I’m Losing You by Bruce Wagner Read Free Book Online Page B

tribal feud when Fista—Hassan DeVore—was a boy. Hisidea was to bring her back as a hologram, the computer-simulated virtual images of dead loved ones made available to lonesome crew members on request. Fista “checks her out” at the library but begins having doubts; the ectype seems too
real
. What if it’s
more
than just a hologram? Fista starts seeing Mom everywhere—on the bridge, the engine room, infirmary—this time wearing nurse’s whites; that time, ensign’s blues. Fista fears for his sanity. After a violent outburst, the Captain throws him in the brig to cool off. Only one person believes him: Statler, the Malclovian hermaphrodite and ship’s cook.
    He fantasized about success. After all, his story idea was sound and there was personal entrée—not only was a
Matrix
producer a former client, but the series’ star was emotionally dependent on his mother. Simon surmised that psychologically, on all kinds of weird Freudian levels, Hassan DeVore would be dying to please Calliope by doing her son this favor, even if the whole business might appall her. He would have to keep his mother from finding out until after the fact, until the thing was on the air, if that was possible. He’d make sure to inform Hassan that secrecy must be maintained, this was an adventure, a “gift” to her from the two of them. Simon ached to be another Harlan Ellison—or Dean Koontz. He read in
People
that Koontz had a full-time staff whose sole function was to keep track of worldwide royalties. Things would be different once Calliope saw the
In Style
photo spread of Simon at his Santa Ynez ranch, romping with Arknes 1 and Arknes 2, his purebred Rhodesian ridgebacks. He’d make sure the guards turned her away at the gate if she didn’t call first. Mitch the fame-slave would kiss Simon’s ass so deep they’d need the Jaws of Life to pry him out. No estoy problemo! Simon would still go on dead animal treasure hunts, for the sake of photo op and keeping his hand in. It’d be good press to show the Emmy-winning oddball under a house, doin’ what came naturally. Harlan typed short stories in bookstore windows; Andy Kaufman bused tables; Larry Hagman wore chicken suits to his own black-tie galas. Why shouldn’t Simon Krohn man the maggot brigade? The Pet Sematary pinup would even keep the scurvy Datsun pickup—that’s right, leave it right there in the garage between the Corniche and the Cobra. He might eventually buy an exterminating business, that would be the coup d’éclat. A profitable one, at that.
    The phone rang. Serena wanted him to come to the house again. He reflexively began the sixty-five-dollars-just-to-say-hello spiel butstopped himself. She had pots of money; that made it easier. She was lonely, that’s all. He’d make a token inspection, then sit awhile, like a volunteer at a hospice.
    When he got there, it was late afternoon. Simon hung back in the entryway. The regressed old woman sat on the living room couch while a doctor gathered up his medical bag. “If the spasms return, I want you to call.” Serena nodded meekly. The nurse stood by the piano watching, vaguely aroused, vaguely punitive. “You’ll promise to call then, Serena?”
    She bowed her head contritely. “Thank you, Dr. Stanken.”
    â€œYou know, this business of being brave is for the birds. And I know Donny has encouraged you to use the phone. Serena?” He squatted before her, staring into her drifting, blepharotic eyes. “You need never suffer from pain again—not so long as I am here to help. Do you understand?”
    â€œThank you,” she mumbled, mouth pursing involuntarily in the wake of the gentle scolding. Stuart Stanken took his bag and said goodbye. They were suddenly face to face in the front hall.
    â€œI—I’m the Dead Animal Guy,” he whispered. Nothing else came to