Chapter Twenty-Six
Grandma Carolyn was surprised to see her son and grandson pull into her driveway. Usually they call first. The fake grin on her son’s face told her that things were very far from okay and that the horror of the unimaginable events of these last many weeks was continuing to tear up the family.
“What a super surprise!” Carolyn kisses them both. “If I’d known you were coming I would have made Jimmy’s favorite chicken pasta.”
“It’s okay, Grandma, I’m not hungry,” he says deflated. Carolyn and Hank exchange a quick message with a glance.
“So, we’ll eat later.” She sees the suitcases and asks leerily, “Are you staying?”
“Just for a little,” Hank says.
Forlorn, Jimmy pushes past them, “I’m gonna watch TV.”
“Okay, son, go ahead.”
Jimmy heads off to the TV room. They watch him. From behind, it is evident that the spark has gone from this child. He shuffles off, scuffing his heels, with his chin dropped down and his hands shoved completely into his pockets. Hank follows his mother into the kitchen where she closes the door.
Carolyn is a formidable woman, worldly, and matronly in her bulky flowered caftan. She seems out of place in her own kitchen, which has been decorated with a surfeit of delicate items: porcelain teacups, champagne flutes, little picture frames, all of which only serve to make her loom larger in comparison. But she loves all of these sweet things. She turns to her son with trepidation.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Mom, we just need to give Alison a little space.”
“Space? A little space? What is this, high school? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s between us.”
“It isn’t between you. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking it is between you. It’s between you and Alison and Jimmy and you’d better not think it’s between you two alone.”
“I know.”
“There’s nothing you two could do that won’t affect that little boy.”
“Mom, I know.”
“So, what are you doing in my kitchen holding a suitcase, Henry?”
Hank plops down in the kitchen stool and rests his elbows on the Formica countertop. How much can he really tell his mother? He must be cautious. He must not say anything that could turn his mother against Alison. He can forgive Alison anything, but can his mother forgive Alison for putting her grandson at risk? No. She will protect her grandson with ferocity. He must choose his words with care. He must say enough for support, but not enough to damage Alison in his mother’s eyes. Jeopardizing their relationship is a risk he cannot take. He is having a tough enough time trying to hold his little family together. They are strung too tight to add any other stresses to the cord that binds them. Besides, he couldn’t stand it if his mother thought badly about Alison even for one second.
“Mom, look, I know you don’t understand what’s been going on. But Alison is my wife and I can’t tell you some things. It would probably be best if you just let it be.”
“Let it be?”
“If you can’t do that, then Jimmy and I can go to a hotel…”
“Now, stop that. You can stay here as long as you like. You know that.”
“Then, no questions.”
“For a time.”
“For a time,” he agrees.
“And you understand that boy is distraught.”
“Oh, I understand, believe me. I’m thinking of only him. You have to trust that.” He looks into the face of his mother and wishes he could explain everything to her. He would love to sit down and tell her about the hallucinations, the paranoia, the craziness, and the weapons. If he does, his mom will throw her arms around him and he will enjoy the solace of a connection that he craves right now. He genuinely needs someone to say they understand, to confirm he’s done the right thing. But he can’t. He knows he cannot. This is a burden he must carry in silence, or risk being the source of more destruction. He must protect Alison and so he cannot tell his mother any of it.
Carolyn asks, “Then just tell me - is she all right?”
“If she were all right I wouldn’t be here.”
Carolyn nods. She walks over to the sink, turns on the faucet, reaches for her little copper teakettle and fills it. She puts the kettle on the stove. These rote gestures give her a moment to consider. This is not an easy position he has put her in. She is frantic inside to hear what’s going on. She turns the gas on under the kettle as she reviews what she should say. Her son loves his family. He is asking her to trust him, to trust his judgment. She turns back to face him.
“Then, I’ll get dinner going.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Several hours later, Alison sits with her forehead planted on the kitchen table. An untouched cup of chamomile tea beside her went cold hours ago. She lifts her head three inches from the table and then just lets it flop back down with a thud. She can’t do this any longer. She knows Hank as well as she knows herself. The only reason Hank would have left her side is if she really were crazy. I have to face it. I’ve cracked. I mean, maybe, maybe I’ve cracked. I see things. I hear things. Oh god, how do I end this when it all feels real? Is this what all crazy people say? My husband has left me. My husband who I know loves me has left. What does that tell me? She picks her forehead up again and lets it drop into her hands. I have no one. No one understands. Everyone around here has already decided about me. I have no one. She picks up her phone and dials 411.
