Free The Experiment of Dreams by Brandon Zenner Page B

was so suddenly taken out of his life.
    His memories and the painting were all that was left to remember her by, and he refused to get rid of them—it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair … he couldn’t forget her, couldn’t let her go, it was just so … unfair ….
    The new television was a step in the right direction—a way to divert his thoughts from Emily and the past and steal his attention away from the painting. Only the day he bought it, he hung up after twenty minutes on hold with the cable company. Standing around his apartment listening to elevator music was maddening. He made a promise to try again later, when the line wasn’t as busy. It would be stupid having a brand new piece of technology collecting dust in the corner of the room with the cord wrapped around the base, right next to the Hitachi. But he hadn’t called back. And the TV still wasn’t plugged in.
    Earlier, as he was walking home from Whole Foods, he felt his phone vibrate in his front pocket. He adjusted the bags of groceries in his arms and pulled the phone out with two free fingers. There was a missed call from Iain Marcus on the screen. Back in the apartment, as he was putting the groceries away, he put his phone on speaker and listened to the voicemail. A recorded voice rang out: You have one new message— pause— First voice-message.
    “Hello, Mr. Walker, this is Iain Marcus. This is just a reminder that we’re scheduled to meet tomorrow afternoon, at the Still Life Roast coffee house. We’ll be arriving at eleven. Please call me if there are any problems. We look forward to seeing you again.”
    This was the third time Iain Marcus had about the same meeting, since Ben finished his third session at the lab the week before. Ben held the phone, about to return Iain’s call, but changed his mind and put the phone back in his pocket. The message clearly said, ‘Call me if there are any problems,’ and there weren’t any problems. There wasn’t a problem the first time Iain called, or the second, and there surely wasn’t one now. “This Iain Marcus guy has to chill out,” Ben told himself, alone in the room.
    With the groceries put away, Ben found himself sitting on the couch with a bottle of Jameson in one hand and his usual glass in the other. He poured the whiskey and sipped it. Then he swallowed it all. He closed his eyes as the warmth spread from his stomach to his head, giving him that ‘Ahhh’ moment, like a mother pulling the blanket up to her child's chin. Everything’s all right now. Shhh, relax. He stared at the television thinking that maybe the cable company would still be open. Another shot of whiskey appeared in the glass.
    Then the painting grabbed his attention, stole his eyes, flashed out from the other side of the room. He stared at it.
    His emotions began swirling like the paint on the canvas, like the whiskey in the glass.
    He looked at the Jameson; it was amber and beautiful. He screwed the cap on and stood up from the couch.
    Not tonight, Ben. Not tonight.
    He polished the remainder of the glass in one swig. Leaving it and the bottle on the kitchen counter, he walked to the bedroom, deciding to call Iain back after all. The cable company could wait.
    ***
    The flimsy metal table wasn’t large enough for the two doctors, Iain, and Ben to sit around comfortably. The legs wobbled on the cement sidewalk, even after Dr. Egan found a pack of matches to level the table out.
    They talked about how beautiful the day was, the current Yankees lineup, and all sorts of things that didn’t really concern Ben whatsoever.
    The same waitress from his first meeting with Dr. Wulfric was working now, and she delivered four coffees on porcelain saucers. It still impressed Ben that a skilled waitress could deliver so many full cups—beer, martinis, coffee, whatever—on large platters without spilling a drop. After all of his years in the hospitality business, balancing a tray was not something he could do well.
    “Anything