I throw open the door, expecting to see a neighbor, but instead, Zoe stands in front of me, with a disposable container in her hands.
My heart drops, then ricochets against my ribs.
I glance back inside at the couch, and Corinne is still there, although she looks to be stirring a little. I step outside and close the door behind me.
“What are you doing here?” My words are sharper than I intended. Zoe looks wounded, her eyes widening. She shoves the disposable bowl into my hands.
“I came to help you,” she offers. “You said you couldn’t cook. I was just leaving Vilma’s, so I thought I’d bring some soup for your wife on my way home. That way, you can look like a superhero. I was just trying to help.”
She sincerely sounds offended, although I’m pretty sure her top is unbuttoned more than usual. I can see the top of her red lace bra peeking out. I look away, focusing on her face.
“Thank you,” I say formally. “This was very kind. I’ll make sure to tell her you were thinking of her.”
Zoe giggles. “No, you won’t. You shouldn’t mention me to her at all. You don’t want to incriminate yourself.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong!” I say, and I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. Zoe or me.
She raises her eyebrows. “Okay. Calm down.”
“You should go,” I tell her, lowering my voice. “Corinne is asleep, and I don’t want her to wake up.”
“Of course you don’t.” Zoe nods. “Put the soup inside and come for a drive with me.”
I shake my head. “No, I need to be here.”
“Come on...” she cajoles. “Just come for a drive. You need some fresh air, and I’ll make it worth your while.” She raises her skirt so that I can see the top of her thigh. I grit my teeth because OH MY GOD. This can’t be happening. My wife is twenty feet away, and my heart is pounding.
“No. I’ll see you at Vilma’s.”
I step back inside and close the door, congratulating myself on my deft handling of the situation, and Corinne is standing in front of me. I startle, and she raises an eyebrow.
“Who was that, babe?” She eyes the container in my hands. “Food?”
My heart pounds, but I nod because it’s not a lie. It is food.
“Soup. For the sickly.”
“You’re too good to me.” She kisses my cheek and I feel like an utter ass. How am I going to get myself out of this situation?
“Let me go dish it up for you,” I tell her. “Go back and lie down again. You still look awful.”
“Gee, thanks,” she says wryly, but she does as I suggest, shuffling back to the couch and collapsing onto it. She really does look bad. Dark circles, pale skin. Her exhaustion is finally catching up to her.
In the kitchen, I dish out soup into a bowl, plating it with a few crackers on the side. I hold the serving spoon out for Artie to lick.
“Don’t tell Mom,” I instruct her. Human food gives her gas. She wags her tail.
I take the food to Corinne and sit at the other end of the couch while she sips at it. She leaves the crackers on the plate.
“I’m feeling better,” she announces when she’s finished. “I’m still tired, but a thousand sleepless hours is hard to recover from.”
“I still don’t want you up and about,” I tell her. “You need to rest some more.”
“But I’m bored.”
“I’ll get out the chessboard,” I decide. “We haven’t played in forever.”
“Not in years,” she agrees. “Do you remember how we used to leave a game running on the coffee table in college?”
I nod, chuckling. “Yeah. Because sometimes that was the only way we could interact with our busy schedules. I’d come home and move a piece, and then you’d come home and move a piece.”
“I felt like I was with you even when you weren’t there,” she says with a slight smile. “Maybe we should start that again.”
“We can keep the game running,” I tell her as I get the game from the sideboard. “But I don’t want it to be the only way we interact, Co.”
She shakes her head quickly. “It won’t be. I told you, Ju. I’m going to concentrate more on us. You deserve it.”
“We deserve it,” I correct her as I set up the board. She slides down to sit at the coffee table, a blanket around her shoulders and Artie’s head in her lap. She strokes Artie’s head absently.
“I love you. Do you believe me?”
She stares at me with such a soft look in her eyes, making them seem as light as the sky.
“Yes, I believe you,” I answer quickly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I’ve been so absent lately. I’m sorry. I’m fighting demons that I shouldn’t fight. My marriage comes first.”
“Sometimes demons are insistent,” I muse as I move a chess piece.
She nods. “Yeah. Mine certainly are.”
“Can you talk about them?” I’m hesitant to ask. She doesn’t like talking about it, and she never has. That’s not going to change.
“Maybe. I’m starting to realize that the way I’ve handled it all of these years hasn’t been healthy. Ignoring it doesn’t work. I have to address it.”
“Seems to me like a really good therapist told you that once.” I stare at her pointedly. She refuses to look up, studying the board intently instead.
“Yeah. He was a smart one.”
We’re quiet for a while. Corinne reaches out a finger and pushes her first piece, moving one square.
“I hate Halloween,” she says quietly, needlessly.
“I know.”
“I’ll always hate Halloween,” she adds.
“I know. That’s okay.”
“There was blood caked under my fingernails.” Her voice is low, and she stares away from me, at nothing. “I couldn’t get it out. It was there for days and days.”
