Cloned For Him Read online

  Marcie saw me out and kissed me at the door. As I made my way to the car, she watched me with a smile on her face and I found myself just wanting to stand there on the street and stare at her for god knew how long. Baring myself against the crisp morning chill, I got into my car, fired up the engine and drove off down the street.

  ***

  “Welcome back, Mr. Weaver. How was your break?”

  Mr. Davidson's voice was a bit overbearing this early in the morning for me, but I said nothing as I turned around and faced him from my desk with a sheepish grin, “Truthfully, it didn't really feel all that long, sir.” I admitted.

  “Ah, holidays are always like that, Mr. Weaver. They take forever to arrive and then they're gone in a heartbeat. Same with life. I swear I was only sixteen two days ago.”

  “No kidding.” I said. I watched as he wandered off to his office at the other end of the room before turning back to my own computer. It was already midday and I hadn't given much consideration to what I wanted for dinner. Marcie was going to start bugging me before too long. However, after thinking about it, I finally settled on a safe favorite in tacos and picked up my phone. I sent her the text with the request and waited for her reply.

  Nothing.

  “She's probably out.” I mused.

  I set the phone down and resumed working. I kept my eye on the phone, waiting for her response. I knew she'd probably be a little annoyed since tacos were a bit time consuming to make. But she loved them too so I figured she'd be less annoyed this way.

  However, after close to thirty minutes, she still hadn't replied. I picked up my phone again and pressed her number, raising the phone to my ear and frowning.

  “Hi, you've reached Marcie. I'm not available at the moment, but—hey! Doozle! Come back with my shoe! Stop it! Give that back you little fluff-bomb! Get back here or I'll—” Beep

  I chuckled at her voice message. Even though she'd been super annoyed with that puppy at the time, she found the resulting answering message funny enough to keep for future use.

  I sighed heavily, leaning back in my chair. I'll admit, I was getting a bit worried. It wasn't like Marcie not to answer her phone. With her search for jobs, that thing was practically glued to her at all times.

  My phone buzzed suddenly, making me jump in alarm. I glanced at the screen and relaxed, seeing her number flashing there. I answered quickly.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, darling. Sorry I missed your call. I was on the computer with another job application.”

  “Oh...no, it's okay. What's up?”

  “I got your text. So it's tacos, right?”

  “Yup. That okay?”

  “Sure, that's fine. That sounds yummy. I think I'd better head out now though and grab the stuff.”

  “Okay. I'll see you later at home then. Love you.” I said.

  “Mwah.”

  She hung up then and I sighed, chuckling to myself. However, as I tried to get back to work, I grumbled in frustration when the motivation just wouldn't come. No matter what I tried to focus on, I just couldn't concentrate. My fuse was short and every solitary noise I heard was enough to make me grind my teeth in frustration.

  Finally, close to two in the afternoon, I decided to call it quits. I shut down my computer and folded it into my bag. I told myself I'd try to work overtime tonight on work I could take home. Maybe the comfort and quiet of my house would give me the desired atmosphere.

  As I zipped my bag up, I looked up at footsteps approaching me as Mr. Davidson leaned on the wall of my cube, smiling sympathetically at me, “Not feeling it, huh Weaver?” he said.

  “Uh...not really, no. I just can't focus. I thought maybe I'd have better luck at home, so I was going to take some projects back with me.”

  “Still in vacation mode, I see. Don't feel badly about it, son. I'm feeling the same way.” he told me, making me look up at him curiously. He nodded, sighing deeply, “It hits hard, especially after Christmas. You get so relaxed, you dread the thought of coming back in.” he said, shrugging.

  “That's about it.” I said.

  “I feel you. Believe me, if I weren't the head of this branch, I'd ditch this place with you and treat you to a coffee or something downtown. Enjoy being able to leave early. I don't mind too much, especially since the beauty of this type of work is that it really can be done just about anywhere.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. I promise not to take advantage of it.”

