In my ear, Simon said, "Be careful what you say to this man."
I shook my head sharply, "Ssht."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry, not you."
Detective Hayward raised an eyebrow and opened his bag, "Why don’t you tell me what happened."
"I picked Colin up at the Center around nine." I described it as I remembered it, right down to the sunshine. As my retelling approached the lake, however, my words faltered. It wasn’t that I didn’t remember— it was that I didn’t want to.
Detective Hayward prompted me. "What caused the accident?"
"There was a man—he ran out into the road. I had to swerve to avoid hitting him."
"Can you describe him?"
The man was a blur in my memory. "It happened so fast. I think he was wearing all black? Dark clothes."
"Was he young? Old? Black? White?"
"Young enough to climb over the guard rail and jump out in front of me, but he wasn’t a kid or anything. He was an adult. White, I think. I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit him."
Hayward looked up at me, and his eyes were the color of a foggy forest at twilight. "We found your tracks, but we didn’t find anything to indicate you'd hit anyone, and nobody has confessed to running into the path of your vehicle. As a matter of fact, we can’t find any witnesses at all—except you, of course."
"He was probably the one who got me out."
"Tell me about that."
"There was a woman and a man, maybe two men. It was definitely a man who swam down to the car and pulled me out."
"Except the paramedics found you lying on the shore all by yourself."
I shrugged.
Hayward scrutinized me. He stuck his tongue in his bottom lip, a gesture that seemed to indicate he was thinking. It made it easy to imagine how he must have been as a boy—serious and thoughtful. He said, "Okay. Two, maybe three people were there. They got you out, then instead of going back for Mr. Aubrey, they left—all three of them."
"I think they did go back for him."
"Really? Then, where is he?"
"I don’t know. Who called the paramedics?"
"Anonymous. It seems they used an untraceable cell phone."
"That must have been them."
"Maybe." Hayward cocked his head to one side. "Tell you what. Let’s talk about something else." It was a good idea, until he added, "I heard Colin tried to kill himself."
"He wasn’t trying to kill himself," I insisted.
"Hm. I heard he wanted to throw himself off the roof."
"He was trying to fly."
Hayward raised his eyebrows. "Well. I’m glad to hear it wasn’t suicide." He made no effort to mask the sarcasm.
"Look. Colin has a mental illness. That doesn't make him suicidal. Colin’s not dead. I’d know if he were dead."
"Lady, if I had a laugh for every time I heard that, I’d be Jerry Seinfeld." Hayward leaned forward, his expression very un-funny. "It’s unlikely that your fiancé survived without help. There aren’t any houses out there—not for miles. Even if he made it to shore, he’d have been soaked to the skin, and temperatures dropped almost to freezing last night. Without help…well…"
I said, "I think you should go."
"Just one more question. People saw you packing up the car at Vince Malum. So, where did Colin’s suitcase go?"
"What do you mean? He put it in the trunk."
"Can you explain then, why we found only your suitcase in the car?"
"Huh?"
"It’s creepy, isn’t it? How a man can disappear? Right out from under your nose. What do you think happened?"
I just stared at him, confused.
Eventually, the detective nodded with finality. "We’ll keep patrolling the lake." He turned off the recorder and stowed it. With one smooth movement, he rose to his feet and draped the bag’s long strap across his chest. "I hope you feel better soon, Miss Rose."
I had no voice.
At the door, the scruffy detective looked back one last time and then left.
I threw back the covers, ran to the bathroom, and was sick in the sink.
♦♦♦
CHAPTER 9
I cried myself to sleep after the detective left and was woken by Simon shouting in my ear. "Hide! You have to hide. Now!"
I rolled over and draped an arm on my ear.
Simon's voice moved to the other side of the bed, though I never heard footsteps or rustling fabric or any other sound. It was as if he floated, or maybe he didn’t have a body. "I’m serious. You have to hide. They’re coming for you."
I pretended I hadn’t heard him, and—technically—I hadn’t. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Simon was my most persistent hallucination. He'd been my constant companion since junior high and had gotten me into so much trouble—until I learned not to answer him out loud. People talked about kids having imaginary friends as if it were cute, but right about the time you hit puberty, it becomes a lot less adorable.
"Hide!" Simon hissed.
Then someone opened the door.
I rolled to see a man dressed like a TV mortician, complete with pocket watch and silver rose tie pin. He was tall, slim, and well-put-together. His black hair angled down next to one cheek, cut asymmetrically, and eyeliner rimmed his eyes.
"Everyone decent?" He asked in an Irish accent. "Ah yes, I see you are. Pity." The strange visitor crossed to the bed. "Are you Viviane Rose? The Viviane Rose?"
"Who wants to know?"
"You can call me Nathan. Most everybody does these days."
I said, "Um, hi?"
He smiled, his teeth extraordinarily straight and white, a contrast with his tanned skin. I wondered if he were an actor. He was certainly dramatic enough.
"So, do you admit to being Viviane Rose or not?" He sounded chipper.
"Yeah, I suppose."
His face changed as if a light had been turned off, and he looked at me with practiced sympathy and sadness. "Then it'll interest you to know that I’m Colin’s brother."
