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By RC Atchisson

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The tiny coin revolved end over end as it propelled upward from a hesitant flip. It glistened as it caught the traces of sunlight that fought their way into the darkened room around the edges of the drawn blinds.
As it peaked near the light fixture in the center of the ceiling, a prone figure on the bed below noticed something. Timing the descent, he watched before extending his right arm and swinging it across his body. An empty wine bottle connected with the nickel and dispatched it to careen off the far corner of the room. Its contents poured haphazardly about Joe's unshaven face and head until he righted the bottle.
Integrity of the game dictated that the coin be a quarter. Licking what wine he could from around his mouth, Joe slapped a clumsy hand at his side. The scattered coins about his hip jumped and crashed into one another as they settled back into the mattress.
He probed each individual coin using only his fingers to decipher their value. Convinced he found a quarter this time, Joe brought it before him for examination. It was a sticky, chocolate-encrusted 2013 Massachusetts quarter. Now he could officially attempt the toss. For something this important, he smiled to himself, integrity of the game was key.
Once again, the coin darted from his thumbnail skyward, peaked just below the light, and dropped into his outstretched palm. As the quarter landed, Joe slammed his fingers around it. He contemplated the raised fist with the coin inside. He grimaced for a moment and then swung at an imagined foe. It could have been someone or something, but in fact it was anyone and everything. How had he come to this?
Barely a splash of the cabernet swirled in the bottom of the bottle, but Joe gamely swallowed what was left. He let the now empty container drop beside his bed and again stared at the other, still closed and deciding his fate. Closing his eyes, Joe lifted his right hand from the side of the bed and dropped the outstretched fist atop it.
He let his fingers slide from their curled position and could feel the coin settle beneath them. Drawing his hands toward his chest, Joe struggled to lift his head in order to see the result. He closed his eyes and uncovered the coin. Opening a single eye, Joe's vision was too blurry to tell which side of the coin was showing, so he was forced to open the other as well. Once both eyes had again adapted to the darkened room and fell into synch, he could see the result. He could see his future.
The familiar profile of George Washington was revealed. It was heads. Probability and gravity had worked in concert to decide that which he could not, and their decision was final. Joe would have to kill himself.
Integrity of the game required it.


The parking lot at his mother's skilled care facility was always the first of many heart-breaking scenes on his visits. Too many unclaimed spots meant too few visitors for those who were spending the too little time they had left within its brick walls.
Each time he came, it took Joe longer and longer to exit his car. That would have been the case even if the driver's side door worked, which it did not. Like so many things on his vehicle, it stayed in place but did little or nothing else. The power windows hummed an anthem of futility when he pressed any of the three remaining buttons. Air vents resembled ash trays positioned within the dash, all of their individual slats having broken off over time. Floor boards were no longer covered by the factory mats but rather paper sheets courtesy of the local mechanic whose logo of a tow truck with a smiling grill was emblazoned on each.
On days like today Joe wondered if he was unwilling to let go of the steering wheel to which he held so tightly with both hands for fear that it too would give up and fall off. In truth, he hated this place.
He resented the fact that his mother was forced to spend a day much less the remainder of her life here. His sister had plenty of room, but she claimed her travel schedule would be too adversely affected if she were forced to care for their mother at home. As she had married a substantially older, substantially wealthier older man, for Janet the issue always came down to time not money. Now it appeared that Joe had not much of either left.
As he climbed over the console to the passenger seat, Joe heard a ripping sound. He looked down at his pants to discover they had split at the inseam. Nonplussed he grabbed his raincoat from the back seat and struggled out of the passenger door. Slipping into the long jacket he reached back in for a heart-shaped box of candy which he tucked under his arm as he made for the entrance.
The foyer, like the exterior, was brick but gave way to a much more modern, streamlined appearance of curves and silver. The receptionist looked up and smiled as she finished a call.
"A little early for Valentine's Day. Got a big date?"
Before he could answer, the familiar voice of Nurse Ewing filled the small hallway leading to an elevator she held for him.
"It's always Valentine's Day for his mama, especially when this child shows up. All he has to do is pop in for ten minutes, and she'll smile for a month. Which works out 'cause that's about how long it takes to get him back. But she does love his visits."
Joe attempted a faint smile as he finished signing in and then politely squeezed past the large nurse whose frame made the navigation tricky at best. She followed him in as the doors closed behind her.
"Bernadette is new. We train her to look out for things strange and unusual. You showin' up in the middle of the week for no reason qualifies as both."
The short ride to the second floor took only a few seconds which they spent in silence. When the doors opened, Joe entered a long corridor dotted by the doors to private rooms. Nurse Ewing followed and consulted her chart, using the brief walk to bring Joe up to speed about his mother.
"Your sister was here twice today. Asked if we could have the occupational therapist add an extra visit each week. Seems she's concerned your mother can no longer write in cursive. I told her, that's the nature of this thing. Kind of degenerative."
Joe stopped outside one of the small rooms and rested his head on the door frame as he watched his mother. She was a small, frail woman dwarfed by the large easy chair into which she sank staring vacantly into dusk.
"Does this most nights now," Ewing reported. "From the time your sister leaves until lights out. Sometimes even later. We turn the television on sometimes. Try to give her some white noise but mostly..."
"It's her anniversary," Joe said as he searched for any sign of animation from his mother.
Ewing smiled and closed her chart. "I think I'll just leave you two be."
Joe stood for some time, his mother still unaware of presence. He wondered if she was gone for good this time.