  He laughed deeply, “I'm not too worried. You've been a shining example of an employee so far, Weaver. I know you'll get it done one way or another and if doing it at home works better for you, then by all means, stay home periodically on the tougher assignments.”

  I smiled, “Thanks, Mr. Davidson. I'm heading out, then.”

  “Tell Marcella I said hi.” he said jovially. And honestly, he was so cheerful about it that I honestly felt like I'd probably be okay telling her that he said hello. I hadn't had any further trouble from him since the Christmas party. I even dared to entertain the notion that, had he actually been truly serious, that he'd accepted our answer and moved on. Maybe he'd played that game before, but it just wasn't for us. If he did understand, I appreciated his understanding.

  ***

  As I drove back across town toward home, it suddenly dawned on me that Marcie was making this super delicious dinner for the two of us. I realized we didn't have anything to drink to go with it. Neither of us were really big wine-drinkers, but we both enjoyed the occasional glass of Beaujolais with our food. Now that I was out of that stuffy office, I decided to take a detour and swing by Sweet Home, a local bakery that Marcie loved and then the liquor store across the street from there to grab a bottle and something for dessert. It wouldn't take me more than five minutes, and since the grocery store was on the way to both places, I'd likely be able to beat her home and hide the goodies in the hall closet until after dinner to surprise her.

  I stopped in the liquor store first and grabbed a wrapped bottle in the dark corners of the back of the store, buying it quickly and scooting back out to my car in just minutes. I tossed it gently onto the front seat and was about to pull out when I heard the telltale wailing of an ambulance rushing up behind me. I glanced out the door quickly before yanking it shut, waiting until it passed me. It paused at the intersection and turned right. I grumbled under my breath as I realized it was turning the exact same way I wanted to go and I knew that I was probably going to be delayed a little while. I sighed and rolled my eyes, backing out into the street and pulling off onto the road, heading toward the intersection and the bakery on the other side of the street.

  However, as I reached the light and paused when it turned red, I happened to glance to the right where the ambulance had gone.

  My heart about stopped in unease.

  Not fifty feet away, there lay the remains of a dreadful looking accident, so close I could practically pick out the license plate of the nearest car. The ambulance had stopped close to the wreckage and I could see the paramedics getting out and rushing to the scene. Police cars were already lined up and a crowd of people were forming to get a look at the carnage.

  As the light turned green and I turned right, heading toward the accident, a police traffic director was standing there guiding oncoming cars to the left and around the accident. I drove slowly, carefully maneuvering around him as I kept one eye on the road and the other on the pile up. It looked like just two cars were involved, a black Toyota that appeared to be relatively fine and another car that had been flipped completely upside down. It looked like a...blue sedan.

  Something started to feel wrong. I could see blood on the snowy street. The accident had happened right outside the grocery store. Feeling my heart hammering, I took a sharp right into the parking lot of the store, shutting off the engine and getting out of the driver's seat. Not really thinking, I left the car door open as I carefully wandered around, approaching the accident, my eyes glued to that blue sedan that looked strikingly
familiar. I was dimly aware of the traffic officer approaching me and saying something about staying back. But I pushed against him, my eyes frozen on the back bumper of that blue sedan.

  There was a long red streak on the bumper of the car, a streak of paint that matched my car's paint perfectly.

  I don't know if I yelled something or if the horrified expression on my face clued the officer in to what was wrong, but he suddenly had my shaking, limp body in his arms, calling desperately for one of his comrades to come to us fast. I remember I started struggling, bellowing, fighting them tooth and nail as I fought to get to the car. My eyes felt hot. Sound around me dimmed sharply. My world turned swirly, the colors melding together into a soup of stimuli. Another officer grabbed me and I heard him mumble an apology of sorts as he forced me to the ground, straddling my back and holding me in place as he leaned over me, urging me to calm down, to come with them, to come away from the scene. I heard a voice screaming, someone calling a woman's name.

  “Marcie!”

  ***

  She never felt it.

  That's what they told me at the hospital. They told me this to comfort me. But all it did was make me wonder whether or not she'd had time to feel afraid, to realize what was about to happen. Or if she'd even seen it coming.

