The Cult of Rohesia: Mark (3/3)

Michael tugs on my arm. "Mark. Outside."

Nicolas isn't saying anything.

I let Michael pull me out the door without my keys. What's the point? We'll have to go back inside eventually. He convinces me to sit on the wicker bench on the porch. The breeze is just warm enough not to make me shiver, but it feels like it could dip a little lower any second.

Then, for the first time since I've met him, Michael brings up our dad. And I don't think it's because he's trying to distract me. I have no idea what he has to do with any of this, but if it's relevant, it can't be good.

And it isn't. As I suspected, he sounds far from pleasant to live with. What didn't occur to me was the cause. Younger-onset dementia. And Michael sounds utterly convinced it'll happen to us, too, right around the age the house is supposed to stop us from aging past.

I bring up the possibility that it won't happen to us either way, but Michael dismisses it immediately. Says he's "not willing to risk it."

And the thing about that is, it's not just his risk to avoid. He has a stake in making sure I go through with this even if I don't want to. I don't even want to think about what he'd do. He's acting all calm, but he probably just thinks I'll change my mind after I've had time to think about it.

Or maybe that he'll wear me down over the next few days or weeks or however long we have until we're supposed to do the ritual.

What if he gets our grandparents on his side? What might they do? They don't really stand to lose anything from my not participating like Michael does, but they seem pretty set on me going through with this. Did they know about the actual ritual? Would it change their mind if I told them?

Michael says he's going to make me coffee and get my keys back. It's not like coffee would actually do anything. It's maybe a fifteen minute drive home, and it's late. I'm only a little tipsy. There might be enough alcohol in my system to get me in trouble if I got pulled over, but that shouldn't be an issue as long as I drive decently. I think I can do it.

Trouble is, I can't catch my breath. I'm trying, but all that happens is I breathe faster, and I can't slow down. My heart won't slow down, either.

It feels like someone ran over my chest. I don't dare try to stand up. If I do, I'll—I don't know. Faint? Then what? What's going on?

Did Nicolas put something in that drink? Maybe I'm drunker than I thought. Maybe it's alcohol poisoning. Fuck. Michelle was right. This is a cult. I'm going to wake up locked in the basement of Emilie's house and they'll never let me out. Fuck.

Out of nowhere, Michael's next to me. I don't know what he's saying.

Oh. He's asking if I'm okay. I'm obviously not, but all I can manage is shaking my head.

"Uh. You're having a panic attack. Probably. Uh, not dying. Not crazy. It's gonna be okay. Just—just breathe with me, okay? Breathe in for four, hold it for four, let it out for four." Hold my breath? Is that supposed to be a joke? "One. Two. Three. Four. That's okay, try again. One. Two. Three. Four."

Somehow, I find myself doing what he said. Everything still hurts, I have no idea how I pulled it off, but I'm breathing with his counting.

After what seems like an hour or so, I no longer feel like I'm dying. If I passed out during any of that time, no one's tied me up or locked me away anywhere.

I can't believe I thought Michael might try something like that. Maybe I misheard him. Or at the very least, misinterpreted. "What the fuck just happened to me?"

"It felt tingly and your chest hurt, right?" Michael asked.

"Stomach too."

"Yeah, and you kinda feel disconnected? Like you could faint, or go out of body, or something?"

I nod. Why does he sound like he's familiar with this? It came out of nowhere.

"So that was a panic attack. They're caused by stress and anxiety. I shouldn't have waited till now to tell you about Dad. I'm so sorry."

I shake my head. "It's not your fault. I don't know what happened."

"You want some water? Or anything? You feeling better?"

I don't know, but I may as well at least try water. Michael gets up, then sits back down without going inside.

Then Nicolas comes out with a glass of water. I wonder if it's really more gin for a second, then feel ashamed. He's still Nicolas, after all. He never said I had to have sex with him. He's probably not even lying when he says he doesn't want to. Whenever Michael so much as cracks a lewd joke in his presence, he looks more embarrassed than me. Plus he probably feels like having sex with anyone else would be cheating on Thomas, even now.

I'm such an ass. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten angry with you."

"I would have been a lot angrier in your place," he tells me. It's reassuring to hear.

There's still no way I can drive like this, and I tell Michael as much. The guest room isn't much different from how I remember it. Slightly more cluttered, maybe.