I sit back, waiting. She’s never told me this before.
“That night...the cops came and wrapped a blanket around me and took me out to a car. But I was there to babysit the kids. And I forgot about them. Their parents were in the house, in pools of blood, and I forgot about them. I forgot about them, Jude.”
Her voice cracks, and I grab her, pulling her to my chest. I stroke her hair, and she cries.
“Corinne, they couldn’t have been there long,” I tell her rationally. “The cops were there. I’m sure they got them out, just like they led you out.”
She sniffs, her hand balled into a fist against me. “Yeah. But still. I was there to protect them. And I couldn’t.”
“You were their babysitter,” I tell her helplessly. “You were an eighteen-year-old kid who was there to feed them dinner and put them to bed. You weren’t there to protect their lives. It’s not your fault. Surely this isn’t what you’ve been carrying around all of these years.”
I pause, because maybe it is. Guilt is sometimes irrational. As a therapist, I’ve seen that a million times. But she shakes her head.
“Surely not. I do feel awful about it, though. I didn’t see the cops take them away. The state came and got them. They were put into separate foster homes. The scandal probably followed them everywhere.”
“Well, you know how that is.” I sigh. “You suffered from the scandal, too.”
“Yeah. But my father did it. Theirs was just an innocent bystander. It’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair sometimes.” I stroke her back. “You know that. But you know what else? You’ll get past this, Co. You’re the strongest person I know.”
She closes her eyes and curls up more tightly, and I’m practically holding her like a baby now. It feels good. I feel like I’m guarding her.
“No one will ever hurt you again,” I promise. “I won’t let them.”
“But don’t forget—” she looks up at me, h
er eyes watery “—the queen is the most powerful piece on the board, Ju. I think I have to protect myself.”
I chuckle at her effort to lighten things up. “Maybe. But the game is over when the king is taken. So whoever wants to hurt you will have to come through me. It’s not gonna happen, because I refuse to be taken without a fight.”
She cuddles into me. “Promise?”
I squeeze her tight. “I promise.”
Guilt tightens around my stomach like a vise, and I ignore it, pushing it away farther down until it disappears. If I ignore it long enough, then it isn’t there.
That’s my logic, anyway.
37
One day, four hours until Halloween
Corinne
I slice through the water like a knife, allowing it to flow over my back as I breaststroke my way down the pool.
I don’t take the time to swim much these days, but I love it here.
The physical therapy pool here at Mercy is always quiet, and this morning, it is completely empty except for me. It is still and peaceful, with only the sounds of the water breaking the silence. The reflection of the water glints on the ceiling, shimmering blue and turquoise from the corner of my eye.
I kick off the wall and flip around, heading back to the other side.
The cold water is a welcome treat on my face. My belly rolls and rolls, the nausea welling up in me. It flushes my face, and overheats me until I feel like I might pass out. I’d thought about calling off to work, but there’s no one to cover.
Cold water seemed to be the next best thing. A brisk swim before my shift.
I kick hard off the opposite wall, sucking in a breath before diving under again. Opening my eyes beneath the surface, the water is clear and blue, and so so silent. I love it under here. There are no problems here...no bad memories, no strained marriage, no panic. It is utterly peaceful. I should do this more often.
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, four.
I find myself down the pool yet again.
Then again.
Then again.
Physical exercise empties the stress from my body, wringing it out like water from a dishrag. I’m almost too tired to feel sick. But not quite.
As I heft myself up onto the side of the pool, the water drips around me, and I take a shaky breath. My mouth still feels sick, a bit like vomit, a bit like pooled saliva. I swallow hard.
I will not puke in this pool.
I resolve to take some Phenergan when I get to the ER. I can’t work a shift like this today. Hell, no.
Sitting on the side, I towel my hair and enjoy the silence for a scant minute more. In a few minutes, I’ll be immersed in the chaos of Emergency, so I’m going to enjoy this while I can.
It is as I’m standing up that the music starts to blare, suddenly and loudly, from the overhead speakers.
Lyrics from “American Pie” again.
I’m frozen as the notes and words swirl around me, into the chlorinated air, and my stomach seems to hit the tiled floor like a brick.
This song.
This song.
I swallow, and my heart is banging in my ears, the roar drowning out the sounds, and I look around, but no one is here, and there’s no reason why the music is playing, and I’m alone.
But I’m not alone.
Because the music triggers me into panic, and I’m clutching at the air and struggling to breathe as the memories stand around me, like sentinels waiting to drag me to prison.
The bloody bodies. The pumpkins and the full moon. My father’s eyes, staring at me in accusation. In accusation?
I sink to my knees and I relive it all...and something new pops up in my head. The kids’ crying from their bedrooms. “Help, help. Mommy?”
Their voices.
So helpless, so small.
And I hadn’t done anything...but stand there like a statue.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“Dr. Cabot?”
