5th July

Mid-afternoon tea with Mum in Toronto’s Little India¹ to celebrate the publication of her latest poetry chapbook. In between bites of samosa, she said, “I did away with Harry, you know. My first husband.” Spoken in a casual tone, as if talking about the restaurant menu. She sipped her chai, leaving red lipstick marks on the rim of her cup, and gave me a wink out of one heavily mascaraed eye.

I gaped at her, too stunned to respond. My mother is a small, fragile woman in her mid-seventies. It is impossible to imagine her committing an act of violence, even in her distant youth. Besides, I’ve seen photos of her with Harry. He was a head taller than her and twice as wide. Would she have used poison? From what I remember, he died of “natural causes,” although I am unclear on what they were.

The conversation moved on to how many signed copies of the chapbook I wanted to buy—zero, but as usual I ended up agreeing to purchase ten—and I lost my chance to pursue the matter.

I have made a list² of possibilities:

1. I misheard my mother. Perhaps she was talking about how she did away with the aphids on her roses. She’s always complaining about them.
2. I heard her correctly, but she was joking. Unlikely—my mother never jokes.
3. My mother has a false memory or a memory disorder of some kind. Even unlikelier; she’s sharper than thirteen-year-aged cheddar. Beats me in Scrabble whenever we play, remembers the names of all my kindergarten friends, and never loses a key or forgets her purse. Yes, she is delusional about her poetic skills, but that kind of self-serving bias is far from uncommon.
4. She actually killed her first husband. I should be disturbed by this possibility, but I am more curious than anything else. Why did she do it? And how? I must know. If only Dad was still around.

Turning in now. Meeting my mother always brings on the fatigue. I had five spoons today and she took them all.³

 

6th July

Scoured my mother’s poetry chapbooks for a clue to her possibly homicidal past. There are five in all, published over the last decade, which means I have fifty copies stacked on my bookshelves, desk, and bedside table. I was supposed to have gifted them to friends, but I don’t have any, and if I did, why would I inflict my mother’s terrible verse on them? Take this one:

a man with a tail

will rarely fail

to make you wail.

The above lines are accompanied by a sketch of what I surmise is a crocodile with a human face, just in case you needed further trauma. Is she trolling her readers? Dean thinks so, but he hasn’t spoken to her in years, so his opinion can be discounted.

The poems don’t always rhyme properly:

sometimes it’s horns, sometimes it’s fur

but it’s the teeth you’ve got to fear

roses are red, violets are blue

what would you pick if you had to choose?

Or at all:

I remember the good times, even as

a thousand flowers bloom

from your decaying corpse.

how rich the scent

how sweet the memory

of Chinese takeout.

Doesn’t the vanity press have a shred of conscience? They charge 1,500 dollars per chapbook, and my mother gets a hundred copies as part of the deal. I’ve told her about Amazon, and I’ve offered to print her books off for her, but she always goes straight for the most predatory option. Her excuse? The owner of the press is a very “nice” old lady who also does the ghastly illustrations that embellish the poems.

As for her author copies, Mum sneaks them into little free libraries, presses them into the hands of reluctant relatives, and leaves them in trains and buses to tempt unsuspecting commuters. I once tried to tell her she should stop squandering money and goodwill, but she dismissed me. “Must get the word out,” she said firmly. “I am unique.”

You’re bonkers, I should have said. Then maybe she would have stopped making me buy ten copies of her chapbooks.

No, who am I fooling? She would have made me buy twenty as a punishment. The weird thing is, she’s built a small, loyal following over the years. They attend her launches, buy several copies, and listen wide-eyed as she reads from her latest offence against the muse of poetry. At one of her launches a couple of years ago, a woman stood up during question time and began listing all the unnatural protrusions from her ex-husband’s body in tearful detail. And instead of encouraging her to call a mental health hotline, Mum nodded gravely and said, “Sister, we are in this together.” The woman broke down, Mum hugged her, and everyone applauded.

Maybe it’s a sort of mass hypnosis. I have no other explanation for it.

