by C B Cox
The world dissolves…
“We’d better get you to bed.” Curtis’s voice comes at me through the ether. I feel his warm breath against my cheek. The hoppy aroma of beer fills my nostrils. Strong arms slide under my thighs. I’m being lifted from the rocker. I nuzzle against his neck. Sniff his musk. I float in his arms. Martha swings her legs up onto the sofa. Drapes her right arm over the cushion. She looks like a Pre-Raphaelite painting: supine and serene. She’s naked. I’ve never seen her so content. Her face is like alabaster. Her eyes are closed. Where have her glasses gone? Her beauty is framed by perfect black hair. The image fades. I reach out to touch her. She’s beyond my reach.
Curtis takes my hand and wraps my left arm around his neck.
“Goodnight, Martha,” I whisper.
I enter the bedroom and the bed rises to meet me. I fall into its warm embrace. My head sinks against the pillow: a hand brushes hair off of my cheek.
“Goodnight, Hope,” he whispers.
The last thing I hear is the latch clicking into the frame.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Day 31
Broken black teeth chomp at my face through an intricate web of orange fishing net. Calloused hands grasp at me from under the mattress. They grab my elbows. Drag me down. I recoil from the teeth. Whip my head from side-to-side. Huge, yellowing, bloodshot eyes glower. A fish tail slaps against the pillow. At the foot of the bed, a skeletal stickman wags a gnarly finger. A hook-nosed old woman, with a pumpkin-colored face, scolds me in a tongue I don’t recognize.
An agonizing scream chases away the apparitions.
My eyes fly open.
It’s me. I’m screaming. My heartbeat is off the scale. My mouth is sandpaper dry.
The images fade. Evaporate.
I’m awake.
Safe.
Where am I?
My heartbeat steadies. Thoughts coalesce. I remember that I’m at home, in the master bedroom of Tern Lodge. Everything is fine. It was all just a nightmare.
I recall being with Martha and Curtis. Images from the previous evening float in and out of my mind’s eye. We were very drunk. They, Martha and Curtis, had sex. Or did they? I watched. Or did I? I’m mortified. It’s all a haze. I hate the uncertain feeling. I relive him putting me to bed.
Damn…
Did I do anything that I’m going to live to regret? I reach under the covers. Realize, I’m fully dressed. I push my hand down. Run my fingers between my legs. Check myself. There’s nothing to worry about.
Thank God.
My head throbs. I have the mother and father of all hangovers. I need water – lots of it – a hot shower and coffee, before I can face my houseguests. The bottled water at the side of my bed is warm. Despite the sour, earthy taste, I drain it as I stagger into the bathroom. A dull ache sits in my gut. Did someone punch me? I stand and stare at my reflection returned in the bathroom mirror.
I look like shit.
The electric toothbrush scours the fur from my mouth. Stale alcohol seeps from every pore. I step into the shower. Dial the heat setting to maximum. Let the hot water cascade over me. I overdo it and squeeze out too much shower gel. Huge globules splatter onto the tiles, infusing the steam with the sweet essence of lavender. It occurs to me that I’ve spent a whole lot of time standing in this shower since I arrived at Tern Lodge. I wonder how long it’s going to take to wash away ten years of marriage? Contemplate if it’s even possible? The water runs cold. I’ve been standing here so long that I’ve drained the tank.
I shake off my stupor. Wrap a white fluffy towel around my body. Feel several ribs. Martha’s right: I’ve got skinny. I pull anti-frizz oil through my hair and leave it to dry. It takes an enormous effort. My head feels like a ripe watermelon fit to burst. In semi-darkness, I apply moisturizer, mascara and lip-gloss. Fearing the light, I fumble and drag on a pair of cropped jeans and an oversized shirt. I can’t bear the prospect of Martha’s wrath, if she were to see me looking such a mess.