My eyes open, and my hand stops scratching at the ground.
A physical therapist stands in front of me, concern in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
Am I?
“I’m not feeling well,” I finally manage to say, and my voice is weak and small. The PT reaches out and steadies my elbow.
“Let’s get you over here to a seat.”
I allow her to help me and to wrap a towel around my shoulders. She even sits next to me for a minute, rubbing my shoulder.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“No, I’ll be fine in a second. I’m fighting a bug.”
And seventeen-year-old memories.
After a few more minutes, I’m able to stand and to breathe, and so I thank her and head to the ER locker room, where I throw on my scrubs. I feel dizzy, and in fact, the lounge spins for a minute. I lean my head against the cool metal of my locker. I can’t seem to gather myself or gain my bearings.
Brock comes in, pulling off his stethoscope. When he sees me, he puts it back on.
“Go back home,” he announces, without greeting. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious.” He puts a hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever, but you look like crap. You’ve run yourself down. You’ve got to get some rest, and you don’t want to give the rest of us whatever you’ve got.”
I nod, because I know he’s right.
“Okay.”
“I’ll go call someone else in. You go home.”
I nod again. “Thanks.”
As I trudge to my car, I consider the bright side.
I can spend the evening with my husband.
I don’t bother texting him. After he’s complained so much about my not being home, I’d rather surprise him. In fact, I decide to surprise him with food. I stop by Vilma’s on the way home.
The little café is bustling, but Vilma greets me with a smile.
“Dr. Cabot, it’s so nice to see you!”
The little old lady offers me a hug.
“It was so nice of you to send soup to me yesterday,” I tell her warmly. “I felt like I was at death’s door.”
“Glad we could help. Did we send you beef stock or chicken noodle?” She seems a bit confused, but it’s no wonder. I doubt she personally dished it up.
“The chicken. And it was delicious. I’ve got to pick up dinner for tonight,” I tell her. “Do you know what Jude gets when he’s here?”
She scrunches her nose. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken his order. Let me ask one of the girls.”
She scans the busy room, then picks up the phone, calling the kitchen.
“Zoe, what does Jude Cabot usually order?”
She nods, then hangs up.
“She said he loves the steak, but that’s not good for takeout. So he’d probably settle for a salad.”
“My husband is eating salad?” This surprises me. He usually runs so that he can eat whatever he wants. And then I instantly feel dumb, because I’m his wife and I should know these things.
I shrug. “All right, then, we’ll take a chicken Caesar, and I’ll take a big cup of soup with crackers.”
“You’ve got it,” Vilma tells me. She walks into the dining room, and a minute later, I see her talking with a girl. I can see the girl only from the back, but I know it’s Zoe.
Her skirt is short, her top is tight, and she’s definitely young. I swallow hard. As Vilma starts to walk back toward me, Zoe talks to a customer. She laughs and it rings out like a bell, and she’s flirtatious.
I remember when I was, too. It seems like a thousand years ago now, though.
I crane my neck to see her face, but she moves, and I don’t wa
nt to seem too obvious.
I pick up a magazine.
“She’s a good waitress,” I say aloud to Vilma. The old woman looks like she swallowed a bug.
“Maybe. The male customers seem to like her.”
Her meaning is clear. With the short skirt and tight top, I’m sure that’s the case. Men are easy to please.
“Does she wait on my husband a lot?” I try to sound casual.
Vilma pats my arm. “You don’t have anything to worry about, my dear. Mr. Cabot is a good man. It’s some of these other yokels that I worry about.”
I glance to the guy Zoe is waiting on now. He’s middle-aged and doughy, and he’s flirting right in front of his wife. Dick.
“You’re right,” I agree with the elderly woman.
I return my attention to the magazine, but out of nowhere, my stomach starts rolling. I rub it and close my eyes because the wave of nausea is intense and sudden. I know I’m going to vomit again.
I run for the bathroom, through the smells of cooking food and meat and perfume. All of it combines to make me retch even harder, and I barely make it to the bathroom. I can’t even lock the door behind me.
I drop onto the scuffed floor and puke my guts up into a dingy public toilet.
I heave and heave until there isn’t anything left to throw up.
That’s when the bathroom door opens and someone steps into the stall next to me.
I gulp at some air and heave again.
“Are you okay, Dr. Cabot?”
It must be Zoe. My foot is under the wall, sprawled into her stall, and I pull it back.
“I’m...” My voice is shaky. “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Oh my gosh, congratulations!”
“Thanks.” I put my hand on the wall, trying to stop the stall from spinning. The nausea is making me dizzy.
“Will your husband be happy?”
I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit again. “Yes. He’s been wanting a baby for a while now. Don’t mention this to him, okay? I’m going to surprise him.”
“Of course.” She flushes her toilet. “This bathroom is gross,” she points out. “You might not want to stay on the floor.”
Such Dark Things Page 19