 

8th July

Spent all day in bed yesterday to hoard my spoons for my cousin’s daughter’s sweet sixteen birthday party, an event I was coerced into attending weeks ago, despite my illness. It took me nearly two hours to get there by a combination of streetcar, train, and bus, and by the time I arrived, I was ready to leave. Should have taken a rideshare, but I need to save my money.⁴

Dean wasn’t there, of course. He has never attended family gatherings with me. Relatives stopped asking after him years ago. I don’t blame him but can’t help wondering what it would be like to have a partner who cared enough to show up. Orpheus followed Eurydice to the underworld. I would be content to be followed to Mississauga.

The backyard was filled with noise and smells: barbecue, cut grass, sunshine, the shouts of children, the laughter of adults. At least it wasn’t too hot, or I’d have passed out. One uncle was acting bartender, another was grilling tandoori chicken. I snuck a drumstick onto my plate, retreated to the shade of a tree, and watched my mother, surrounded by a gaggle of aunties.

When it was time to cut the cake and everyone’s attention turned to the birthday girl, I pulled my mother aside and asked her why she’d done away with her first husband. I didn’t ask about Dad. That way lies madness. Besides, he left us years before he died of a heart attack in a hotel bathtub in Dubai. No way Mum could have engineered that. I miss him, but I’ve never forgiven him for abandoning me to the unreliable care of a woman who changes men the way I change clothes.⁵

She cast a glance around to make sure no one was listening and leaned toward me. “Harry’s tail was over two feet long by then,” she whispered. “All spiky, like a porcupine. It would have stabbed me in my sleep if I hadn’t acted first.” She squeezed my shoulder. “I’ve never asked about Dean, and I never will. But I’m here if you need me.”

Need her for what? Bumping him off? Everyone burst into birthday song, and my mother joined in. My lips moved to shape the words, but I don’t think I managed to make a sound.

I finally have confirmation. My mother has gone around the bend. Perhaps she went there a while ago, and I’ve only just caught up with her.

Went home and crashed. I need to stop letting my family pressure me into doing things with them. I tell them about my symptoms,⁶ and they nod like they understand, like they care, but they don’t, not really.

It’s all in your mind.

Don’t be silly, how can you be tired at your age?

Make more of an effort.

There’s nothing wrong with you.

If you don’t have the energy, make the energy.

If I hear one more version of these sentiments, I’ll scream. And then probably lose my voice.

 

9th July

Post-exertional malaise. Noon, and I can barely move from bed. I wish I had someone to cook for me, even though I’m not hungry. Dean has never made me a meal. But it’s good to lie alone in a dark room. It’s good not to be subject to expectations, either his or my own. All I need to do is breathe, and that’s hard enough.

 

15th July

Somewhat better now. I was able to get up and shower and make myself a sandwich. Tasted like cardboard, but it was better than nothing. I even remembered to take my vitamins.

Had a weird dream last night that I tiptoed into Dean’s room to check his body for unusual protuberances. Candlelight⁷ fell on his bed, revealing a large, ungainly shape under the quilt. I reached for the quilt with a trembling hand, and a low growl thrummed the air. I backed away, swallowing the scream trying to erupt from my throat. Someone—something—pushed the quilt aside and sat up, but I didn’t wait to see what it was. I fled back to my room, heart thumping inside my chest, and locked myself in, pushing my desk against the door for good measure.

Just a dream, but I woke to find my desk halfway across the room. Did I push it there in my sleep? I do not want to add sleepwalking to my mile-long symptom list.

As for the content of my dream, well. Dean has been acting odd lately—more reclusive than usual. I can’t remember the last time we talked or ate together. Separate under the same roof, that’s us. I barely ever catch a glimpse of him. Sometimes I’ll see an empty whiskey bottle outside his door or hear the thud of a book falling in his room, or my leftover chicken tikka from the local kebab shop will disappear overnight from the fridge, and that’s how I know he’s still around. He’s become asocial to the point where I must ask the question: Is he hiding something? A tail, perchance?

Maybe I’ve been infected by my mother’s poetry. I called her in the evening and asked if her poems were literal or metaphorical.

“A bit of both, darling,” she said. “I have first-hand experience with Harry, of course. And I did a fair amount of research on the cis male population. Once I came out with my first book, I found other women in similar predicaments.”

Was that why she had so many boyfriends? Research? “It’s not very subtle,” I said. “You could get into trouble.”

