“It’s okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if I actually think it’s okay, or if I’m just telling him what he needs to hear. His words are sincere. I’ve often considered his rage to demonstrate that of a demonic possession; how he’s able to flip from perfectly nice and caring husband and father to something far more sinister and terrifying. Like right now. How long has it been since he called me a spoiled fucking brat? Now there are tears in his eyes, and looking at them generate some in my own.
Everyone in this bathroom is wondering the same thing. We’re all asking each other the same questions. Are we doomed? What is happening out there? Are we going to die? Questions with answers just out of grasp, like a prisoner jailed inches from the key to his cell.
Sit in the same room with someone long enough, and you quickly realize there’s only a finite amount of conversation starters. Especially when it’s with your immediate family, people you’ve lived your entire life with. We talk about TV shows and movies coming out soon that we’re excited to watch, as if there’s any fucking hope we’ll ever actually get to watch them. Life as we know it has dramatically changed, and the likelihood of a return to normalcy seems slim to none.
This current round of Mexican train dominoes comes to end, and we all count up our hands and announce our scores aloud.
“Why are we even counting? Nobody’s keeping track,” I say. “Especially since soommmebody forgot the pen and paper…”
Bobby sighs. “I told you I was sorry!”
“I’m getting bored of this game, anyway.”
“I’m getting bored of your face,” Bobby says.
“Well, what else would you like to play?” Mom asks.
I pause, thinking it over, then throw up my hands. “We’ve played everything a thousand times already.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“We can keep playing Mexican train dominoes,” Bobby says. “I think I’m winning.”
“You can’t even count up your own score,” I tell him.
“I’m winning and you’re losing! You’re losing, Sis. You’re losing!”
I shake my head at him. No way am I lowering myself to respond to such immaturity. “I wish we could watch TV.”
“Yeah! I want to watch TV, too!”
“Is it Tuesday yet?”
Silence.
“I think it’s past Tuesday,” Dad says.
“What day is it?” Bobby asks.
“I… I don’t know.”
I lean back against the bathtub, exhausted but tired of sleeping. “The last episode of The Nightly Disease was supposed to come on Tuesday.”
“I’m sure it’ll still be on Hulu when this is over,” Mom says.
“What if it’s never over?” I ask, which is the question we’re all wondering but I’m the only one with enough courage to actually say it.
“We can’t talk like that,” Mom whispers.
“Why not?”
“We just can’t.”
“We might never watch TV again.”
“Shut up! Stop lying!” Bobby shouts, then to Mom: “Is she lying?”
Dad rubs his temple and says, “Everybody needs to lower their voices right now.”
My body tenses and I’m positive Mom and Bobby’s does the same. We stay quiet for all of thirty seconds before the urge to speak overwhelms me.
“I can’t believe the hotel show is really over,” I say. “We’ve been watching that for so long. Since Bobby was just a little baby.”
“I was never a baby!”
“Shut up, Bobby.”
“You’re the one who has always been the baby.”
Ignoring him, I ask the room how they all think it ended.
“What?” Mom says.
“The hotel show. What do you think happened in the last episode?”
“We’ll find out soon,” she says, sounding like she’s a million miles away.
“I know,” I heard you,” I say, frustrated, “but if you had to guess…”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you think?”
I smile, because obviously I’ve been waiting patiently for someone to be the one to ask me this question all along. “Kia better come back to the hotel. Her and Isaac are meant to be together, right? Maybe they’ll get married and run away and never have to work again.”
Bobby grimaces. “That’s disgusting, Sis.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s romantic.”
“Your big fat butt is romantic.”
“Shut up, Bobby. Like you know how the show’s gonna end.”
“I do, too.”
“You don’t even pay attention when we watch it.”
“Yes I do!” He turns to our mother. “Mom, tell Sissy I pay attention!”
“Then how did it end, smarty pants?” I ask.
Bobby bites his lip, concentrating. “I think, maaaaaybe… they all farted so much that they died.”
“I hate you so much.”
Bobby rolls on the floor, laughing himself silly.
I ignore his outburst and ask Mom what she thinks.
She snaps out of some daze and goes, “Huh?”
“The hotel show.”
“Oh, yes.” She pauses, nearly nodding off, then jolts awake a little. “Maybe… I don’t know… maybe he’ll finally quit and find a new job. Something that makes him truly happy.”
Dad lets out an abrupt laugh, and everybody looks at him, startled. “A little on the nose there, don’t you think?” he says to Mom.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dad licks his lips, grinning. “Okay, sure.” He glances at me. “You want to know how this show is gonna end? I’ll tell you. This guy, Isaac, he’s never going to escape the hotel. He’ll be stuck there the rest of his miserable life. Nobody will ever come to help him. He will die in that hotel. And that bulimic bitch, what’s her name—?”
“—Kia.”
He nods. “Yeah, Kia. Maybe she’ll come back, like you said, but only to manipulate Isaac into giving her money or breakfast or a place to stay. But she never loved him, and she never will. Fat fucking chance. Nah. What’s really going on, I bet you anything, is that she already has someone else she’s been seeing, some little fucking asshole who’s benefiting from all of Isaac’s… generosity. And in the last episode? Isaac finds out that Kia’s been using him all this time. Maybe he’s a coward and does nothing, or maybe he actually grows some balls, slaughters both her and this other guy in the lobby, teaches them both a lesson. That’s how the show ends. That’s how it was always going to end.”
A long silence follows as Dad catches his breath. We’re still sitting in a circle, surrounding lines of dominos but nobody’s really into the game anymore. We’re all staring at Dad, horrified. Meanwhile, he’s smiling like he just told the funniest goddamn joke in the world.
Before any of us can respond, we’re interrupted by a loud, frantic voice from outside.
Outside.
“Hello? Hello? Please god somebody fucking help me! Please!”
All four of us look at the door, then at each other, then the door again, the whole time this guy doesn’t stop screaming for help. We allow another second to pass then scramble off the floor and rush toward the door. Dad forces his face against the crack, trying to locate the source of the voice.
“Who’s there?” Dad shouts into the opening. “We’re over here. Hey! We’re over here! We’re over here goddammit!”