By Debra A. Daniel

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Marietta is almost done packing up her parents’ home. Not much left. Her old bed and dresser, a few lamps, a straight-back chair. She’s alone today. No imaginary friend. No imaginary dog. Just Marietta. Waiting for the realtor. Waiting to sign some papers so she can move on. Her therapist says that’s what she can do now. Bury the parents. Sell the house. Move on. She repeats this like a mantra. 

Until she hears a knock. The realtor, no doubt.

The solid front door holds no window, not even a peephole that Marietta can use to prepare herself. She opens the door to find her parents, looking surprisingly solid and energetic considering their current state of aliveness.

“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” her mother says. “We’ve come a very long way.”

“Indeed.” Her father’s speech is slurred. 

Probably stopped off at Hell’s best Bar and Grill for a couple of cocktails before hitting the road, 

Marietta thinks. And it’s not even noon.

“We came for brunch,” he says.

“And one last look around before you snatch the house away from us,” her mother says. “You should comb your hair and put on some lipstick. You look sick.”

Marietta’s hand goes to her hair. 

“Your hair isn’t the problem,” her father says.

“You don’t know a rat’s fig about a girl’s hair,” her mother says. “It’s definitely a problem.”

They poof themselves out of sight, only to reappear in the empty living room. 

“I hate what you’ve done to the place.” Marietta’s mother laughs. “I’m so funny.”

“A regular riot.” Her father slugs her with his usual right hook. She fires back with the old one, two.

Marietta backs herself away to hide in the kitchen, but there she finds a French chef in a white coat and toque. He motions her aside. “Perhaps if you serve l’omelette, they’ll disappear.”

“C’est bon,” Marietta says.

The chef morphs into a waiter. “May I take your order?”

“I’ll have my eggs, hard-boiled with a side of dry rye toast, black coffee with no sweetener, whatsoever,” her mother says, “and a soupçon of scaldingly hot peppers.”

“I’ll have my eggs, coddled in wine hold the eggs, a bottomless Bloody Mary with a generous portion of bloody,” her father says, “and rum raisin bread hold the raisins, hold the bread.”

Her mother glares at Marietta. “And this little ingrate will have her eggs scrambled, one giant nut cake, and a side of spineless mush.”

Brunch is served just outside Marietta’s bedroom closet door where, from the comfort of her old hidey-hole, she’s treated to the aroma of burning tongues, a generous portion of salty language, clashing knives and forks, and biting conversation.

Her mother and father clean their plates, break them into bite-size shards, and send their complaints to the chef, but they do, indeed, depart.

When the realtor arrives, Marietta reduces the price, decides to sell the house as is.

~

Marietta returns home to discover that her imaginary dog, Deadman, isn’t behaving normally, not passive and controlled like he’s supposed to, not the way Marietta conjured him. She needs everything controlled. 

But Deadman is running in circles, stamping his feet, scratching the ground. He’s baring his teeth. Growling. Nudging Marietta toward the back fence, toward her real neighbor, George, and his real dog, Buddy. Deadman shoves Marietta with his dead-weight body, trying with all his might to move her. He’s frothing and writhing and jumping at her, snapping at her fingers.

Marietta’s terrified of this devil dog with a bad temper. Marietta tells herself this temper won’t kill him; this temper won’t kill me. But she knows this temper can kill puppies. This temper can kill her. This temper almost killed her lots of times. Almost, but not quite.

“Don’t be stupid.” It’s Marietta’s mother who’s coming through the fence, the boards stretching around her like elastic bands, then springing back into place. “Temper. Distemper. There’s a difference. Tattoo that on your arm. Maybe then you’ll get it.”

“You really should grow up, Marietta.” Her father climbs over the fence, trespassing into Marietta’s yard. “You must get rid of these morning glories. They’ll take over. They’ll squeeze the life out of you.” Her parents pinch off the blossoms. Petals of blue and purple bruise the ground.

“And PS, your pathetic fake dog wants a real friend,” her mother says. “Maybe he can get one. Too bad you never could.”

Her father kneels down to Deadman, puts his hand out. “Does Deadman want a real friend? Like Buddy?” Even though he coos in a baby-talk voice, the imaginary dog flinches. Marietta’s father growls. “Are you sure Buddy isn’t imaginary, too.”

Her mother has closed in. She whispers in Marietta’s ear. “And what about this George guy over the fence? Do you think he likes you? Are you sure you didn’t make him up?”

Marietta covers her ears. 

“Real world too tough for you, kiddo?” Her father tugs hard at the vines, ripping them down, leaving the fence naked and stained. 

Marietta closes her eyes. She opens them again, but her dead parents are still there. “How did you find me?” Her voice has become a mumble. “Why are you here?”

“You sold our house,” her mother says. “Where did you think we’d go? Did you think we’d just disappear so you could move on?” Her parents laugh so hard that Marietta cries.

Marietta looks at Deadman, now digging himself a hide-y hole. 

Her father smiles. “We’re going to live with you. Forever.”

Marietta moans.

From the other side of the fence, George calls out. “Marietta, are you there?”

Marietta’s mother says, “Don’t answer him. He’s imaginary.”

Her father nods. “Talking to imaginary people proves you’re crazy.”

George calls out again. Buddy yips. Deadman has buried himself in the hole. Marietta backs away and runs into the house. 

Her parents settle into the lawn chairs, making themselves at home.