I creep along the landing to the spare room and peek inside. There’s no sign of Martha or Curtis. Did they end up in bed together? The sheets are disheveled. A duvet lies crumpled on the floor besides the bed. It’s seen some action. I listen at the guest’s bathroom door. Hearing nothing, I pad downstairs, avoiding loose treads to save my aching head. I’m not used to houseguests getting it on. I have no idea of the correct protocol. The house is empty. They’ve deserted me. Perhaps they’ve gone for a walk to blow away the cobwebs? Bella is absent, too. My addled brain demands coffee. Strong. Black.
The kitchen looks like the morning after a frat party. Wine-stained glasses and empty beer bottles cover the entirety of counter. It was a party of three, yet it looks like thirty. I sweep the empties aside. Razor-sharp knives drive into my swollen brain as each empty bottle crashes against the floor at the bottom of the garbage sack. Filling the dishwasher is pure torture.
I feel sick. The room spins.
I make it to the sink just in time. Retch. Bile stings my throat. Salty tears smudge my mascara. It’s one of those, never again, moments.
When my coffee’s ready, I shuffle over to the window. Blow across the top of the mug, and take tentative sips. Caffeine infuses the spots only caffeine can. I nurse the mug in cupped hands and gaze out through the window. Glasses and party leftovers lie scattered around the porch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a night like last night. I resign myself to the knowledge that it’ll take me days to recover – it always does – I’m no longer a twenty-something with a revved up metabolism.
With a resigned huff, I turn and collapse into the armchair by the fireplace. A candlestick sits in the center of the coffee table. A slip of notepaper sits under it. I reach forward and collect it.
had to dash, Sweetlips… tried but couldn’t wake you…
great night… fabulous sex! see you soon in NYC…
M xxx
I flop against the cushion. Re-read the note; not once, but twice. I can’t believe Martha has been so insensitive to leave without saying goodbye.
Or maybe I can.
I hold my head in my hands and massage my temples. A plug of something nasty catches in the back of my throat. I swallow hard. Hurt morphs into anger. I’m alone again. A sad and solitary character left to clean up the mess after an impromptu love-in.
Selfish sons-of…
I stop myself.
What does she see in him? I haven’t got a clue. Yes, I have… Martha wasn’t the slightest bit interested in him as a person. She’s curious and bi-sexual. He’s a hunk. A conquest. A notch on a headboard. She was asserting some kind of perverse, gynocentric dominance.
More fool him.
He could have ignored her overtures – acted like he didn’t notice – or wasn’t interested. But, no. He enjoyed it. He got off on her attention. Older women must be his thing.
“Gigolo,” I snort audibly.
I could cry, but I’m too hungover. I really don’t have the energy.
I shouldn’t blame Martha. She is who she is. She revels in being unorthodox. Validates her lifestyle by taking what she wants, when she wants. Last night is a blur. My memory befogged. Through the mist, I recall Curtis refilling our glasses innumerable times. I watch him taking me in his arms. Settling me on the bed. After that, it’s a blank. I promise myself to quiz him about it later.
I take four aspirin and go back to bed.
It’s kill or cure.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Day 32
I’m woken by a blinding flash of silver and a crack of thunder. I bolt upright. Open my eyes. See only blackness. It’s nighttime. I’ve lost the day. The heat and humidity of the past week has worked itself into a frenzy. Everything goes quiet as the storm takes a breath, before unleashing its wrath. A flash of hot light breaks in through the bedroom window. The low rumble builds to a growl. The deluge starts. Spears of rain drive hard against the glass. Roof tiles rattle in the wind. Bolts of lightning strobe the sky. Thunder vibrates th
e window frames. Tern Lodge seems to draw breath and hunker down against the assault.
I race upstairs, swing into bed and drag the duvet over me. I’m hiding like a frightened child from the tempest raging outside.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep.
The storm rages until daybreak. A weak sunrise brings the onslaught to an end. Drizzle replaces rain and peppers the glass.
I dress quickly. The thunderstorm has taken away the heat. The room is chilly and moist. The air is musty. I shudder. Pull on my cardigan. Brew more coffee. I stand at the counter gazing out through the kitchen window towards the causeway shrouded in fine drizzle.
Where’s Bella?
I call her name.
Where the hell is she?