I pushed up onto my elbows. "Really?"
"I’ve been searching for him ever since he disappeared. That would be two years ago now. Our father misses him. It’s heart-wrenching to see the poor old man worrying for his eldest. I don’t mind telling you, it’s taken quite a toll on his health."
"Oh."
One corner of his mouth twitched. "After I saw his picture on the television, I talked to the police. They told me about you."
"Have they found him yet?"
"No, not yet, and it’s a tragedy. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?" Nathan leaned forward, body language eager.
"I wish I did."
He tsked and scanned me as if he might find a clue to Colin’s location in the wrinkles of my bed sheets.
I added, "Sorry."
"Reality is never having to say you’re sorry, girl. It is what it is." He stepped closer. "By the time I got to the lake, it was swarming with useless people all busy-busy and self-important." He moved in so close his nose nearly touched mine, and I leaned away from him. "I'll find him. It's inevitable." The scent of magnolia bloomed over me. Then, he turned and left without another word, his hard-heeled boots clicking on the linoleum.
He was stalking the moon, and it took me awhile to relax after he was gone.
♦
It was late. I was used to the graveyard shift, so I laid there awake, trying to ignore the burbling stream of my thoughts.
A chill leaked under the covers with me. I rolled onto my side and curled into a ball. It got colder. I tucked the blanket higher, up to my chin, and pulled it in against my back. The blanket slid to one side, uncovering my feet. I yanked it back into place and settled down again.
Finally, I must have dozed, because when I came awake, it was sudden. The room was freezing cold, and my feet were once again in the open air. I never slept without covering my feet, not even in the hottest weeks of summer. It was a habit I’d developed as a kid
. As long as my feet remained covered, nothing nasty could crawl into bed with me.
I opened my eyes.
I was not alone.
A woman was lying on the bed beside me, looking back at me. Her gray hair was alive. She had one hand on my breast, her touch icy through the hospital gown.
I didn’t react. I’d learned never to react. I just looked at her while my insides roiled with fear.
She dropped her jaw, revealing the blackened, toothless interior of her mouth.
I couldn’t move.
Her hand slid upward until her frigid fingers touched the base of my throat, and her eyes—the pupils void, black holes, dark matter—they sucked in everything she looked at. They were sucking me in, and her hand crawled up the underside of my jaw and over my chin. She began to envelop me, wrapping a leg over mine and inserting her other hand under my neck. She cradled the back of my head. Wherever she touched me, she was solid, then not solid, tickling, as if made of feathery tendrils or tentacles that stretched and retracted. Her expression alternated between passion and dispassion. She wanted me, but she didn’t give a damn.
Her hand covered my mouth, and she pressed her body against mine. All I could smell was crisp, cold air. I breathed her in involuntarily, her misty presence invading my nostrils, freezing them, expanding into my sinus cavities and violating my lungs.
I heard a sound in my mind, but not in my ears. It was the sound of metal tearing.
The hag closed off my nostrils.
I had no control over my own body. I couldn’t get away or fight.
That terrible, high-pitched shriek didn’t stop.
I went to a different time and place, to the Center’s basement, to the long concrete hall. Colin had been there, shushing me.
I'd tried to shove him away.
"Stop it, Viv. Stop it. She’ll hear us."
He crushed me, pushed his hand against my nostrils. "She’ll kill you if she finds you."
My throat clenched. My diaphragm spasmed. And then, I was in my bed, in the hospital room.
"She’s gone." Simon was right next to my ear, barely whispering.
I swam as hard as I could to the surface of my mind and sucked in a lungful of air.
The room was dark, my heart pounding. Several layers of blanket covered me and my feet. I pushed up on one elbow and turned on the bedside lamp. I needed to see every corner, every angle, every inch of the room.
"It’s all right," Simon said. "She’s gone."
I couldn’t help it. It started as a sob and ended as a scream. I needed to scream, because I could and because I hadn’t been able to while that creature had had me pinned and dying.
The people in white coats rushed in.
I remembered her touch, the tickle of her fingers as they crawled over my eyelids, insisting they shut, willing me to die, and I couldn’t stop screaming.
They tried to give me a shot, but I fought them. They held me down and forced me to take it. Then, I fought sleep instead, and I was successful—for a while.
♦♦♦
CHAPTER 10
"Wake up, Vivi," Richard said, pulling up the window blinds with a rattle and a tidal wave of painful light.
I reached my hand out to him. "Where’ve you been?" It was the first time I’d seen him since the accident.
He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing me over with his hip. I scooched to give him room. He looked like the college kid he’d been when I’d first met him, unsure and curious, his tight frame enhanced by rich corduroy and lamb’s wool.
"I’m sorry. I just got back into town this morning. I came as soon as I could. I was out in the middle of Lake Michigan when I got the call." He took my hand in both of his. "How do you feel?"
"Like crusty shit on an old shoe."
"Of course, you do." He paused, then added, "Do you want to talk about what’s been happening?"
"Not really. Tell me about your trip."
