Pieces of Hate
Page 4
“Margaret, you say?” It was an effort, but after shifting her weight back and forth, looking like a beetle stranded on its back, she propped herself up on both elbows.
“That’s right.”
“Well, well, ain’t you sweet,” the old woman whispered through a weak smile. “To come see me, I mean. Ain’t that just so nice.”
“Would you like me to fluff that pillow and adjust your bed so you can sit up?”
“Would you? I’d like that, thanks.”
Margaret used the control to adjust the head of the bed, then she leaned over for the deflated-looking pillow and fluffed it up. As she did so, she was a bit disconcerted by the intensity with which Mrs. Watkiss stared into her eyes. She wrapped an arm around the old woman’s bony shoulders, lifted her up and slid the pillow beneath her head.
“Thanks,” Mrs. Watkiss said again, still not taking her eyes from Margaret’s. Her brow, lined with nothing more than the ghostly tufts of what used to be eyebrows, was drawn downward tensely above her bleary deep-set eyes. “You’re real purty,” she said, her slight, trembly smile clashing with her frown.
Margaret joined her hands behind her back and smiled nervously. “Thank you, that’s very nice of you to say. Is there anything I can — ”
“Just like your sister,” Mrs. Watkiss continued. “She’s purty, too. I can tell, even though . . . she’s been so sick.” She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper on the last four words. “She’s real sweet, too. Just like you.” She continued to smile, although it seemed quite an effort for her lips; she continued to frown, as well.
“Well, you don’t look so bad yourself. Mrs. Watkiss,” Margaret lied cheerfully. “Except for those little bandages. Have the nurses been beating up on you, or something?”
Another weak smile as she continued to stare into Margaret’s eyes. “Well, see, they had to take these things offa my face. Somethin’ called nelimonas, or . . . menilomas, or . . . somethin’ like that.”
“Melanomas?”
Mrs. Watkiss’s eyebrows bobbed, eyes still staring. “Yeah, that’s them. They had cancer in ’em, or somethin’, I guess. So, they took ’em off.”
“Then you must be glad they’re gone.”
“At this point, what do I care?”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Watkiss?” Margaret asked, her toes wiggling anxiously in her shoes. The old woman’s stare was becoming more piercing by the second and it made Margaret feel as if she were being interrogated under hot lights. “Would you like a drink of water? I’ve got a few magazines, if you’d like to read.”
Mrs. Watkiss waved her thick-veined, liver-spotted hand dismissively and rolled her head back and forth on the pillow, her eyes locked onto Margaret’s the whole time. Then, slowly, she raised her hand and crooked her knobby, arthritic forefinger, beckoning Margaret to come closer. With her hands on the chrome side rail, Margaret leaned over the old woman.
“Happened to me, too,” Mrs. Watkiss said, her voice little more than a breath. “When I was thirty-one. On a beautiful spring night. I was alone, tryin’ to walk away my woes. My boyfriend had dropped me for another girl, so I was feeling low, see. And then . . . there they were alla sudden. And they gave it to me . . . what they gave to you. A gift from above, honey, that’s what it is. Every bit as much a gift as the breath of life God gave us all.”
Margaret felt a tingling on the back of her neck as she glanced over her shoulder to see Lynda lying on her side, fast asleep.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, I don’t know. I ain’t so good with words, y’know? Can’t really express myself so well. I never got much education. But I got this feelin’, see. Prob’ly ain’t too many of us around. Maybe I should tell you what I know, even if I don’t do it so good.” She paused and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “See at first, I was real afraid of ’em. I’m sure you were, too. I was even afraid afterwards, when it was all over. Took awhile for me to figure out just what had happened . . . what what’d been done to me. But, oh, then when I realized . . .” She raised her hand and rested it on Margaret’s, which had gone white as it gripped the chrome rail.
Suddenly, something shot up Margaret’s spinal column and exploded inside her skull:
Green light . . . the shimmering green glow all around her as she lies flat on a cold, hard slab . . . and the faces above her . . . no mouths or noses, but enormous oval eyes of deep, glistening black . . . and the hands reaching for her, with their long, stick-like fingers, each with four knuckles . . . touching her . . . stroking and prodding and exploring . . . and all the while, she is paralyzed, unable to move, to speak, even unable to take a very deep breath . . .
