a runny nose, as if we don’t have a sissified enough society already.

I hate sissies. I really do.

So don’t think that the thought of getting up and walking out of here hasn’t crossed my mind. Especially this office: I’ve seen more lively décor in a hippie’s trashcan. This place is as nondescript as you can get, with a bland, tan carpet, sitting under rows of bland, tan plastic chairs, and closed in by bland, tan walls. Overhead sits the typical grid of drop ceiling tiles, with harsh, white lights flooding the floor with circular halos at regular intervals. The lack of windows makes it worse—you have to walk through a short foyer when you come in, and that’s the last you see of the outside world. An alien invasion could be happening right this minute, with slimy green things slurping human innards like a child working a chocolate shake, and there’d be no way to know about it. It’s almost like being in prison.

But the wife insisted on it. And she insists as well that I not die too soon, so I won’t argue with her.

**

Two weeks ago Thursday, Laura said something to me after I came into the kitchen, saying good morning between violent coughing fits. Maybe you should call Dr. Logan.

I’m—fine, I protested, despite the cough that cut into my reply. The coffee in my hand convulsed, almost ending up on the countertop. I leaned over, catching myself.

You’re not fine, she countered, laying a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to wince away from her; if awards could be handed out for nagging, she should have earned the Nobel Prize. Every concern in her world turned into a dire crisis that only she could solve, Either you call or I will.

My initial urge bumped into the back of my closed lips (Come to save the day, super-wench?), but I decided against giving it voice and breath. We’d been going at each other for the past month and a half now. The last thing I needed to do was stoke another shouting match. You name it; we’ve argued about it—finances, what to cook for dinner, picking up the kids after sports practices, me working so late into the night (that’s the line I give her, at least), and any other trivial spat you can conjure up. That’s our family: we make the harmonious music of worn away brake pads.

And the worst part of it all? Laura was right—I wasn’t fine, hadn’t been for about four weeks before her suggestion to make an appointment. Along with the onset of coughing came a sudden, major shortness of breath. I’d shrugged it off the first few days, attributing it to seasonal allergies, but past bouts with the annual sinus visitor rarely lasted longer than a week or two. This one didn’t let go of me in that time. By the end of the second week, occasional spasms of pain accompanied my deep breaths, especially the ones I had to take after heavy coughing. The spasms increased in frequency as time passed, and I couldn’t shake the thick, wet congestion smeared across my chest. I coughed so hard at work the third week that it ended up making me vomit. Fortunately, I was able to make it to the bathroom stall before losing it. Of course, the fact that a bit of blood came up along with the bile and other unnatural colors unnerved me.

Still, I refused to seek treatment, instead taking some over-the-counter remedies. Symptoms receded, but didn’t completely vanish, and a low-grade fever became my daily companion. To top it all off, I could feel myself slowing down, like you do when you get the cold or the flu—you know what I mean, when it takes you fifteen minutes to traverse a distance that should take you only fifteen seconds? Well, that was me, moving with all the life and energy of a sedated tortoise. A part of me said that I needed to take a day off work and rest up, but my driven side plugged my ears and pushed me onward. No sick days for me, just keep working through whatever it was, and it’ll go away soon enough.

It didn’t go away. And I couldn’t hide it from Laura or the kids.

So I made an appointment to see Dr. Logan.

**

Did I mention that I’m not the only one here in the waiting room?

I don’t think I did. Six other people in here as well: two women and four men. They don’t look sick to me—well, five of them don’t. The woman two seats to my left doesn’t look that great. Bad enough to see that she’s twenty years beyond her choice of fashion, but she has a bad case of violet bruising under her eyes. I’ve seen that before on people; Laura says it’s due to a lack of oxygen, and not because of a lack of sleep like most people think. I don’t care what causes it: to me it resembles the smeared eye shadow of a prostitute. She’s unkempt, disheveled, like she dressed herself in the dark while half—asleep.

She shifts her gaze in my direction, gives me a weak smile.

I don’t want to look at her anymore.

**

I made the appointment for three o’clock last Thursday, determined to put in some time at the office. Missing work today meant more for me to do tomorrow, and leaving at two instead of five meant keeping the make—up pile a little bit lower. At least the work load was average that day; Andrea saw to that. She’s a good secretary. Does her job well. I planned to make sure to thank her for it.

If I felt well enough.

