by Andrew Boylan
The doctors took me into a smaller room where they could show me the screen that had an image of the tumor that was secreting a chemical that tore the veil inside me that separated the divine from the unclean. They told me if I had the gland with the tumor removed I would love my wife again. And would I no longer be afraid of the dark, apparently. The doctors somehow knew that I slept with the stairway lights on. They told me I wouldn’t shrink into the corner of the room anymore when my kids showed me Magic: The Gathering cards with demonic codes embedded in the foil. When I asked the doctors how long the tumor had been growing their mouths disappeared off their faces. Their eyes became tiny pin-pricks of light in a room lit only by a grey-blue screen. I could still remember when I loved my wife. We were in high school, driving home from a hayride. The farm was owned by a man from my father's church. I stepped out of the car and ushered her into the driver’s seat. She didn’t have a license yet. Her parents never let her practice in the school parking lot on Saturdays the way my father did. She had the biggest smile on her face when she hit the gas. I ask the doctors if I would be able to see that smile again once the tumor was gone. My wife wants me to tell her why I love her. Sometimes she asks me to write it on a piece of paper. Will I find the answer when the tumor is gone, I ask the points of light receding deeper and deeper into the dark room.
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