I realize, with horror, that I haven’t seen of her for the best part of twenty-four hours. I’ve been so ill and hungover – not to mention angry with Martha – that I haven’t given her a second thought. She hates storms, and yet I’ve left her to her own devices when she needs me most. A knot tightens in my stomach. The shame is acute.
Poor Bella.
A sheen of dampness covers the porch. Glasses, empty bottles and sodden food are strewn everywhere. Rain – driven by the wind – has drenched the furniture and Bella’s outdoor bed. There’s no sign of her in the garden. I narrow my eyes against the mist. Call out. “Bella?” My voice is diminished and dissolved by the mist. I yell for several minutes. There’s no response. I need to find her. She’ll be hiding out somewhere, afraid to move.
I pull on a waterproof sailing jacket, slip into boating shoes and button up against the weather. I drag the door closed and set out into the murk. Striding along the path, I pull the hood up over my skull. The ground is waterlogged. I slip and slide. Trudge through saturated ankle high grass. I decide it’s time to search Bella’s favorite haunts: the causeway, cove and woods. I discount the cliffs. She knows better than to go near the edge.
I reach the steps leading down to the causeway and call out her name. “Bella. Bella!” If she’s down there, she’ll hear me calling. I imagine her bounding up the steps with that contrite look in her eye and her tail between her legs. Nothing moves. And there’s no response: no yap or bark. Perhaps she can’t hear me against the mist, which seems to absorb every sound. I decide to search the area around the causeway.
I race along the gravel path towards the steps leading down to the causeway. I slow at the top step, but it’s not enough. My right foot slips across the top of the first riser. I dig my heels in. Too late. The ground slides from under me and I feel weightless. Not so weightless when I land heavily on my butt in the mud. I’m winded. Searing pains fire along my spine, reach the base of my skull.
“Argh!” I scream.
I straighten up real slow. Nothing appears to be broken. I massage my right side, arch my back and ease out the tension. Mossy green slime coats my hands, jacket and jeans. A damp patch around my butt. I growl. Rise up. Start down the steps, taking care not to slip.
Slow down! Or you’re gonna break your neck…
It’s early and the tide is at its lowest. I gaze across a flat plane of battleship gray rock bereft of seawater. “Bella!” I call. The dank air swallows my cries. Pellets of rain drum against my hood. She’s not there. I convince myself she wouldn’t leave the island without me. Would she? Charles and I instilled boundaries in her when she was a puppy. Didn’t we?
Where the hell are you, Bella?
I peer into the mist. The big house looms over the end of the causeway. Drizzle licks my face, trickles down my neck and clings to my eyelashes. The big house rolls in and out of focus in the frigid blur. A diffused orange glow emanates from a second-floor window.
Curtis is there. I know he is. I consider asking him if he’s seen Bella. Decide against it. I’m angry. He’s abandoned me. So has Martha. Dampness penetrates my bones. Cold creeps over my skin. I shudder. I think back to the previous evening. How I found his behavior repulsive. I remember waking up with an uncertain feeling of being violated. Not a nice feeling. Deep down, I know he’s taken advantage of me, and quite possibly, Martha. How? I’m not sure.
Curtis Jackson professes to be oh-so-helpful and accommodating, yet he maintains an air of mystery. I suspect he’s not all he professes to be. There’s just something fishy about him.
I cast my mind back. See him making himself at home in my kitchen.
“Huh,” I say.
I’m furious with him. He stole Martha away when I needed her most. Maybe, he took advantage of her in the most carnal of ways?
How am I to know? Did I watch? Did he enjoy letting me watch? I assume he did. Did he spike my drink?
Son of a bitch!
I huff, turn and climb the steps. I’m mumbling to myself, grinding my teeth. Seeing the big house has rattled me. The glow in the window has set my imagination running. The possibility that Curtis Jackson is at home has angered me. My heart rate soars. The balloon in my chest is over-inflated; I feel breathless; stop climbing. Kick at the leaf mulch under my feet. Stamp my feet like a petulant child.
