by Joy Fielding
“Good-bye, Myra,” I told her from the door. “Sleep well.”
I proceeded briskly down the hall toward the exit, confident no one would notice me. I even smiled at a young man on his way to visit his father, the blank look I received in return reassuring me I was still invisible—a ghost haunting the hallowed hospital halls, as insubstantial and fleeting as a whisper in the wind.
How did I feel?
Energized, relieved, possibly a little sad. I’d always liked and admired Myra Wylie, considered her a friend. Until she’d betrayed me, abused the many kindnesses I’d shown her. Until I realized she was no better than any of the others who’d abused and betrayed me over the years, and that, like those others, she was the author of her own misfortune, responsible for, and deserving of, her fate.
Not that I enjoyed being the minister of that fate. The truth is that I’ve never liked watching people die, never really gotten used to it, no matter how many times I’ve borne witness. Maybe that’s what makes me such a good nurse, the fact that I genuinely care about people, that I want nothing but the best for everyone. The idea of taking a life is genuinely abhorrent to me. As a nurse, I’ve been trained to do everything in my power to sustain life. Although, some might argue, why sustain a life void of purpose, a life that is increasingly more parasitic than human?
Besides, whom am I kidding? Nurses have no power. Even doctors, whose exalted egos we stroke daily and whose daily mistakes we’re constantly covering up, have no real power when it comes to matters of life and death. We’re not the caregivers we claim to be. We’re caretakers. Janitors, really—that’s all we are—looking after the leftover detritus of all the people who’ve exceeded their “best before” dates.
Lance was right.
I pictured Alison’s ex-husband, if that’s who he truly was, tall, slim-hipped, irredeemably handsome, and wondered if he was really gone. Or was he still in Delray, squatting among the obscene appendages of an overgrown screw palm, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to leap out at me from the darkness?
Time’s up, I thought with a smile.
I walked calmly down the four flights of stairs to the exit, grateful to see the rain had stopped, and that the storm clouds that had carpeted the sky all day had given way to the cautiously optimistic sun of twilight. Happy hour, I thought, checking my watch as I climbed into my car, debating whether to stop on my way home for a celebratory drink, deciding that it was still too early to celebrate, that much still required my attention. It was important that I be fully alert for the night ahead, that I not let down my guard in any way.
A siren was wailing as I turned my car into the rush-hour traffic along Jog Road, and I watched an ambulance speed by on the outside shoulder, probably on its way to the Delray Medical Center. I wondered how long it would be before one of the nurses looked in on Myra, checked her vital signs, and realized she was dead. I wondered if anyone would call me to relay the sad news. She was my patient after all. Where’s my Terry? she would say, the first words out of her mouth every morning, as if I weren’t entitled to a few hours away from her side, as if I weren’t entitled to a life of my own.
Where’s my Terry? Where’s my Terry?
Everyone always thought it was so cute.
“Here’s your Terry,” I said now, gripping the steering wheel as if it were a pillow, pushing on it with all my strength, hearing the loud blast of the horn as it spun out into the traffic, then crashed into the dying afternoon. Instantly, half a dozen other horns began polluting the air with their mindless bleating. Like lambs to the slaughter, I thought, smiling at the motorist in the car ahead of mine as he extended the middle finger of his right hand into the air without even bothering to turn around.
Why should he turn around? What was there to see? I was invisible.
There would be no autopsy. There was no need. Myra’s death had been expected, even anticipated. It was long overdue. There was nothing remotely surprising or suspicious about it. An eighty-seven-year-old woman with both cancer and heart disease—her death would be considered a blessing. The nurses would acknowledge her passing with a collective nod of their heads and a brief notation in their charts. The doctors would record the time of death and move on to the next cadaver-in-waiting. Josh Wylie would quietly arrange for his mother’s burial. A few weeks from now, he might even send the staff an arrangement of flowers in appreciation of the excellent care his mother had received during her stay at Mission Care. Soon a new patient would occupy Myra’s bed. After eighty-seven years, it would be as if she’d never existed.