  The cameras in the store had managed to catch it. That black truck had slammed into Marcie's dinky little sedan so hard that it flipped it several times, making it land upside down. The initial collision had so much force behind it that her neck had snapped on impact, the trauma of the accident so severe that her head...well, there wasn't much they could do when they finally got her out.

  The driver of the truck had apparently panicked and fled the scene. Amazingly, he hadn't been hurt, but his truck had had no license plate. He'd disappeared. The cameras caught him staggering out of his truck and dashing off across the street, vanishing between the buildings as the stunned passersby watched in amazement. He'd been facing away from the cameras themselves. The police issued reports, but so far, there was no sign of him. They were now assuming the truck had been stolen. The search had shifted to find the owner.

  Marcie was quickly forgotten.

  Mostly.

  The following few weeks were a whirlwind of blank memories and events I could barely recall. The only thing I really remembered was the day of her wake when I staggered to her casket lying there in the chapel, her lifeless, pale form lying there, silently. At first, I felt too numb to do anything but stand there, pale hands clutching the side of the casket with a force to shatter the thick cherry wood. But the second my eyes met her closed ones, a torrent of memories of our entire lives together slammed into me like a tsunami and my knees buckled beneath me. Despite the best efforts of our friends and coworkers, I could not be dragged away from her body. One of her friends finally managed to pry me off the casket and into a chair someone else had placed at the head of it, sitting me down and allowing others to pass by and pay their respects. I just stroked her face, her hair, her cold, cold skin. She simply looked asleep. The mortician and his team had done a wonderful job repairing the damage to her delicate neck and face. She looked like she'd wake up at any second, sit up and tell me this was a big, terrible, hilarious joke, that she wanted to go home and bake some pumpkin bread or something.

  But despite my silent pleading with her to do so, my reassurances to her that I wouldn't be angry if a joke was what this all turned out to be, she never moved.

  When the time came to close the casket, I had to be dragged away yet again, never taking my eyes off her face until the lid closed and I couldn't see her anymore.

  From there on, I recall almost nothing.

  I went into complete autopilot, simply going about the habits of every day living and surviving. My house slowly went from a pristine, welcoming home to a silent, dark, den of dirty laundry, unwashed dishes and dust bunnies galore. Doozle, once a vibrant and excitable puppy, turned into a whining, moping, gray dust-mop who wandered about the house, searching in vain for his 'mommy'. His toys lay abandoned and forgotten and much of his time was spent lying flat on his side on one of the front steps. In all honestly, that dog became my sole reason for living during those dark, deplorable weeks. Unable to get him to eat properly, I resorted to feeding him crunchy dog treats and cat food, two things he could actually be tempted with. But despite my efforts, he still continued to grow thinner and I started pulling him around the house on a leash to make sure he was always with me. I'd sit with him curled in my lap, petting his dirty fur absently as I stared into the empty fireplace, feeling my heart crack a little with each breath.

  It was on one such day of emptiness and solitude that I heard my door open and heavy footsteps enter the house. This wasn't the first time Mr. Davidson had stopped by. He'd come by for a visit two or three times by that point. I listened as he made his way through each of the rooms, searching for me and softly calling my name. He finally checked the living room where I was and spotted me on the sofa in the dim light filtering in from the window. He sighed and stepped through the doorway, moving toward me carefully as if approaching a feral animal.

  “Hey there, son.” he said softly, “How are you holding up?”

  “I'm fine.” I muttered.

  “You don't look fine, Steven.” he said, addressing me by my first name, “You look anything but fine. Are you hungry?”

  “I had a granola bar a little while ago.”

  “I'm the farthest thing from a chef, Steven, so I'm not even going to try to cook. But I brought some KFC. Come on, come have some.”

  Somehow I found myself at the dining room table, staring at a combo box that smelled distinctly of fried chicken. Mr. Davidson had also grabbed a box for himself, but he waited to open his, watching me concernedly.