<<>>

I still feel terrible the next morning. Nicolas got up earlier than us and made pancakes, which were waiting in a casserole dish in the oven on the lowest setting. Mothering us? Or did he have trouble sleeping? Maybe both. I'm too worn out to question it.

But I'm not too worn out to drive us home, so that's what I do, as soon as we're done eating. And I can't help but notice how Michael seems more nervous than usual. I think it's the way he's tapping the console between the seats that's getting my attention. Is it because of that thing with the dementia? And how I still don't want to go through with the rites?

I mean, I don't know. Nicolas said he'd teach us them (minus the actual sex) on Sunday. I'll still go to that, at least. Maybe I'm overreacting. I mean, sure, anal sounds really painful and unpleasant, but some people like it, right? So maybe I could at least get used to it?

"Uh. I'll think about it, okay? The rites." Ugh, but the thought is making me feel queasy again.

Michael looks surprised, or maybe caught off guard. Like I pulled him out of his head. "Don't worry about it, okay? It's your call to make."

That wasn't how he sounded last night. "Didn't you say you weren't willing to risk it last night, though?"

He laughs, nervously. It's putting me on edge, too. Maybe we should stop talking about it. I don't want a repeat of last night. But we've got to talk about it some time, don't we?

"I said I wasn't willing to risk it, Mark. Don't think I haven't put some thought into this. Just worry about yourself, okay?"

"So if you've got an alternative plan, why don't you go with that?"

He sucks on his lips and looks out the window. "This way is a lot less hassle. That's all."

I want to ask what could possibly be more hassle than the ritual Nicolas described last night, but I keep it to myself. I don't know if the impression that he doesn't want to continue this conversation is really coming from him, or if I'm just projecting my own feelings. But either one is a good reason not to pursue it any further.

<<>>

Emilie rarely calls me. If she does, it's usually a quick question, then we're done. But tonight—Monday night—she told me to call her as soon as my class was over. Specifically, not to wait until I got home.

Is it my grandparents she doesn't want hearing us, or Michael? And why couldn't she text me like usual? Maybe she's just impatient. Whatever, I guess. I'm calling her now.

"Mark?"

"Uh-huh."

"I shouldn't be telling you this."

Interesting. I thought we didn't keep secrets from each other. Well, I guess we still don't, from the sound of it. She was tempted to, at least. So it must be Michael she didn't want overhearing us. "Okay?"

"Michael told me about your dad."

Is that it? Does she think he hasn't told me? "Yeah, he told me, too."

"He said if you didn't go through with the rites, he—um—he had a back-up plan."

"Yeah. He said something like that to me, too. Did he tell you anything more?"

Emilie exhales loud enough that I can hear it over the phone. "No. But he broke down crying when I asked why he couldn't let you in on it."

So that's what that was. I was in the bathroom just after Nicolas taught us the ritual chant. It shares a wall with Emilie's room. I didn't stay there long when I thought I heard someone sobbing, since I clearly wasn't supposed to be hearing it. And I'm still going to pretend I didn't. "He was crying?"

"I've never seen him so upset. The only time I've ever seen anyone that upset was Nicolas after Thomas died."

"Okay. Um. Thanks for telling me. I'll see if I can find out what that was about, okay?"

"Don't tell him I told you."

Ugh. "Did—you didn't promise him you wouldn't, did you?"

"No. I technically didn't. That was why I decided it was okay to tell you. But I think he trusted me not to. I don't want him to be mad at me." She pauses. "Did I do the right thing?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you did the right thing, Emilie. I'll try to figure it out without tipping him off that I know what happened between you and him, okay? Was there anything else?"

"No. That was it."

"Thanks."

We hang up. How would Michael eradicate any risk of getting dementia himself, but not want to share the method with me?

Not just not want to share. It's not like it's some wonder drug or something and he only has one dose. Because he wouldn't just give up on finding a way to get more, and I don't think he'd keep it a secret from me, either. Or at least, if he did, he wouldn't get that emotional about it. Plus I'm pretty sure there aren't any dementia wonder drugs out there, limited doses or no.

Is it something that would work on him but not me? I still can't think of any specific examples for that, though.

I don't like where my mind is going with this. I can't really think of any concrete possibilities for what Michael's "back-up plan" might be.