An old song by the Beatles—She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah!—came on the radio, and I sang along loudly with it, surprised to discover I knew all the words. This made me feel strangely exhilarated, even elated. The Beatles were followed by Neil Diamond, then Elton John. “Sweet Caroline,” “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Long a devotee of golden oldies, I knew every word, every beat, every pause. “Soldier boy!” I belted out along with the Shirelles. “Oh, my little soldier boy! Bum bum bum bum bum. I’ll—be—true—to—you.”
I’m not sure why I decided not to park in my driveway, why I chose to drive past my house, circle back around the block instead, and park around the corner. Was I looking for Lance’s car? If so, I didn’t see it. Was it possible he was really gone? That I was truly safe?
I scoffed at my own naïveté, rechecking the street before getting out of my car and continuing briskly on foot, careful to stay in the shadows of the growing darkness, the hovering palm fronds above my head shaking in the wind, like giant castanets.
When I reached Seventh Avenue, I slowed my pace, hunched my shoulders, lowered my gaze, approached my house as if I were about to pass it by, then turned with seeming nonchalance at the last possible second and hurried up the path to the front door, my key already secreted in my hand. I pushed open the door, locking it immediately behind me, then ran to the living room window, my heart thumping against my chest, perspiration from my forehead forming a small puddle on the glass as I pressed my flesh against it, my eyes racing up and down the quiet street. Was anyone watching?
“It’s okay,” I said out loud. “You’re okay.” I nodded, as if to reassure myself further, ignoring the toppled Christmas tree and shattered ornaments as I walked into the kitchen, listening to the crunch of broken china heads beneath my feet as I approached the back door, my total focus on the small cottage behind my house.
The lights in the cottage were on, which meant Alison was probably home. Undoubtedly waiting for my car to turn into the driveway, so that she could put the final phase of her plan into operation. “Listen to me,” I said with a laugh. “Final phase of her plan,” I repeated, this time out loud, and laughed again at the sound of it.
I sank into a kitchen chair and surveyed the mess of broken women’s heads coating the floor. My mother’s pride and joy. “What’s the matter, girls? PMS got you down?” I kicked at the shards with my feet, watching the jagged pieces skate across the floor and collide with other fragments—an ear here, a bow there, an upturned collar, a wayward hand. “I don’t know what you have to complain about, ladies. You already had big holes in your heads.” I pushed myself off my chair and swept the mess into the center of the room, first with my hands, then with a broom.
It took the better part of half an hour to gather together and dispose of all the women—I was working in the dark, remember—but ultimately I threw the whole mess into the garbage bin under the sink, then went over the entire floor with a Dustbuster, and then again with a damp cloth. When I was finished, I was starving, so I made myself a sandwich of leftover roast beef, then washed it down with a tall glass of skim milk.
Women need their calcium, I remember thinking. Even invisible ones like me.
I returned to the window, stared through the deepening veil of night at the tiny cottage that had once been my home. A home for wayward girls, I thought, picturing first Erica and then Alison. What was the matter with me that I was drawn to suc
h people? Where was my judgment, my common sense? Why was I constantly putting myself in such danger? Hadn’t experience taught me anything at all?
My mother’s silent scorn leaked through the ceiling from the upstairs bedroom, like battery acid from a car engine, and I felt it burning a hole in the top of my scalp.
Another stupid woman with a gaping hole in her head, I thought, pulling at my hair as my mother’s voice whispered in my ear, You never learn. You belong in the garbage with the others.
A sudden movement caught my eye, and I flattened my back against the wall just as Alison pulled back her living room curtain to stare outside. She peered toward the driveway, her face full of worry. Wondering where I am, I realized. Wondering when I’m coming home.