The operator asks, “City and State, please?”
In Hobbs’ cabin, Curtis reaches for the ringing phone. “Sport Fishing.”
“You really did get a regular landline up there.” She tries to make her voice sound normal.
“Alison?”
“Not indoor plumbing too I hope.”
“And ruin the ambiance? No way. Evidently, you city folk like a good crap in the woods. How’s civilization?”
Her voice cracks, “A lot harder than I remember.”
“True that. Reality sucks. People are animals.”
“Yes. That’s been a hard lesson.”
“But useful.”
“Maybe. Maybe we’re better off not knowing that. Maybe we’re better off living in a dream world.”
“We’re surely better off that way,” he says almost wistfully, “but once you wake up…well, you’re up, ya know?”
“Yes.” She sighs.
“Why don’t you come for a visit? Be my guest.”
“Not a chance.”
“This time you could really go fishing.”
“I hyperventilate when I see fish sticks.”
There is an unnatural pause. Curtis waits for her to continue. He knows she called for a reason.
She says, “So he’s dead, you know, the last one.”
“Yeah, I saw that on the AP. You must be relieved.”
“Uh…not actually.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t shake him.”
“Oh.”
“It’s like he put some kind of invisible cage around me. Or more like he’s actually inside in my brain. Sitting there pulling strings.”
“That doesn’t sound too healthy.”
“Actually I may be seeing things…you know, things that aren’t there.”
“Uh, oh.” Now, Curtis realizes the seriousness. She was such a fragile thing when she burst into his cabin that night. He remembers thinking she looked like a half-drown kitten in his doorway: wet, freezing, terrified. No one was more surprised than he was when she survived. But that kind of violence has a cost. She has images in her mind that must shake her sanity.
“How serious is it?” he asks.
“Hank left me. He took Jimmy.”
“Oh, that sucks, Alison.”
“I got laid off.”
“Ouch.”
“Truth is I’m not completely sure what’s real anymore. A few minutes ago I was wondering if you were real.”
“I feel real.”
“But maybe you’re not. Maybe I didn’t actually call you right now and I’m not really talking on the phone. Maybe I’m sitting in an asylum at this very moment staring out randomly and being spoon-fed succotash.”
“I can’t confirm anything else except you are definitely talking to me and no one has said succotash since 1950.”
“Everyone around here thinks I’m crazy.”
“You gotta right to be crazy for a bit, but then you need to get your act together, get your job back, and start doing mom things again. If you don’t, then, it doesn’t matter whether Burne’s dead or alive; he still owns your ass.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s right.”
“You know it.”
“What about you? You know we have a guest room. It’s yours when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, but I hear you’re crazy.”
She smiles. She hears him chuckle.
“Take care, Curtis.”
“Bye, Alison.”
Night slipped into the kitchen as she sat there immobile. She had adjusted to the darkening room and hadn’t noticed. When she finally rises from the kitchen chair and grabs the teacup, she has to turn on the lights to put the cup into the sink. Her right leg, which was bent underneath her, had fallen asleep and she shakes it as she walks toward the stairs. She and Hank have never voluntarily slept apart. By tomorrow, surely Hank will be back. He will talk to me. I will go to therapy. I will do whatever it takes to bring them home. She turns off all the lights downstairs. She walks over to switch on the alarm system. She reaches for the touch pad, but yanks back as though she has been shocked. No. This is part of it, she thinks. The alarm, the weapons, the night watch, they are all symptoms. This fear is like an infection that has spread out and devoured my life. Enough. She turns her back on the alarm panel and she feels empowered by this simple move. She starts up the stairs to the second floor. The aggressive adrenaline that has been fueling her muscles for a month turns off like a spigot, and as she lifts her feet from one step to the next, she feels crushingly weary. Her legs are dead as stumps, and her arms hang useless and heavy by her side. She feels as if all the blood has been drained from her body. She drags herself up the last few steps to the little landing that separates her and Hank’s bedroom from Jimmy’s. She stops and peeks into Jimmy’s room. The paradox hits her: stuffed with so many things and yet utterly empty. She hates that his bed is perfectly made and it reminds her that Polly had been there that morning. Yes, how could she forget that? Poor Polly. She will call her tomorrow, call and apologize. How does that conversation go? Gee, hi, sorry I tried to stab you with the butcher knife, could you finish the laundry now? Damn. How could I have been that confused? I must have scared her to death.