After the tests, Dr. Logan invited me into his office, motioning me to take a seat in the leather chair opposite his desk. He sat down and droned on about the results: looked like pneumonia. Prescribe an antibiotic and everything should be fine, he told me in a mundane tone. Mundane was good, I liked that.

But his following words were anything but mundane.

I’m going to make an appointment for you to see Dr. Irving down at Central Hospital, Darren, he began, I’d like him to run some more tests on you, just to make sure that you’re doing alright.

I sat up in the chair. Why? What’s wrong?

Well, he started, removing his thick-rimmed glasses, while looking at the results of your blood test, I saw something that caught my eye, and I just want to get a second opinion from somebody who’s a bit more equipped than we are here.

A fresh wave of uncomfortable heat flushed through my body. My forehead, already feverish, could have been used to fry an egg, What did you see?

You have elevated levels of calcium in your body.

Yeah, so? I was drinking more milk than usual, and told him that.

He pushed out a calming hand, I just want to make sure that we’re not dealing with anything more serious than pneumonia, that’s all. The unusually high levels of calcium can be a sign of hypercalcemia, and that in turn can be caused by other conditions. Let’s just make sure that it’s nothing for us to worry about.

He opened some sort of black pad, and started scribbling something illegible, Is there any particular time you’d prefer for an appointment?

How about never?

Look- I began, standing up. I kept my words as polite as possible, but irritability—and perhaps a little bit of anxiety—started to bore holes through my cordial veneer, you diagnosed this as pneumonia. I don’t see why there’s a need for any more needles and stethoscopes.

Dr. Logan tilted his head and pressed his lips together in a frustrated expression. Darren, I really don’t want you concerned about this right now, If we—

I cut him off with a wave of my hand, I’m gonna be concerned about this either way, Doc. But I’d rather you tell me up front. What is it about that blood test that’s got you worked up?

I can still recall the whole scene, as vivid as it was then. He put his pen down and formed a prayerful pose with his hands, his lips kissing the tips of his index fingers. The gold wedding band gleamed sunlight from the window behind him—I remember that because a car passed through the parking lot behind him and made the gleam blink, catching my attention for the span of a hasty breath. He motioned to the chair again.

We might have a problem, Darren, he began

**

Lung Cancer.

Still sounds like somebody else’s problem, even as the words come from my own mouth. I don’t smoke, never have. Smokers are supposed to get lung cancer. People like Helen Reynolds, who chain smoked every day of her twenty—two years on the job: in the office, on break, on lunch (You want some fries with those cigarettes, Helen?), before work, after work, at parties, outside when the weather turned toes as blue as a clear December sky and the office instituted a no smoking policy—Helen loved her cigarettes, loved them more than she did her husband: they divorced fifteen years into her employment. But boy did she stay faithful to those nicotine coffin nails!

Twenty—two years working with the lady. Twenty—two years of watching her pump filth in and out of her lungs. And even now, after retirement, she still puffs her addiction. I saw her standing outside a donut shop the other day, cigarette in hand. If she’s got lung cancer, she’s not acting like it. For that matter, I don’t remember hearing the woman cough once in my presence. Ever.

Why can’t she be the one sitting in this waiting room right now?

The unkempt woman is still watching me. I’m looking at somebody else, though: a kid. Looks like he couldn’t be older than twenty, better dressed than most twenty-year olds, though. Not sporting those inhumanly tight girly jeans or whatever they’re called. Better hair, too—a little scattered in the front with gel or mousse or something, but at least I can tell that he’s a guy, unlike some of my oldest son’s friends.

I wonder why he’s here.

The door to the back opens, revealing a tall woman, dressed in those nice bright medical whites. She’s pretty. Nice hair—it’s a shoulder length curtain of fine gold. She looks at the young man, calls him George, tells him to follow her. He looks pretty eager to go. Lucky you, buddy.

The door shuts behind the fellow. I look back at the entrance, still wondering whether or not I should get out of here. Back to my regular life. Back home.

Back to Andrea.

**

I called home after the appointment, telling Laura that I had to take care of a few items at the office—a lie—and that I had to get my prescription filled—the truth. After running to the drug store, I headed down South Street, just around the corner, and found myself at Andrea’s house.

She was home, but not in the mood. To be fair, neither was I. Not too much.

What did you tell Laura? she asked, inviting me in and gesturing toward the fresh pot of robust coffee.