The common area sat vacant during dinner. His mother ate at such sporadic times that the staff had long ago stopped bothering with such trivialities as a meal schedule. Now, when she was hungry, she would simply tell them or, on bad days, gesture toward her mouth. Unfortunately, there were more bad days than good now.
Joe looked at the cards in his hand and considered a few before discarding them onto the stack in the middle of the small table. As he did, Joe caught his mother's eyes. For a second, she seemed to know who he was, and she smiled sweetly. He felt a smile creep across his face in return. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, whatever spotty recollection she had of him or their relationship was gone, tumbling back into the foggy recesses of her mind.
When his mother’s eyes met his she was not afraid, but she was not familiar either. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Often, he wondered what he saw when he looked at himself. Still, if this was to be the last time they sat face to face, he hoped she had at least some vague recollection of him. Or, at least, the “him” he used to be.
Turning her head Joe's mother stared out the large picture window which looked out over the parking lot.
A light rain began to fall as Joe reached across the table to look at his mother's cards. He discarded one into the stack and picked up a replacement before setting them on the table before her. The outside lights popped on one by one. Night was coming.


As Joe exited the elevator, Ewing was checking some medicines against an inventory in the back, so he approached the receptionist who was just finishing up another of what seemed to be an endless barrage of calls. He waited for her to place the receiver down before speaking.
"Bernadette is it? Hi. My mother is Marie Thornton…"
The phone rang again causing the spritely brunette to throw a single digit between them. Joe peeked over his shoulder. The rain was letting up a bit. He thrust his hands into his pants pockets. In doing so, though, he noticed that the hole in the inseam became both exaggerated and noticeable. Self-consciously he turned to see that Bernadette was craning her neck to see something in back and had not noticed. She spun back toward him as she hung up. He grabbed his raincoat and pulled it taut.
"Bernadette..." he reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "My sister, Janet Colby..."
"Brown hair? Pixie cut?."
"You know her."
"I do. Lovely person. Always so sweet."
"Oh…I see. You don’t know her well." Joe handed the envelope to the receptionist. "Could you give this to her for me when she comes back in?"
"Certainly..."
The phone rang. As before, she extended her finger to ask Joe to wait. He waved and slipped out into the night. At the car, Joe looked back toward the common area to discover his mother still sitting there. But now, rather than staring into the darkness, she seemed to be staring at him. Probably just an optical illusion, he reasoned. She extended a hand that came to rest on the window. From below, Joe did likewise. He felt tears begin to stream down his cheeks and mix with the rain.
He opened the passenger door and slid into the driver's seat. As he started up the car, his lights flooded the empty examination rooms that lined the main floor.
Watching as he drove off, he thought he saw Marie smile to herself.
Though he could not hear them, the words that filled the empty room were simple.
"My boy."


Music, laughter, and general clatter spilled out through the open front door of the tiny house. Parking was at a premium so Joe was forced to walk over from another street in the still damp night air. As he approached the front walk, Joe hesitated.
A couple, perhaps fearing that the rain might start again any moment, sprinted past him and into the house. Another couple cleared the way and held the screen door before making their way down the steps and onto the narrow cement path leading out to the street. In passing the man waved and the woman tossed a cordial if not friendly greeting.
"Hello, Joe."
Joe nodded and crept ever closer to the front steps. Having second, or perhaps third, thoughts, he wheeled about and began to debate the merits of returning to his car. From behind, an uncomfortably familiar voice called to him.
"Forget something, Joe?"
"Just my dignity." He turned to see his ex-wife standing on the porch wrestling with a cigarette she attempted to light.
Resigned to his fate, Joe turned and faced the porch. "Happy Birthday, Carolyn."
Taking several steps back, Joe felt a puddle overflow into his shoes. Somehow that seemed the perfect punctuation mark for this moment. Joe shook his leg dry and approached the porch. He handed her a bottle with a bow slapped atop it.
Carolyn examined the champagne and appeared impressed. "Thank you. Oh, very nice selection"
Shaking his shoe dry Joe responded "Is it? It came with my subscription to Maxim."
"Always the connoisseur. Excellent tie. Wherever did you find it?"
He knew the tie was horrible. Most of his clothes were.
"Under our bed. Must be your boyfriend's. Is he here? I can give it back..."
Another couple made their way from the party offering apologies to Carolyn whom they smothered in polite hugs and well-wishes. As they passed Joe, they peered over their shoulders at him. He felt embarrassed.
Taking note, Carolyn tried to comfort him. "Still hate going to parties alone?"
Joe said nothing. He had only come by to see his friend Geoffrey. It was an unfortunate matter of timing that Geoffrey's wife was throwing her best friend, Carolyn, a birthday party. Still Joe had wanted to say goodbye even if it meant seeing her.
She did her best to soothe the tension of the moment. "For what it's worth, I still hate going to them alone."
In no mood to be forgiving Joe shot back "If memory serves, you won't be for long."
"Carolyn, Nick called he'll be here in - " Geoffrey bounded onto the porch and into the thick of a conflict Joe was aware that his friend had witnessed hundreds of times before. That was long ago, though, and Geoffrey probably thought such moments were well behind them all. Apparently, he was wrong.
Nearly in tears, Carolyn stormed back into the house. "Thanks for the champagne."
Geoffrey smiled. "You do know how to liven up a party."
"And not even past the sidewalk yet."
"Could be a new record. Why did you have to see me tonight? What's up?"
Looking up and down the block, there was no indication that the foot traffic coming and going would cease anytime soon.
"Can we walk?"
"Sure." Geoffrey closed the door behind him and bounded down the stairs to greet his friend whom he slapped on the back. "You know if you keep doing that she might not invite you to the wedding..."
"Then I'll just have to return my gift."
"You didn't…"
"Sure. A toaster."
"Wow." Geoffrey shook his head in amazement, and then stared as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Yeah. Found it at a yard sale."
"And there it is..." Geoffrey laughed. "A used gift?"
Joe looked back at the house to see Carolyn sitting alone on the couch as her fiancé Nick joined her.
"Seemed appropriate."

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