Leaning against Jimmy’s doorway, Alison would prefer it if his room were a complete mess, the kind of childhood jungle that only a nine-year-old could create, the kind of mess that would indicate without question that her little boy was home. I want him. Her chest aches. She looks around at all of his toys; they are waiting, too. His noisy prized robot is silent in the corner. His school books are gone from the desk and when she sees that she feels a sickening free fall inside. She is all alone in her own home at night. When has that ever happened? Not since before Jimmy was born. She turns toward her bedroom. Even with all the furniture, the family photos, the drapes, the bookcases, and silk flowers, her house feels hollow. She feels hollow. She thinks, if I open my mouth right now there would be nothing but a long hollow echo because the inside of me is dark and empty. She enters her bedroom and walks over to the window blinds where she has stood diligently night after night since their return, scanning the street for a dead man. She couldn’t even count the number of hours she has wasted staring into the bleak nothingness of the night, instead of making love to her husband, instead of curling up skin-to-skin in his arms where she belongs. She grabs the cord, and she takes a slow long breath, and then, she shuts the blinds. She steps back and stares at the blocked window. Her home has finally closed its eyes. The relentless vigilance has ended. Alison turns her back on the window blinds and she proceeds into the bathroom. She feels compelled in an almost ritualistic way to wash thoroughly and finally. She forces herself to close the bathroom door and she does not lock it on purpose. She pulls down a big fluffy towel and twists the shower faucet to hot. She strips down and catches sight of herself in the mirror. It stuns her. Turning fully front, she tilts her head, and blinks her eyes. The image in the mirror slaps her face. Naked, she studies herself honestly shocked: her chest looks corrugated as the bones that make up her ribcage are prominent, and the space on either side of her collarbone looks like a trough. How much weight have I lost? Her skin is loose and sallow. At the hairline, she sees the beginning of grey roots. Her shoulders appear hunched and the whites of her eyes are bloodshot. So, this is what crazy looks like, she thinks bitterly, not a pretty picture. Bereft, she turns away from her reflection and steps into the shower. This time, however, she forces herself to completely close the shower door and not leave it part way open so she can hear. Instead, she turns the water on full force, gets under it, and stands with her head submerged in the downpour. She prepares for the panic. Here it comes: heart rate up, puffy breathing, jumpy muscles. Now, she will mount a different kind of fight. She will not give in to the panic. She must master her negative thoughts and pull herself back from the lip of destruction. The enemy is no longer outside of her. In the gush of the shower water, she can finally understand this and even as she does, her primitive instincts taunt her screaming: Open your eyes! Open the door! Open the blinds! Listen. Watch! She clenches her fingers and her toes. “Stop!” Do you want your life back? Your husband? Your son? Your job? Feel the water hot on your head, good and hot on your back; feel it, you’re fine. See, you are fine. I am done being a hostage. Tomorrow I will go to the therapist. Tomorrow I will start the meds. Tonight will be my one and only lonely night. She scrubs her hair and scalp vigorously. She soaps every inch of her body twice. She tips her head up and allows the free flowing water to flush her face, hoping it will flow through her eyes and ears and pores and wash her brain clean.
Fifteen minutes, later she steps out of the shower. The bathroom is steamed up; the mirror is fogged to a solid white. She slips her puckered skin into her favorite pair of flannel pajamas and they feel glorious. She takes the few steps to the bathroom door. She reaches for the doorknob and hesitates. What if…what if right behind this door…it’s not as though she could have heard anything in the shower like that. He could be… No. Stop. The problem is inside me. She closes her hand around the knob. Blood rushes to her face. Adrenaline swamps her limbs: pump, pump, pump. Do it. Do it. She swings open the bathroom door and sees…no one. This is the tiny reinforcement she needs. She breathes out a long slow stream through pursed lips, calms, almost smiles. She has turned the corner. She climbs into bed and grabs the novel on her nightstand. This is a transitional night. Tomorrow she will start the real journey home from the island.
* * *