“The least you could have done was help me clean up the mess, you bastard. You haven’t even had the decency to fix my goddamn truck!” I scream, stamping my feet. The rain is getting heavier. It brays against my hood. My temples throb. My breathing quickens. I close my eyes. Stuff wet hands deep into pockets. Try hard to calm myself.
I have to focus.
Bella must be at the cove, hunkered down against the rock.
The mist rolls in. Above me, clouds turn from gray to black. The storm isn’t over. Tern Island is about to get a second helping. Summer storms are notoriously violent and prolonged in these parts.
I reach the cliff top. The ocean dissolves into the mist. I call out to Bella, again. There’s no reply. I descend the steps to the beach and wade through treacle-thick sand. Each step is arduous. My head pounds. Bella has disappeared. My heart sinks.
The surf’s up. A fine mist of briny saltwater assails my face. I run my hand over it. The residue exfoliates my skin. I run across the beach. With each step, I’m more frantic. I round the boulder in the center of the beach and inspect all around it. Satisfied she’s not there, I head off for the jetty. The murk is so dense I can’t see the end. I cup my hand around my mouth.
“Bella. Come here, girl!” I yell. “Bella!”
My voice dissipates in the surf's roar crashing against the wooden piles. Salt stings my eyes. I’m soaked to the skin. The jacket has failed me. I pull the hood aside and listen hard. Hope to hear Bella’s bark. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear her against the din of the surf. Waves roll and crash against the jetty. Something hard smashes into it.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It’s an eerie lament.
I climb the steps onto the jetty to investigate.
The ancient wooden slats creak beneath my feet. Sea spray shoots through the gaps in the boards. Since there’s no handrail, I cower against the wind and shuffle, crab-like, towards the end. Reaching the end, I hunker down. Next stop is oblivion.
The boat I’ve seen before is tied at the far side of the jetty. There’s no sign of the skipper. It’s crazy of me to think there could be anyone onboard in this weather. The lobsterman – if that’s what he is – will be tucked up warm and cozy in bed. He’ll be waiting out the storm. I’m alone. Cold. And wet. Forced out in the foulest of foul weathers to search for Bella because I was stupid enough to let my guard down and got so drunk I couldn’t even care for myself, never mind Bella. A shiver rattles through me. My head throbs in time with boat impacting against the jetty. I race along the jetty and return to the beach. There’s no sign of Bella. There’s one more place to look.
The woods.
My jacket is soaked. It no longer offers any protection against the rain. My jeans weigh me down. Each step is grueling. I reach the ranks of tall pines. Mist covers the tree tops. The sky above the mist is dark and foreboding.
“Bella!”
There’s no ech
o. The trees and the mist gobble up my calls and strips the life out of my voice. If she’s in here, she could have gone in any direction. A network of paths runs through the woods. They’re good for hunters and inquisitive canines, but not for me. I’m cold, wet and anxious. Not knowing where Bella is, freaks me out. I don’t know which way to turn; or which path to follow.
Where is she?
There’s nothing I can do but follow my nose. I take the first path my foot settles upon. At least it’s dry underfoot and not so sludgy. Every few yards, I halt. Yell. Listen hard. Twigs snap. Leaves crunch. It’s most probably deer or rabbits, but I pray it’s Bella. I stand and listen. All I hear is the wind rustling through the canopy high overhead. I’m hot and clammy. Adrenaline fizzes through my fingertips. My breathing quickens. I grapple with the jacket hood. Lift it off. Struggle with the zipper. Drag it half way down. Waft the heat away.
I lose sight of the path in the undergrowth. Disoriented, I spin around and study the ground. The path has petered out to nothing. My guts churn. Anxiety squeezes my chest like a vice. I call out again. It comes out as a wheezy, rasping sound. Bella won’t hear me.
I’ve been searching for well over an hour. Bella is nowhere to be seen. I sit on a fallen log, settle my head in my hands and massage my temples. I’m beat. Broken.
I have to think…
Where is she?
Behind me, a twig snaps with a loud crack. A bird scuttles noisily into the canopy. Frozen to the spot, I sit and listen. Another crack. Then, silence.
“Bella. Bella,” I call.
Another crack.