She scoffed. “Oh, no one takes it literally. They all think it’s fabulism. Unless they’ve gone through it themselves, and then they know. They know they are not alone. I’m doing God’s work here, Simi.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “How did Harry die?”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “Natural causes.”

“But you said—”

“Self-defence, my dear, is natural. Can I set you up with the son of a friend of mine? Innocent divorcee, no children, fat bank balance. Hundred percent guaranteed no tail. His mother checks regularly. It’s a mercy the condition isn’t hereditary.”

“Mum.” I stuttered, thrown off balance by the sudden change in topic. “I’m married.”

“You aren’t,” she said. “Not anymore. It’s time you moved on, isn’t it?” and she rang off.

Isn’t it?

The words echo in my ears long after the conversation is over. As a chronically ill, under-employed forty-something woman living off a dwindling savings account and meagre freelancing checks, the mere suggestion that I may have the capacity to move on, to have somewhere to move to, is dazzling.

 

16th July

Must put my thoughts in order.

Last night—what happened last night? Did I dream again or was it real?

I got up around 3 a.m. to use the bathroom and heard the floor creak in the living room. Heavy footsteps made their way with slow deliberation to the fridge. Unable to resist the temptation of seeing my husband in the flesh—technically, we are still married, no matter what Mum says—I tiptoed to the living room and flicked on the light switch.

Nothing happened. No light. My heart began pounding inside my chest. I was in a nightmare. You know the one where you sense an intruder and try to turn on the light, but the light doesn’t work, and you try to move, try to scream, but your body doesn’t work either? I have those about once a month. Dread, cold and horribly familiar, seized me. I put my hand against the wall to anchor myself, and that was when the door of the fridge opened, right opposite me.

Light fell on the person/thing crouching in front of it. A noise escaped my throat. The thing turned around and stared at me out of bloodshot eyes.

Help me, it rasped.

I don’t remember how I made it back to my room. I suppose I blacked out. But when I woke this morning, my head feeling twice its normal size, my desk was pushed all the way against the door.

What I do remember:

1. A bulky creature crouched in front of my fridge, covered in rags. Dean’s clothes, torn by the misshapen limbs and back of the thing he has become?
2. The eyes. Those were Dean’s eyes.
3. The rest of the nightmarish face. Indeed, it is a stretch to call it a face, unless a face can fall into itself. Above the eyes, where there should have been a forehead, was, possibly, a mouth. I’m guessing here. I’ve seen something like it on a visit to the aquarium.⁸
4. The hunched shoulders, covered with black, cobwebby stuff. Wings? Shadows? A vampire cloak? I have no clue.

I forced myself out of bed and washed my face. When my eyes finally consented to stay open, I pushed aside my desk and peeked out, phone in hand, ready to call 911 if something monstrous presented itself.⁹

But the living room was empty. Dean’s door was closed as usual, with two empty bottles outside. The stench of stale alcohol was so strong I nearly gagged. He’s been drinking again. Heavily. And who would blame him?

I hate to admit it, but I need to call Mum.

 

17th July

Mum unreachable. Has she found a new boyfriend? She only ever goes AWOL on me when she has a shiny new love¹⁰ interest. Which is, admittedly, quite frequent.

On my own for now. Must think objectively. Scientifically.

What’s going on?

1. I have been hallucinating. Considering that consciousness itself is a kind of hallucination, this is not unreasonable.
2. Dean is ill. He did ask me for help. Perhaps he has the plague or something similar, which is making tumors grow out of him.
3. The thing I saw was not Dean at all but an alien which has taken over his body and his identity. This is the most exciting possibility, though it’s also the unlikeliest.

Barricaded myself in my room with a bowl of cereal, a bag of pistachio nuts, and three bottles of water, determined not to step out no matter what I hear tonight.

 

18th July

Woke to puffy eyes and a headache, like I’d been crying in my sleep. My desk was pushed away from my door, which was wide open, as if inviting disaster. How the hell did that happen?

The door to Dean’s room was still closed, and it still stank of alcohol in the living room, but I didn’t spot any empty bottles. Has he taken out the recycling? Looking like that? What if the neighbors saw him?

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I took several deep breaths and forced myself to do something I haven’t done in months. I knocked on his door.

“Dean?” I called, my voice sounding weak and thready to my own ears.

There was no response. I tried the door handle, not really expecting anything.

