Chapter 16
THOMAS FOLLOWS ME up to my bedroom. I think he’ll protest more. Maybe grab me by my shoulders, turn me roughly until I have no choice but to face him. Through sheer force of personality, he’ll get his way. Do I want him to argue? Manhandle me physically? Pin me against his chest? Is this how our arguments usually end?
But he does nothing at all. Merely stands in the doorway as I pick out a pair of jeans, a heavier sweater, from the guest room closet.
Maybe he didn’t come up to argue. Maybe he’s simply waiting for me to hand over my stash of scotch.
I close the door in his face so I can change my clothes, finish my preparations. But when I open it two minutes later, Thomas is still waiting for me.
“Are you coming?” I ask curiously, having expected him to update his own wardrobe.
“No.”
It brings me up short. Somehow, I’d been sure he’d ride along, if only to continue his role of protective husband.
“I need to work,” he says.
“Seriously? Your job is that important?”
“This project is.”
The detectives, Wyatt and Kevin, are waiting for us downstairs. I should get moving. But when I go to push pass my husband, he touches my arm, light enough, gentle enough, to draw me up short.
“Why?” he asks quietly. “I’ve certainly done everything in my power to help you. And still you have a secret supply of scotch?”
I don’t say anything, just feel my heart accelerate in my chest. Shame, I think. Remorse. Guilt. Something else I can’t quite figure out. I can’t look him in the eye. I don’t dare pull away. And I still don’t volunteer to hand over my stash.
“If you can’t dump it,” Thomas continues, “at least tell me where it is. While you’re gone, I’ll take care of it.”
“No.”
“Nicky, for the love of God, I just got you out of the hospital—”
“It’s all I have,” I hear myself whisper, and I understand in that moment that it’s true. I don’t have family. I don’t have friends. I don’t remember my past; I don’t know if I have a future. What I have is a hoarded treasure trove of tiny little bottles. No more, no less.
“You have your quilt,” my husband says.
I frown at him, uncertain. He points to the daybed, where I notice the butter-yellow quilt has been folded neatly and placed at the end. Did he do that? Did I do that and already forget?
“You should take the quilt with you,” Thomas tells me. “Maybe it’ll bring you luck.”
“I can’t go on a ride along with two cops with a blanky. That’s . . . ridiculous.”
“Nicky.”
The tone of his voice is serious. So serious I pause again, find myself studying him long and hard. A million images flash across my mind. Us laughing, us kissing, us racing across sandy beaches, us scaling rocky mountain cliffs. We lived. We loved. And once, it had been enough. I know all that, staring at him.
I’m sad, in a place way down deep that prior to now, I didn’t even know existed. I’m going to lose him. Have known that for a while now. Perhaps even a better reason to hoard secret bottles of scotch. Because for twenty-two years, this man has been my world. He’s my sole companion, my best friend, my biggest burr of annoyance, and my largest source of solace. He’s been my everything.
Except that kind of relationship isn’t healthy. For either of us.
“Take the quilt with you,” my husband murmurs. “The next few hours are going to be demanding. You might get tired, suffer another headache. The detectives will understand you having a blanket in case you need to rest.”
He’s already reaching for the quilt as he speaks. He presses the solid square in my arms, where I instinctively clutch it against my chest. I feel the softness of the familiar fabric against my fingers, inhale a scent that is both comforting and lonely.
I cried when this quilt came in the mail. Now I want to cry again.
“You have a picture of Vero,” I hear myself say.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. I found it in your closet.”
My husband smiles, but it is sad, faint. “No,” he repeats quietly. “I don’t. Now, if you’re really going to do this, time to go downstairs, get it done.
“Just remember,” he says, as he moves me away from him. “The problem with asking questions is that you can’t control all the answers. Life is like that. Especially for you and me.”
* * *
THE DETECTIVES ARE clearly surprised that Thomas isn’t joining us. They exchange glances but don’t immediately say anything. Nor do they comment on the blanket I’m carrying under my arm. Apparently Thomas is right: A woman with a concussion can get away with most anything.
The younger detective—Kevin, the sergeant had called him—is holding Thomas’s raincoat. Apparently, my husband agreed to part with it after all. So they could test sand. Funny, I’d never thought about it before, but in New England, there’s a lot of roadside sand.
Except not in our driveway or in our backyard. Thomas had lied about that.
I place the folded quilt on one of the lower steps, open the hall closet, and reach automatically for my tan, flannel-lined barn jacket. Next I find my black clogs, because in the backcountry, with mucky roads and sidewalks, clogs are my shoes of choice. Not my tennis shoes. I can’t imagine Wednesday night why I grabbed tennis shoes.
Because they were sitting right there and I had to get out fast.