She lingered at the window for several long seconds, then backed away, the curtains hiding her continuing vigil. I had to be careful, keep to the corners, not let her know I was home until I had everything in place. There was still so much to be done.
I pushed myself toward the kitchen counter, reached for the shelves, began gathering together the ingredients I would need: Duncan Hines yellow cake mix, a small box of instant chocolate pudding, a cup of Crisco oil, a package of chopped walnuts, a quarter cup of chocolate chippets, four eggs and a cup of sour cream from the fridge. Terry’s magic chocolate cake. My mother’s favorite. I hadn’t made it in years.
Not since the night she died.
Terry! I could still hear her yelling at me from upstairs, her voice strong despite the stroke that had rendered her body useless.
I’ll be up in a minute, Mother.
Now!
I’m coming.
What’s taking you so long?
I’ll be right up.
I stirred the ingredients together in a large bowl, dropping the eggs onto the top of the cake mix, instant pudding, Crisco, and sour cream, then mixing them in by hand so that I wouldn’t make any noise. There was always the chance that Alison might sneak out of the cottage without my noticing, hear the whir of an electric mixer, interrupt me before I was ready. I couldn’t take that chance. I watched the yolks of the eggs separate from the whites and spill across the light brown of the pudding. Then I wove my spatula through the mix, producing vibrant yellow swirls, like paint on a canvas. Creating my own masterpiece.
Still life.
Terry, for God’s sake, what are you doing down there?
I’m almost done.
I need the bedpan. I can’t hold it any longer.
I’ll be right there.
I folded the chopped nuts and the chocolate chippets into the rest of the mix, then ran my index finger along the top of the bowl, lifting a large gob of batter to my mouth and greedily sucking it from my fingertip. Then I did it again, this time using two fingers. A loud groan inadvertently escaped my throat as I slowly manipulated my fingers in and out of my mouth.
What are you doing down there? my mother cried.
When I was a little girl, I used to watch my mother in the kitchen. She was always baking something, and I often pleaded with her to let me help. Of course, she always refused, told me I’d only make a mess. But one afternoon when she was out, I decided to surprise her by making a cake of my own. I gathered up the necessary ingredients and mixed them together, careful to beat out all the lumps, just as I’d watched her do week after week. Then I baked the whole thing for an hour at 350 degrees.
When my mother came home, I presented her with my beautiful chocolate cake. She surveyed the neat countertop, checked the floor for spillage, then silently sat down at the table and waited to be served. With great pride, I cut into the cake and produced a perfect slice, then watched eagerly as my mother raised her fork to her lips. I waited for her words of praise, the tap on the top of my head that told me she was pleased. Instead, I recoiled in horror as her face began collapsing in on itself, her cheeks hollowing, disappearing into the sides of her mouth as she spit the cake into the air, shouting. What have you done, you stupid girl? What have you done?
What I’d done was use bitter chocolate instead of sweet. A careless mistake no doubt, but I was only nine or ten, and surely the look on my mother’s face, the knowledge that she’d been right about me all along, was punishment enough.
Except that it wasn’t. And I knew it. It was never enough.
Even now I can feel my body tense as I waited for the blow to strike the side of my face, the blow that would send my head spinning and my ears ringing. But the blow never came. Instead came an eerie calm, a misplaced smile. My mother simply pointed to the chair beside her and instructed me to sit down. Then she took the knife and cut into my cake, producing a perfect piece similar to the one I’d cut for her, pushed it toward me, and waited for me to take a bite.
I can still feel my hands shaking as I pushed the cake into my mouth. Instantly, the bitter taste settled on my tongue, combining with the bitter salt of my tears as they fell down my cheeks and ran between my lips.
She made me eat the entire cake.
Only when I was sick and vomiting on the floor did she stop, and only then to make me clean it up.
Terry, for God’s sake, what are you doing down there?
Coming, Mother.
I glanced back at the cottage, then preset the oven to 350 degrees and lightly greased a large Bundt pan. I poured the batter inside it, then added my secret ingredient.