The door opened. I peeked in, my heart palpitating, ready to run.

But there was no one inside. The bed was made. The floor was empty. So was the laundry basket. My stomach pitched. Where was he? Where was his stuff?

I looked under the bed (dust bunnies and empty suitcases), in the closet (an old iron and a hair dryer), in the bathtub of his en suite bathroom (dry), and in the balcony (empty pots and dead plants).

It was the dead plants that convinced me. Dean is rabid about his plants. If they’re dead, so is he he isn’t here. Hasn’t been for a long time. That creature I saw crouched in front of the fridge was not my spouse. No matter how sick he was, no matter how monstrous he’d become, he would have watered those plants. The alien¹¹ theory may not be so far-fetched after all. But where is the alien/monster now? And where is Dean? Is there a portal in my apartment?

Perhaps the creature appears only at night. Must make a plan—one that doesn’t involve me getting my head bitten off, haha.¹²

I armed myself with a badminton racket and a mug of coffee and stationed myself on the couch. I oughtn’t to be drinking coffee, but there’s no help for it. I must stay awake tonight and confront the creature. It asked for help; hence it can be reasoned with. I will promise aid in return for information both on Dean’s whereabouts and its own nature.

 

20th July

My laptop says it’s the 20th but I have no memory of the 19th. Perhaps I got my dates mixed up. Reading previous entries and not sure whether I’ve been dreaming or hallucinating. Dean’s door is locked, and I heard footsteps inside and there’s a garbage bag full of what I assume are his discarded clothes in the entrance hallway. He’s definitely still around. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I imagined an empty room because I want him gone from my life. Maybe I imagined a monster because that’s easier than remembering the man I married and the person I was. Looked at our old wedding pictures and couldn’t help tearing up. I was so young, so foolish, so hopeful. Where did it all start to go wrong?

At least I feel physically well today. Going to celebrate by eating ice cream in the park—butterscotch crunch, my favorite.

 

21st July

Last night I saw it again. Framed by the open doorway of Dean’s room, blue streetlight falling on its hideous face. I screamed, or thought I did, and it retreated, moving in a fast scuttle that put me in mind of a giant cockroach. Reading Metamorphosis for clues.

 

22nd July

Mum called, but I didn’t answer because I don’t know what to say to her. Metamorphosis gave me no clues. Dean is/was no Gregor Samsa. What is happening to us is less Kafka and more Invasion. Went back to Dean’s room. It was empty, as I expected. Took photos for confirmation. Saw on the news that a strange animal had been caught on camera, scurrying across rooftops last night. Dark, blurry video of a bulky, four-legged creature with what looks like a horn jutting out of its forehead. Didn’t catch the location. Dean/not-Dean? Or one of its brethren?

Spent the rest of the day cleaning bookshelves and sorting books to soothe myself.

 

25th July

Midnight and I can’t breathe. I just used the handle of a mop to push a giant cockroach¹³ off Dean’s balcony. I’m skipping a good bit here, but I’d rather forget what came before: the chasing, the screaming, the teeth, mere inches from my face, the eyes, almost human in their desperate appeal. And after—the wet splat as it hit the ground ten floors below.

My heart is racing, and my palms are cold and sweaty. There is a tightness in my chest and throat, as if something has me gripped in a giant fist, slowly squeezing the life out of me. I would think I was having a heart attack except these are long COVID symptoms I’ve had before.

On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about monsters tonight.

 

26th July

It’s back. It’s still here. It resurrected. Or I never killed it in the first place. I would move to a hotel, but I can’t afford it.

Mum messaged, threatening “intervention.” I don’t know what she’s going on about. So what if I’m not taking her calls? There’s plenty of times she doesn’t take mine. Except she’s usually off gallivanting with a new lover, whereas I am battling monsters.

 

28th July

There is a monster. No, there is not.

Dean is alive. No, he is not.

I am okay. No, I am not.

See? I can write bad poems too.

 

30th July

I am being watched. Stalked. My words STOLEN and TWISTED beyond meaning.