He humored me, waxing poetic about the rejuvenating effects of the Great Lakes air, his parents’ boat, the barbeque they’d had, and doing yoga at dawn on the pier. Richard had a gift. He could talk for hours and say absolutely nothing. Through all that, I learned nothing of substance about his family or his feelings toward them. He was a private man, and our sessions had always been about me.
"I brought you a fresh set of clothes. I'm here to get you. We’re transferring you to a room at the Center."
"Why do I have to go there? I’m fine. I’ll go home and take it easy for a few more days. All I have are bruises."
Richard patted my arm. "We want to keep you under observation for a little while longer."
"No. I want to go home."
"We think it’s for the best. You need to be somewhere safe, surrounded by people who care about you and who are trained to deal with this sort of thing."
"This sort of thing? I’m upset and scared, not crazy."
"I know. I know. I know you’re not."
I thought, What we say three times must be true.
He squeezed my hand. "Unexpected symptoms can bubble to the surface when we’re under stress. If you’re staying at the Center, it’ll be easier to have daily sessions for a while."
The only bubbles I wanted were the ones in my bathtub at home, but part of me knew he was right. I’d already had plenty of evidence that my hold on reality was deteriorating.
I got ready to leave and signed the papers they put in front of me.
Richard said, "I’ll get the car." He took my pile of belongings with him.
A male nurse guided me into a wheelchair. He wasn’t a talker, and I was glad. He rolled me through the tile-lined corridor. A crowd of spectators—patients and visitors—saw me go by, undoubtedly wondering what flavor of "broken" I was. I had survived where they or their loved ones might not.
The cool air of the parking garage felt good on my hot cheeks, and I was up out of the chair almost before my driver had set the brakes.
Richard pulled up in his red Mercedes. Once I was in, he took his time starting the engine and pulling out of the lot. He kept looking over at me and asking, "How are you doing?"
"Are you worried I’m going to freak out or something?"
He shook his head too quickly. "You’re a bit flushed, that’s all. Sometimes, after an accident, it can be frightening to get back in a car."
"I’m fine," I said, and I did my damnedest to mean it. It helped that I wasn’t the one driving. "Did you tell Abram about me going to the Center today?"
"Yes, he and I talked about it."
"I don’t suppose he’s going to be there?"
Richard snorted slightly, the closest he had ever come to expressing a derisive opinion about my grandfather. "No. I volunteered to settle you in."
I wasn’t surprised. Abram avoided the Center with a passion that verged on phobia. He apparently thought mental illness was contagious.
From the backseat, Simon said, "Can you ask him to turn on the seat warmers?"
I glanced over my shoulder and muttered, "Some things never change."
"Excuse me?" asked Richard.
"Nothing. Just thinking aloud."
The city scrolled by, and soon we were zipping along between corn and bean fields.
I said, "I should be out by the lake, looking for Colin."
Richard turned toward me, put his hand on the back of my seat, and said, "I went out there. They’ve got dozens of officers and volunteers looking for him. He’s in good hands. You need to take care of yourself right now."
I knew better than to argue, so I watched the farms and gas stations go by and thought back to a time when I was with Colin. The memory that came to mind wasn’t necessarily a happy one, but I slipped into it as if putting on a well-worn nightgown.
The day Richard had first met Colin, we were already a couple. I'd known Richard wouldn’t approve, so I’d kept it from him for as long as I could. Then one day, he caught us holding hands in the garden.
He stood over us, with the sun be
hind him, a vengeful angel come down to smite me for my insolence. He didn’t say a word until I introduced them.
Colin made the first move, offering his hand. Social grace compelled Richard to respond in kind, but after that, Richard kept trying to get me to see the folly in dating Colin. In one of our sessions, he took a circuitous route and asked, "Do you remember how angry you were at your mother when you thought she'd died and left you?"
I remembered. Instead of sadness, anger had been the touchstone of my youth. I hadn’t understood death. I'd felt abandoned.
"And, do you remember how angry you were when you learned that she wasn’t dead?"
"Abram let me believe she was dead. He abandoned her."
"And, by extension, you abandoned her as well. You feel guilty for all the angry thoughts you directed at her when you were a child."
"I should have done something."
"What could you have done? You didn’t even know she wasn’t dead."
"There were clues. Like how Abram never took me to her grave."
"Hind-sight is 20-20."
"I know, but…"
"You changed the entire direction of your life, Vivi, just so you could make that up to her."
I shrugged. "You sound like Abram."
"Look, all I’m saying is that Colin is not your mother."
"No. He’s my fiancé," I replied quietly. In my mind, that ended the argument. It was reason enough to suffer through with him.
Richard looked down at his hands and said, "Each of us has our own personal flavor of suffering that defines us. We cling to the people and situations we find painful because if we let go, we’ll have to change and become a different person. We find ways to repeat and replicate the suffering we know—the suffering that we think makes us who we are."
I had replied, "Today, you’re pain. Tomorrow, just a stain."
Richard pulled his car into the long two-lane drive that led to the Center. "Vince Malum Residential Living Center," I said. "Why does that sound so civilized and nice?"
Richard said, "It is civilized and nice."
"Only on the outside—on the inside, it’s all messy."
That made Richard smile. "Life is messy. Humans are messy."
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