What on earth took you so long? I need the bedpan.
It’s right beside you. No need to get so upset.
I’ve been calling you for forty-five minutes.
I’m sorry. I was baking you a cake.
What kind of cake?
It’s chocolate. Your favorite.
When the oven reached 350 degrees, I put the cake inside, then licked the bowl free of whatever batter remained. “You never let me lick the bowl, did you, Mother?” The best part, I’ve always thought. “I always missed out on the best part.”
I know you blame me.
I don’t blame you.
Yes, you do. You blame me for the way your life has turned out, for the fact you never married or had children. That whole episode with Roger Stillman. . . .
That was a long time ago, Mother. I’ve let it go.
Have you? Have you really?
I nodded, cut her a large slice of cake, pressed a forkful to her lips.
You know that everything I did, I did for your benefit.
I know that. Of course I know that.
I didn’t mean to be cruel.
I know.
It’s the way I was raised. My mother was the same with me.
You were a good mother.
I made a lot of mistakes.
We all make mistakes.
Can you forgive me?
Of course I forgive you. I kissed the flaky, dry skin of her forehead. You’re my mother. I love you.
She whispered something unintelligible, maybe “I love you,” maybe not. Whatever it was, I knew it was a lie. Everything she said was a goddamn lie. She didn’t love me. She wasn’t sorry about anything except that she was the one in that bed, and not me. I pushed another forkful of cake into her stupid, eager mouth.
My reveries were interrupted by a loud knocking and I raced to the kitchen door. A man was standing outside the cottage, his back to me. Suddenly Alison opened her door, the light from inside the cottage throwing a spotlight on the now familiar figure.
“K.C.!” Alison exclaimed as his profile came clearly into view. “Come in.” She cast a furtive glance around the cottage before ushering him inside and closing the door.
Look at the lowlife you’ve allowed into my home, I heard my mother hiss.
“My home,” I corrected her now. “You died, remember?”
With the help of Terry’s magic chocolate cake and a favorite pillow.
“Taste buds failed you that time, didn’t they, Mother?” Whoever said that Percodan and chocolate pudding didn’t mix?
I smelled the aroma of freshly baking cake, glanced at the ov
en, then back to the cottage in time to see the door reopen, and Alison step outside behind K.C. “Terry should be home soon,” she was saying. “I can’t be gone long.”
I ran through the kitchen to the front of the house, watched through the living room window as Alison and K.C. marched purposefully down the front path to the street, then turned the corner, their arms brushing up against one another as they walked. Were they going to meet Lance and Denise? How long before they’d be back? And would Erica’s biker friend be with them?
I wasted no more time. Clutching the spare key to the cottage between my fingers, and carefully sliding the foot-long butcher knife with its tapered two-inch blade from its wooden slot, I opened the back door and stepped into a night redolent with whispers and lies.
TWENTY-SIX
I’m not sure what I was looking for, or what exactly I thought I’d find.
Maybe I was checking to make sure Lance was really gone. Or maybe I was looking for Alison’s journal, something I could take to the police, point to as proof positive that my life was at risk. I don’t know. As I stood in the middle of the brightly lit living room, my hands trembling, my knees all but knocking together, I had absolutely no thought in my head as to what to do next.
I had no idea how long Alison and K.C. would be gone. And how did I know Lance wasn’t hiding in the bedroom, watching and waiting for my next stupid move? Hadn’t I parked my car around the block to avoid discovery? Couldn’t he have done exactly the same thing?
Except there was no sign of him anywhere: no rumpled clothing strewn carelessly on the floor; no wayward creases in the furniture where he might have sat; no stray masculine smells permeating the air, disturbing the scent of baby powder and strawberries. I tiptoed toward the bedroom, the handle of the large butcher knife clutched tightly in the palm of my hand, the blade protruding from my body like the thorn of a giant rose.