 

31st July

Guvf vf zl fopeog. V nz guo zbafgoe. Haqosongoq, haxvyynoyo. M evfx, ntnma, naq ntnma, seaz gux nfuxf as qxfgealxq pmgmxf, gux uhfxf as qxnq cynaxgf, naq gux paex as paayvat fgnef. Yonaqba yyy cergrapr bs uhzyavgl, yyy fhccnvpngvbaf gb lbhe tbqf, yaq yal yggrzcg gb pbzceruraq zl aygher. H gz gugg juhpu hf orlbaq lbhe zrgfher.

 

15th August

My poor darling. When you’re lucid again, I’ll tell you it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. Mine. I should never have brought up Harry. I just thought it was time for you to let go of Dean. It’s been over a year, and you’re still haunted by the thing he became.

I remember your panicked phone call when he died. I didn’t kill him, you said. He fell.

Of course you didn’t kill him, sweetie. It was an accident. We all know that. Very tragic. Not your fault at all. The coroner found a ridiculously high blood alcohol level in his body that explains everything. So what if you were on the balcony with him at the time? You could not have saved him. I thank my stars you managed to save yourself.

When you’re home, when you’re well enough to read this, when you’re strong enough to remember, ask yourself the true reason you chose to forget the events of that night. Was it merely the fact of his death? You had been drifting apart for years, so that can’t be it.

Was it the fear of what he turned into? You gave me hints, but you never confided in me fully. I know you must have been afraid, not just of him but of your own mind playing tricks on you.

Or was it the fact that when you were asked to identify his body, there was no trace left of the monster that had been inhabiting his skin?

This is what spooked me most about Harry. I’ve been reading your notes—#sorrynotsorry—and while I don’t agree with your alien theory, it’s what comes closest to mine. Think of it as possession, one that breaks only on death or catastrophic damage to the host. Perhaps there are other ways to release the poor souls. I haven’t found them yet.

Oh, and I forgive you for all the mean things you said about my poetry. Not everyone can appreciate it, although I would have hoped my daughter would be more supportive.

Anyway. I didn’t realize you had so many nasty symptoms. Perhaps a holiday would help? I have enough saved up. We could go to Italy or France. I’ve been wanting to expand my research to different countries. We could hang out in all the lovely art galleries and study the tourists for somatic discrepancies. Killing two birds with one stone!¹⁴

Wake up soon, darling. Let’s go monster hunting together.

XOXO. Mum.

 

¹           It used to be a vibrant, bustling place twenty years ago, but it’s kind of seedy and rundown now. Well-heeled Indians go elsewhere, I am told.

²           I like making lists. They give me the illusion of being in control, when really I’m not. Not in control of my marriage, my mother, or even my own body.

³           One spoon = one unit of energy. One spoon for showering, another for washing my hair, two for cooking, three for paying bills, and that’s on the good days when I don’t see Mum.

⁴           Freelance editing is not terribly remunerative. Or reliable. But there’s not much else I can do.

⁵           I am only exaggerating a little. And no, I’m not envious. Just wistful, you know? Thinking what it would have been like to have a normal upbringing with a stable father figure rather than an endless line of men of all shapes, sizes, ages, and ethnicities, none of whom lasted more than a month.

⁶           Breathlessness, chest pain, palpitations, fatigue, dysphonia, loss of appetite and sense of smell, temperature dysregulation, and I could go on, but is anyone bothered apart from me?

⁷           Why was I carrying a candle? Why not a flashlight? Dreams have no logic.

⁸           It was a sea lamprey, and it made me cry. In my defence, I was six.

⁹           Not that a policeman would have helped. And not that I ever want to call one. Certainly not in Toronto, where they guzzle our city budget and “serve and protect” only themselves.

¹⁰         Or should I say “research” interest.

¹¹         Fine, I admit it! I believe in aliens. Maybe not the little green men variety, but no one can tell me that in the vastness of the universe, our tiny blue planet is the only one to harbor life. That would reduce us to experiments or elevate us to gods.

¹²         Nervous laughter. I have seen too many horror movies.

¹³         Okay, not a cockroach. The only insect-like things about it were the way it moved and how surprisingly light it was. Or I’d never have managed to push it off the balcony.

¹⁴         Hateful idiom, that. As if we would ever hurt birds. Men, now, are a different matter.

 

(Editors’ Note: Rati Mehrotra is interviewed by Caroline M. Yoachim in this issue.)

© 2025 Rati Mehrotra