The phone ringing.
Hello, I said.
And then . . .
My head hurts. I rub my temples unconsciously. I should take more Advil. Or maybe serious painkillers. But I don’t want to fog myself even more. I might be the one who ordered this little jaunt, but I’m also the one fatiguing fast. Thomas hadn’t been wrong. I really do need to rest.
I reach into the closet for one last thing. Peg behind the door. It isn’t there. I finger the spot again, and the older detective, Wyatt, catches the motion.
“What are you looking for?”
I have to think about it. “A hat.”
“What kind of hat?”
“Ball cap. Black.” With a brim I can pull low. For example, to better obscure my features when purchasing from the local liquor store.
I shake off the memory, feeling unpleasant, vaguely dirty, like I’ve walked through spiderwebs.
“You’re sure your husband isn’t coming?” the other detective, Kevin, checks.
“He has to work.”
“He works a lot,” Wyatt states.
I nod, because what can I say? According to Thomas this project is important. Except I have no idea what the project is.
The detectives escort me out of the house. They’re driving one of the county’s white-painted SUVs, the NORTH COUNTRY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on the side. I’ve seen the vehicles parked enough times along the back roads. Sometimes, the uniformed officers engage in traffic stops, but Thomas once told me deputies spent most of their time transferring prisoners around the state. The vehicles I see parked here and there are actually waiting to receive or hand off inmates.
Maybe that’s why I feel so uncomfortable when the detectives open the rear passenger door and gesture for me to climb in. My wrists should be cuffed, I think. This is it: the beginning of the end.
I’m surprised when Kevin goes around, gets in the other side next to me. To watch my responses, play more of the memory game? Or do they not trust me alone?
I place the quilt on my lap. The feel of it against my clasped hands helps ground me and I’m glad I brought it.
Wyatt puts the large vehicle into gear, backs out of our drive.
I have one last glimpse of my home. Thomas’s dark frame silhouetted in the upstairs window.
Then my husband disappears from me.
* * *
WE DRIVE FOR a while in silence. There is a barrier between the backseat and the front, formed from Plexiglas maybe, something scratchy but clear. The rear seat isn’t the hard plastic used in so many squad cars for easy cleaning after transporting vomiting drunks. Instead, Kevin and I share the SUV’s original gray upholstered bench seat. It’s comfortable enough, makes it easier to pretend we’re all just friends going out for a drive.
If I look ahead, though, into the front section of the sheriff’s transport, I can see the bulked-up dash, with radio, mounted laptop and all kinds of bells and whistles even my cutting-edge Audi never had. Wyatt is murmuring something into the radio, though with the divider closed it’s hard to hear. Making further arrangements? Maybe I’ll end the night arrested yet.
I try to look out my window, but the impression of rushing darkness makes me nauseous. I wish I were back in the upstairs bedroom, lying beneath my quilt with an ice pack on my forehead. The cool black. The icy oasis to ease the throbbing in my head.
The SUV slows, comes to a stop. Blinker is on. We make a right turn. Off my back road onto a more major thoroughfare. Five minutes pass, maybe ten; then civilization begins to appear. A small strip mall here, a gas station, grocery store, there. A New Hampshire state liquor store.
I feel my body tense. Ready to turn in. Where I buy my supply, I think without thinking. But the sheriff’s vehicle keeps on driving.
“Familiar?” Kevin asks me, clearly cuing off my body language.
“I run my errands here.”
“Makes sense. Shops closest to your house.”
“The bottle of scotch I had that night. Do you know where I bought it from?”
“Yeah, we do.”
“Was it there, that state liquor store?” Because in New Hampshire, you can buy beer and wine in a grocery store, but not hard liquor. That’s controlled by the state.
“Not that store,” the detective says, surprising me.
The vehicle is still moving. This road is nicely paved, which is always a perk in the North Country. I find myself closing my eyes, allowing the movement to lull me. I’m tired. Very tired. That underwater feeling has returned. As if none of this is real, or even happening.
I’m floating along, weightless, senseless. If I could just stay this way, maybe I would never be hurt again.
“Mommy, mommy, look at me. I can fly.”
But it’s not the flying that’s the hard part. It’s the landing, always the landing, that gets us in the end.
I hear myself sigh. A long and mournful sound.
Then the vehicle stops.
Kevin says, “We’re here.”
* * *
WHEN I FIRST climb out of the sheriff’s SUV, I’m confused. We’re not on some darkened back road, but at another small shopping plaza. Local store/deli/gas station, what appears to be a real estate office and, yes, another New Hampshire state liquor store. I don’t know this place, is my first thought. Yet I do.
