Caring Is Creepy
Page 24
I didn’t have a house to come home to. Just a pile of ash. I can’t say I missed it all that much, but it was my home. The only thing I ever heard my mom complain about was the loss of her bottled boat collection. While I was in the hospital, she moved in with Dr. Drose. So that’s where I went when they gave me my discharge papers and set me loose. It wasn’t so bad. I had my own room with my own TV and cable connection and my own bathroom. Dr. Drose never raised his voice. Or his hand. But I sometimes caught him giving me odd what-the-hell looks. That’s about as much as I could ask from any of my mom’s men. It lasted through Christmas and then we found a place in Savannah. Mom got a job at St. Joseph’s Hospital. I got a new school. None of this touched me. Nothing much would for a long time after.
One thing kept me up at night. Or I should say, one thing made me keep a steak knife beneath my pillow, gasp at shadows, and jerk awake at tiny sounds. Butthole Gibbs disappeared. No one made mention of him. Not the police, not the papers, not Travis or Burns. He just disappeared. I never once even saw his face after I dragged myself out of the house. He was just a voice whispering about magic beans. A shadow-puppet monster. And when I walked down the street or through the mall or across the azalea-choked Savannah squares, he was every tall man I saw. I stopped asking my mom all those other questions. Down in the dark-red, mushy part of my heart, I knew the answer to all but one. I made sure to ask my mom at least once a week.
“What,” I would ask her, “about Butthole?”
She never had a good enough answer to suit me.
Four and a half months had passed since Logan died. I thought maybe I’d put some of this terrible shit behind me. A new house, a new school, a new town. I began to think maybe, just maybe, a fresh start was possible. And then I went to the doctor. After the fire, Dr. Drose told me it was a perfectly natural response to serious trauma. I shouldn’t worry about it. My mom told me to enjoy it while it lasted. My new doctor, Dr. Patel, told me something different.
“You’re pregnant,” she said.
Hide and Seek
It was October and I was five years old. I woke up with this idea. It was like an egg I dreamed in my sleep. Perfect and whole and waiting for me when I opened my eyes. I would hide today. I knew a place my parents would never find me. I would go there and I would hide, and when they were having their breakfast, I would pop out and surprise them. There was a huge package of paper towels under the kitchen sink. It was exactly my size and very, very soft. The sky outside was the color of iced tea. Everyone was asleep. I crawled in and shut the door. It smelled like soap and chemicals. I don’t know what happened, but I must of fallen back asleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t hear anyone. I crawled out. No one was there. I went to my parents’ bedroom and no one was there either. This was my old house with an upstairs and a downstairs. No one was anywhere. The doors were locked and dead-bolted. I was stuck inside. Sometimes, as I waited, I thought they had gotten angry and left me forever, and sometimes I thought they had died. I lay down on my back on the polished wooden floor in the front hall and closed my eyes and waited to die myself. I wished out loud I would die. Over and over. I’ve asked my mom about it and she says it never happened, but I remember it clearly. I remember it as clearly as anything that has ever happened to me. And sometimes I feel that way still.
Acknowledgments
The initial inspiration for this novel was a tiny single-paragraph story in the Nation section of the New York Times I read sometime around 2001 and no longer have, so, first of all, thank you anonymous New York Times reporter. Because I fiddled and drafted and fiddled with this book over the course of a decade, there have been numerous readers and helpful advisors, so please forgive me in advance if I leave any of you out. My heart- and head-felt thanks goes to: Avi Neurohr, for that great, tough read; Nancy Dessomes; Matthew Miller; Dr. Joseph Thomas; Patty Pace; Carol Houke-Smith; David Starnes; Dennis Thompson; Imad Rahman; Tamara Guiardo; Jack Gantos; Bronwen Hruska; Juliette Grames; the inimitable Aileen Lujo; Justin Hargett; my beloved, brilliant, and extraordinarily patient editor Mark Doten; Steve Pett; Deb Marquart; Val Helmund; Dennis Thompson; the ever remarkable Scott Yarbrough; Charlie Kostelnick; Ben Percy, all of my other helpful and friendly colleagues at Iowa State University; my sisters Amy, Karen, Beth, and Lisa, and sisters-in-law Ann Marie and Gina Marie, from whom I stole girlishness shamelessly; my brother Patrick Zimmerman for his superb reading skills and continual encouragement; my large and boisterous family-at-large, from Amalfitanos to Zimmermans and all the marriage-made surnames in between; and of course, Tina, child whisperer, Confederate-in-arms, and delight of my life.