“You okay, honey?” Mrs. Watkiss asked, patting Margaret’s tense hand as she lifted her head a couple inches off the pillow.
Margaret felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her side from her armpit and she had the sudden urge to start gulping air as if she were suffocating. “Fine. I’m . . . fine.”
“Well, then . . . where was I? Oh, yeah. I didn’t say nothin’ to anyone about what happened that night. Who’d believe me, anyway? Some people really get their cookies on that sort of thing, even go on them television talk shows to tell about it. But I’m just not the type to go around claimin’ that somethin’ the size of a city block came out of the sky and some funny lookin’ people took me inside to hook me up to some machines.”
It happened again, and like before, it filled nothing more than a fraction of a second in time, but inside Margaret’s head it was a small, shrieking eternity:
Something is suspended several feet over her head, lowering slowly. It is made of a shiny, silvery metal and has four spidery legs on each side, which move as it nears her. They contract, until they are about the right size to fit snugly around her skull. Two small, oval cups are positioned above three spaghetti-like tubes, which emerge from the center of the object — two on top and one below — with quivering jewels of moisture clinging to the tip of each. The device is less than two inches away from pressing over her face and clamping itself onto her head when Margaret realizes that the cups will fit over her eyes, and the upper tubes will go into her nostrils, while the single, lower tube will enter her mouth. She tries to close her mouth, which has been open wide as if to yawn ever since she arrived, but she cannot. Even her lips and eyelids are numb and useless, paralyzed. She is able to do nothing more than watch as the shiny device covers her face and replaces the green glow with utter darkness . . .
Margaret blinked rapidly and swallowed hard several times; her throat was suddenly dry and scratchy, as if she had been screaming.
“You sure you’re all right, honey?” Mrs. Watkiss asked. “You’re lookin’ pale’?”
“Tired,” Margaret said tightly. “That’s all. I drove from Los Angeles and I’m . . . tired.”
“Well, you’ll feel better soon. You got somethin’ that’ll keep you well. I tell ya. And I know, better than anyone.” She smiled, her thin lips wrinkling back over long yellowed teeth. “I didn’t tell anyone about what happened — you’re the first and only, in fact — but that didn’t keep me from usin’ the gift. I used it quiet-like, without nobody knowin’. But I knew. And I can’t tell you how . . . wonderful it was,” she went on in her raspy whisper, giving Margaret’s hand a squeeze, “to be able to do the things I could do then. At first, anyway. But then . . . it went bad. Not the gift, no, I ain’t sayin’ that. I went bad, see. It was me. I could do real good things, yeah, sure. But boy, I tell ya . . . I could do some . . . some real bad things. Bad, bad things.” Her face darkened as she shook her head slowly. “The gift, see . . . it can’t go bad. Only the person who gets it’s the one who can go sour. At least, that was . . . my experience.”
As she listened, Margaret felt as if the hair on her head was moving forward and backward in waves, and beneath her clothes, her skin streaked with rivulets of perspiration, crawled with chilly gooseflesh.
“Don’t you let t
hat happen to you, Margaret. What happened to me, I mean.”
Margaret had to lick her lips and swallow again before attempting to speak. “And exactly . . . what happened . . . to you?”
“Like I said, I went bad. I soured. I let the gift down, not the other way around. Lotsa good things can be done with the gift. Lotsa bad things, too. But you gotta make a decision, I guess.” She lifted her head from the pillow. “Promise me you won’t sour on the gift like I did. Use it the way it was meant to be used.” Her head turned on its spindly neck, and Margaret looked over her shoulder, following the old woman’s gaze to find that she was looking at Lynda, who was still asleep.
When Margaret looked at Mrs. Watkiss again, her head was back on the pillow. Clearing her throat, Margaret said, “Um, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Mrs. — ”
“Oh, sure you do. You the first one I’ve met, you know. I didn’t even know it was possible to recognize another like me till I saw your eyes. I knew right away. I still ain’t sure how, I just . . . knew. You’ve got the gift, all right, no doubt about that. Here . . .” She reached up and lightly touched four fingertips to Margaret’s temple. “. . . and here. That’s where it nests, best I can tell.” She placed her hand back on Margaret’s, patting it in a comforting grandmotherly way.