I set down the folded quilt on the backseat, reaching for something instead. Hat, I realize belatedly. I’m still looking for my hat to hide my face from the store cameras. Just as I always do.
Then I feel the first pinprick of unease. Because I’m honestly not sure: Am I trying to keep from being recognized in area liquor stores, or am I trying to keep from being recognized on local security cameras?
Both detectives are now waiting for me.
“Why are we here?” I ask.
“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt says, “have a look around.”
I’m in trouble. I’m not sure where or how, but this isn’t what I wanted, what I expected. The police are supposed to take me to the scene of my car accident. I will walk around. I will know exactly what I was doing, thinking, that night. I will fly through the air. I will finally find Vero. She will forgive me.
Instead we are . . . here.
“I don’t want to,” I stall.
“Just for a moment,” Wyatt says.
“I have a headache.”
“Bet the store sells aspirin.”
I can’t move. I just stare at him. Am I begging, am I pleading, can he see it in my eyes? “I bought the bottle of scotch from this store, didn’t I? That’s why you brought me here. So I’ll recognize exactly where I screwed up that night.”
“Let’s go inside,” Wyatt repeats. “Have a look around.”
Then he and the other detective are already walking. I feel like I don’t have a choice anymore. This is it. Time to confront my fate.
The squat gray building has made some attempt at New England architecture. A covered front entrance, cupola on top, a few false dormers to make it appear more like a house, less like a giant booze-filled supercenter. The automatic doors slide open at our approach. I’m relieved Wyatt and Kevin are in street clothes, because being escorted in by two uniformed officers would’ve been too much. Still, there’s no way to disguise the way they move, assess the scene. They are more than ordinary shoppers, and everyone who looks up seems to realize it. One woman, with a shopping cart piled high with vodka, instinctively looks away. I share her shame.
No one wants a cop in a liquor store, any more than they’d want a priest in a brothel.
I can’t look up. I wander the aisles, find myself almost immediately in front of the collection of scotch. But of course. The Glenlivet is shelved at eye level to entice buyers. The store carries an impressive collection of vintages, including the higher-end eighteen-year-old vice of my choice. I can’t help it. I want them all. My hands start to tremble; then my whole body shakes.
My head pounds, but I also want to vomit. They shouldn’t have brought me here, I think resentfully. Taking a woman with a head injury on an unnecessary side trip. Taking a recovering drinker to a liquor store.
I shoot them both hard stares and have the satisfaction of seeing that at least they’re worrying the same.
“You okay?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t want to be here.”
“But you recognize this store,” Kevin says. “You walked straight to this aisle.”
“You already knew that!” I’m still angry. I focus my attention on the dirty gray linoleum floor. Anyplace but at the booze.
“Did you come here Wednesday night?” Wyatt asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I guess.”
“Why here?” Kevin picks.
“To buy scotch. Why the hell do you think?”
“You said earlier you were in a hurry that night,” Wyatt presses. “You had to leave fast.”
“Yes.”
“So why come here? Forty minutes from your house, when there’s another state liquor store much closer.”
I blink my eyes, press my hand against my stomach to ease the churn. I don’t know. I can’t answer his question. He’s right. Kevin pointed out the closer store and I knew it, recognized it instantly. So why would I have driven all the way out here?
I shake my head. My nausea won’t abate. My headache is worse and the lights in the store are now hurting me. Dozens of sharp daggers, driving into my temples.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mutter.
The detectives exchange another look. I decide I hate them. I wish Thomas were here. I want to curl up against his chest. I want to feel his fingers working their magic on my hairline. He would make me feel better. He would take care of me.
Because he is my everything. Except I’m about to lose him, because I never deserved him in the first place. Vero tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.
Run, she has told me. So many times over the years. Run, run, run. But I don’t do it. I can’t.
My face itches. The stitches. And for just one moment, I am tempted to reach up, tug at the first ugly black thread. Maybe I can remove the seams, then detach my own face, like a section of quilt. I wonder who I would find, lurking beneath my own skin.
Wyatt has a hold of my arm. He is urging me forward and I realize belatedly they are finally taking me seriously. I’ve freaked out enough that we’re leaving the store. Forget the accident site. I’m going home. I need to lie down. Close my eyes. Up in my little room, the cool black. Like a coffin. An early grave.
Wyatt takes me to the cashier line, as if we’re making a purchase. My footsteps slow, grow more leaden. He needs to take me outside. Why isn’t he taking me outside? I need fresh air.
The cashier is staring straight at us. She is an older woman with graying brown hair and the face of someone who’s already had a hard day, or maybe a hard life.
She still makes an effort: “Honey, you okay?” she asks me gently.
I can’t help myself.
I take one look at her, then promptly vomit all over the floor.