Told her I had to finish some stuff up at work. Had a prescription to fill as well.

Glad to see you’re doing something about that cough. We were worrying about you.

We?

Did you think the rest of us at work didn’t notice you coughing and wheezing?

No… I suppose not.

She sat at her kitchen table. Usually, she’d be on her love seat by now, gesturing for me to join her. No such action happened. She was being friendly but not intimate. While I didn’t necessarily mind it, her behavior struck me as odd.

Right then I wanted the small talk to end. I spilled my guts about my conversation with the doctor.

Oh, Darren! she answered in a hushed tone, putting a hand to her mouth. When’s your next appointment?

Next Friday, I answered, so I’ve got a week of sweating bullets ahead of me.

You’ve told Laura about it, right?

Not yet.

Her face creased into a scowl of disbelief Not yet!?

Not yet. I’m opening up to this lady I’m having an affair with than more than I am with my own wife, the mother of my two children. Her stunned look told me that she caught the irony as well.

Look, I began, this isn’t set in stone. It could just be a bout of pneumonia I’m dealing with, nothing more.

She looked away. I don’t believe this.

What’s the matter? I asked. Her initial response was a slow shake of the head. C’mon, Andrea. That’s not fair.

And it’s fair that you confide in me about your condition, but don’t say a word to your own family? she asked in irritated disbelief. Her blue eyes glistened with restrained tears.

Well, I mean… sure I was going to tell them, but…

But what, Darren? she stood up. I’d never realized until that moment exactly how tall my blond-haired secretary was. Her eyes looked straight across to meet mine. That’s saying a lot; I’m not exactly a short fellow.

Her hand swatted air aside in an impatient gesture as she walked toward the coffee. Darren, I don’t know if now is the right time to say this, but... I think we need to stop.

An invisible hand pulled the plug from my soul, draining what little pride remained inside me, What do you mean? I asked, I’m fine, really! I just need time to heal, and—

What you need, Darren, is for us to be over, she responded. She reached for her face, preventing a droplet of salty water from blazing a moistened trail down her cheek. "I can’t do this anymore. We shouldn’t do this anymore. You have a family, Darren, and I can’t have a secret Mister Right who’s doing his family wrong."

She went on, but I shut her words out. I can’t exactly tell you which emotion took preeminence in my expression, but confusion, sadness, and rage wrestled inside me. I think the latter prevailed, because in the middle of her explanation Andrea took a sudden, awkward step away from me, wearing a frightened face. More words were said, by her and me—words I can’t recall, although I remember doing my best to maintain feeble control of my slipping temper—and I ended the visit by heading for my car after slamming the door shut behind me.

Only after I had put four blocks behind me did I unclench my trembling, fisted right hand.

**

It’s funny, though. I can still envision Andrea, everything about her: curly hair composed of golden silk that bounced as she walked; a beautiful, voluptuous body under her professional clothing; long legs often encased in nylon and ending in open-toed shoes. I can recall almost every time I’ve seen her in our nine months together, both in and out of the office.

But I can’t draw up Laura’s face. At all. Even when I put forth a conscious effort to do so, her plain, motherly smile morphs into the seductive features of my secretary. I say her name, but lose her in the chaotic, volatile mix that has become my imagination.

Why?

The fever. That’s the problem; it hasn’t completely gone away, and it’s causing this. I’ve had this happen before while sick, the issue of the mind running this way and that, unable to control what sort of memories and waking dreams flood the silver screen composed of gray matter. It’s worse when I’m trying to sleep, but it’s not that fun to deal with during the day, either. The fact that the waiting room has none of that generic office artwork on its walls for viewing doesn’t help to keep my mind from its feverish wandering.

There’s an older fellow on the other side of the room. I'm guessing he's pretty tall based upon the awkward angles and length of his bent praying mantis legs. A pair of rimless, thick glasses rests upon his nose, adding more age to his spotted, droopy face. Looks like a bloodhound, waiting for his owner to return. His hat, slacks, trench coat, and plaid shirt contain various shades of tan and brown. He’s got a thick bandage on his neck. Wonder if it’s throat cancer.

The door opens again, and the Amazon Goldilocks nurse calls for Harold. The rising old man glances at her, his face broadening into a tired grin that pushes away folded curtains of flabby cheek. He looks down at me and nods his head, brushing the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. I push half my mouth up in a feigned smile for a reply as he passes.