Delusion by David Henson

James tells his wife he looked it up. Her condition is called Cotard’s Delusion after a French neurologist, and it can afflict even people like her. He hopes that by pinning a name on it, helping her understand it’s an actual syndrome, documented and suffered by others, she’ll accept it’s all in her mind, that she’s not really dead. “Please, Patricia,” he says. “I know there’s something you can do. You’re stronger than this. You can beat it.”

When she doesn’t reply, he tries to lure her back to their life with fond memories. “Remember when Joanie was little we looked for shapes in the clouds? You always made sure it was a fun.” He points to the sky and describes what he sees. “That one looks like a cat.” No response. He scours the sky. “There’s a bat with its wings spread … What do you think, Honey? Patricia? OK, I guess you’re not in the mood for cloud games. Let’s just enjoy the day.”

James leans back on his elbows. As a lawn mower drones in the distance, two boys kicking a football run past him, shouting and laughing. “Show some respect, fellows,” James says.

The boys ignore James and continue playing.

Let the kids have their fun, James tells himself. He turns away and sees a robin with a worm dangling from its beak. Watching the robin gulp down its treat reminds him.

“Guess what, Patricia?” He rustles in a paper bag. “I brought brownies. They’re legal now, you know.” He munches a tiny bite and sings a favorite Donovan song from when they were dating. “Must be the season of the witch, yeah.” Off key. He could never carry a tune without his wife’s help. He sings a couple more lines, thinking the morsel of nostalgia will get a rise from his wife. But there’s nothing.

Now he’s getting desperate. Although he hates to be deceitful, he stands and staggers like a drunk trying to catch a butterfly. Patricia, I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ve been having dizzy spells, and they’re getting worse. He nearly topples over. You need to take me to the emergency room. When he gets her there, he’ll tell the doctors about her. Maybe they can prescribe something, give her a shot, suggest a psychologist. Something, anything to stop the madness. Patricia? A growling backhoe starts digging a few rows away. Patricia, I couldn’t hear you. Silence. Honey? Could you at least get up and mix one of your healing brews for me?

OK, time for tough love. Goddamn it, Patricia, enough is enough. I’ve had it. The harsh words directed at his wife crabapple in his mouth. I’m not kidding, Patricia. I’m leaving. He takes a step. I’m going to see our granddaughter … Here I go … James starts to walk away … I swear I’ll leave without you. No response. James sinks to his knees. Please, Patricia, I know you have the power to stop this. He holds out his hand. Come with me, Patricia. We —

“Dad, I thought I’d find you here.”

James twists toward his daughter. “Oh, Joanie, thank God. Maybe you can talk some sense into your mother. She’s suffering from that damn delusion.”

Joan goes to her father and puts her hands on his shoulders “Come home with me, Dad.”

As husband and daughter look down at Patricia’s grave, there’s a muffled cry for help.

“I knew it,” James says and starts clawing at the ground. “I’ll get you out, Darling.” Then a football rises and falls behind the gravestone. James puts his head in his hands.

The ground shakes and the granite lurches backward, the two boys screaming and rolling out of harm’s way.

Joan frowns. “Now you get out of here before I turn you into toads.” The whimpering boys run away. Joan waves her hand, and the gravestone rises back into position.

“You’re just like your mother,” James says. “I miss her so much.”

“Let’s go, Dad.”

“Can’t you make Patricia join us?”

“You can spend the afternoon with your granddaughter, Dad. That’s the best even I can do.”

—

David Henson and his wife have lived in Belgium and Hong Kong over the years and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net and has appeared in numerous print and online journals including Theme of Absence, Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel, Moonpark Review, and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.