  “Please eat, Steven.” he mumbled, “You know she'd be sad to see you like this. It's been two months and you've already lost at least ten pounds.”

  The mention of Marcie made a tightness form in my throat that I thought I'd since been rid of. But I forced it back and limply reached up to open the box, allowing the tantalizing scent of chicken to rise up into my face. I felt my stomach aching and I knew I was hungry. Despite my complete and utter lack of interest, I picked up a thigh and started pulling it apart; eating small chunks slowly, not really tasting them.

  “That's a little better.” Mr. Davidson said, finally taking a bite of his biscuit. He slid a paper cup of some kind of soda my way and then stuck a straw into the lid of his own cup, “We miss you at work, Steven.” he said quietly, “My partner, Joseph, was telling me the other day that it might be time to fill in your position. And I proceeded to tell him to stuff it.”

  I looked up at him questioningly, “Why, sir? I'm not exactly your most productive employee right now. You're wasting money by keeping me.”

  “Look here, Steven, I'm not about to fire you right after the biggest shock of your life. That's the last thing you need right now.”

  “Then why?” I asked, my voice low.

  “Because I care about my employees, Steven. Employees work better for leaders than they do for bosses. I know this firsthand. If I want employees to produce consistent and excellent work for me, then I need to treat them all like the worthwhile assets they are, and not just a replaceable workforce of mindless drones. You're an investment, Steven, and a worthy one at that. The work you once did was great and I don't want to lose that.”

  “But I haven't worked in a month, Mr. Davidson.” I groaned, leaning my head on my hand.

  “For heaven's sake, Steven, you just lost your wife in a hit and run.”

  “And they never did find the guy.” I whispered.

  “Precisely. At some point, you will need to get back on your feet and it'll be your call if you ever want to try to find someone else someday. But for now, you need to heal. You need to give your mind and soul the time they require to recover. I don't expect much work from you for a while, unfortunately.”

  “But—”

>   “And that's why I've come to make you a deal, Steven.”

  I looked up at him and was surprised to see a very sad, very sympathetic look on his weathered face. He smiled glumly, “I'm going to put you on paid leave for two months. Part of this leave will be a small bonus I want you to use to fund a little trip or something. I don't care if you go to the tropics or just stay at a Comfort Inn in the next town over. I want you out of this house. My niece is the head of a small group of professional house-keepers and they're going to come and clean up this place while you're away. I think it's sort of gone past the point where a single man can deal with It.” he said with a low chuckle.

  “But sir, I can't just—”

  “In exchange,” he continued, “While you're gone, I want you to either get into some counseling or therapy to help come to terms with your grief. You're just stewing when you're here alone and it's clearly making you worse. Sound good?”

  “But—”

  “I insist, Steven. Like I said, when Marcie was alive, you were one of my best employees. I want that employee back. I'm choosing to invest in you, Steven. I believe you have a bright future with our firm. But you need to recover from such a devastating loss.”

  I fell silent, knowing he was right. The sincerity in his eyes couldn't be missed and I looked away, feeling my heart start to grow sick all over again.

  “I'm going to hire a temp for two months just to pick up the slack.” he said softly, “But your job is still yours and it will be waiting for you when you come back.”

  Mr. Davidson packed up the remains of his dinner and stood up, clapping me firmly, but gently on the shoulder. He smiled warmly, “I'll see you in two months, Mr. Weaver.” he said quietly.

  Chapter Four: Steven

  Contrary to what Mr. Davidson demanded of me, I couldn't bring myself to go very far from the house. I suppose it must have been bad, because it actually took his niece and her team of cleaners barging in, discovering me sitting with Doozle on the bed next to an unpacked suitcase, and pleasantly, but forcefully chasing me out. Once in the car with my forlorn dog, I set him in the front seat and drove around town with my suitcase in the back, looking for all the world like a homeless bum living in his mode of transport. I wound up driving into the mountains and spending a full night sleeping in the car atop of a mountain viewpoint overlooking the city.