Except for one.

Dementia can't hurt you if you're dead.

And maybe—if what Emilie unwittingly suggested, when she asked if I could use the same method as Michael, was that I could kill myself—maybe that would get the reaction she described out of Michael. Maybe.

Did he tell her as much outright, and she just didn't want to explicitly share it with me, but she didn't want to not tell me, so she hinted at it?

No. Emilie's not complicated like that. Not with relationships, at least.

Anyway, I don't think it matters. I'm pretty sure Michael doesn't have some magic get-out-of-dementia-free card, other than the rites. He must be planning to kill himself at some point.

I don't want to go home until I make a decision, so I just sit in the car. Then I get sick of that, so I walk over to a nearby coffee shop and get a donut and a drink. When I finish the coffee, I go back to the car but take a walk further in the same direction instead of getting in.

Michael texts me. He's wondering where I am. I tell him I'll be late, then turn my phone off. I can't go back until I've made a decision. I don't want him to feel like he pushed me into this. And I can't really confirm that he plans to kill himself, either, or he'll know Emilie told me.

I don't like this. Keeping secrets from him. I don't like that Emilie felt caught between us, either. I guess Michael started it by keeping secrets. Not that I can blame him. We didn't grow up together.

But we can grow old together. Can't we? As long as he doesn't kill himself, and both of us luck out of whatever genes caused Dad's dementia.

Is it worth it, though, if I have to have sex with Nicolas a few times every year? Michael doesn't seem bothered by the prospect. Maybe I'll get used to it.

I think I have my answer. Time to go home.

<<>>

I'm in a cold, pitch black room, and I'm sore all over.

From lying on the floor? From getting plowed? How much of that was real?

I'm wearing the ritual robe. In fact, it's all I'm wearing. Probably part of why I'm freezing. That, and the concrete floor.

I think the sex part was real, at least, but the rest of it—well. I suppose I'll have to ask the others. Emilie or Michael should be able to confirm or deny it.

I can see a sliver of light coming from somewhere above me. Following it leads me up the stairs, to the inside of the door that Emilie and I always wondered about. It's morning, judging by the sunlight coming in through the front window.

The house is quiet. It hurts to walk. The sex definitely happened, then.

All the bedroom doors are closed. Michael's in the habit of sleeping in Emilie's bed, so I shudder to think of what I might see if I open that door without warning. Emilie probably wouldn't be happy if she caught me peeking in on her, anyway. I'll try Jeanne's room. It's as likely as not to be empty, anyway.

Dora and Michelle. Sound asleep. Or at least, Dora is, because she'd definitely have a reaction to me looking in on her sleeping, too.

No Nicolas, unless he's in the kitchen. I'm not going to look for him.

I see blankets and a pillow piled on the couch. Gonna assume those are for me. I could stand to lay down somewhere comfortable, if not sleep some more.

My memories of last night are unpleasant, but my relief at it all being done with for the time being outweighs the—

Embarrassment doesn't do the feeling justice at all, but it's the closest word I can think of. Humiliation, maybe. That's not quite it, either, though. I can imagine looking all of them in the face again without being bothered about it. Even Michelle, even though she kept making eye contact with me.

Weirdly enough, it kind of helped. She looked so uncomfortable I could almost pretend it was happening to her instead, but I was the one feeling it. Which sounds really weird when I articulate it, but it's not like I have to tell her.

No matter how much I try to relive it—why I want to, I don't know—it all feels solidly in the past to me. And when I imagine it happening in the future, it feels equally remote. It simultaneously was and wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Maybe the most terrifying part was how unimaginable it seemed. Taboo. Now it's just a thing that happened. An extremely uncomfortable thing. More so than I realized, but maybe only because I didn't really think about it at all. I only focused on how much I didn't want to go through with it, and what would happen if I didn't.

I survived. And I'll keep living. And I'll do the same when it happens again, too. It's better than not living, or losing Nicolas.

After a while, Michael and Emilie come sit with me. Once I notice, I can't remember what I'd been thinking about before. I must have dozed off. Yeah. The light is different.

There's something else I remember, after the ritual. That definitely couldn't have been real, though. "I dreamed we were on the roof last night," I tell them.

They both laugh. I laugh, too. I can't help it.

"Not a dream," Michael tells me.