Margaret could only stare, lips parted, at the old woman. She could think of nothing more to say.
Mrs. Watkiss’s small gray head seemed to sink into the pillow as her paper-thin eyelids closed halfway. She seemed exhausted from all the talk.
“You was sure sweet to come see me,” Mrs. Watkiss said, her voice growing hoarse. “You go back to your sister now. That’s where you can do the most good.” She closed her eyes, the hint of a smile on her weathered lips, and drifted off. Her hands slipped off of Margaret’s and dropped to the bed. Her nose made a small whistling sound as she breathed.
Margaret took a few slow steps backward, drawing the drape back into place. Checking to make sure Lynda was still asleep, she hurried into the bathroom, locked the door behind her and vomited her breakfast into the toilet . . .
8
Holding a cold paper towel to the back of her neck. Margaret leaned against the bathroom wall trying to pull herself together. Her mind was going in so many directions at once that she wasn’t sure that pulling herself together was a viable option.
She’s just on old woman, Margaret kept thinking, trying to make the words convincing. Even Lynda said she wasn’t quite right. She’s just crazy, that’s all. And she just happened to catch me at a weak moment.
As she dabbed her face with the paper towel, she thought, Then again, maybe it’s not a weak moment. Maybe I’m going crazy, too.
After rinsing her mouth and running her fingers through her hair, she went back to Lynda’s bedside to find her sister still asleep on her side, her right hand hanging limply over the bottom bar of the side rail. Margaret lowered herself into the chair slowly, staring at Lynda’s face, narrowing her eyes as she studied it.
Yes, it looked different than it had yesterday, there was no question. Even in sleep, there was more color in her cheeks. Yesterday, it had been a taut face, stiff as a plastic Halloween mask, as if reacting to pain at every moment, even while sleeping; now it was a relaxed face, smoother, still much too thin, but without the tension it had held the day before. The bandana was wrapped crookedly around her head, revealing some of her nearly bare crown; a shadow made up of tiny, fine hairs darkened her scalp, as if her head had been shaved and her hair was trying hard to recover. Margaret looked down at the bony hand hanging off the edge of the mattress.
You’ve got the gift, all right, Mrs. Watkiss had said, touching Margaret’s temple, then her hand. Here . . . and here.
Margaret stared at her own right hand, turning it this way and that, inspecting the five-fingered appendage as if it belonged to someone else.
You go back to your sister now. That’s where you can do the most good.
. . . the most good . . .
When she listened carefully, Margaret could still hear Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistling quietly as she slept.
Making a decision, Margaret put the television remote in her lap and turned it on, then curled a hand around Lynda’s, careful not to disturb her sleep. Then, Margaret sat in the chair, watching the silent television, and holding her sister’s hand, having decided to hold it as long as was necessary . . . just in case there was any truth to the old woman’s craziness . . .
9
Margaret awoke suddenly in the chair at the gentle sound of Lynda’s voice. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
“Good grief,” she mumbled, sitting up straight in the chair, “I dozed off. That’s your job.” She did a double take at her sister.
Lynda was not just sitting up in bed . . . she was sitting up, skinny legs crossed Indian-style, her body facing Margaret, smiling. She was shaking her right hand and waggling the fingers.
“You were holding my hand,” Lynda said.
“Yeah, I guess I was.”
“No, I mean you were really holding it,” she said with a chuckle. “It went to sleep.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I’m touched, really. In fact . . . I’m puzzled.”
“About what?”
“Well . . . I know we agreed to put the past behind us yesterday, but . . . I can’t help wondering exactly why you came here. Was it for your high school reunion? Or did you actually come to see me after hating me all these years?”
Margaret sighed. “Look, we’re the only family we’ve got. And even I couldn’t go on hating you forever,” she added with a smirk.
After a reluctant pause, Lynda asked, “So, does that mean you don’t hate Mom and Dad anymore?”
Margaret sighed again, more sharply this time. “I guess some things are easier to get over than others.”
“You know, they didn’t hate you.”
“Please, Lynda, do we have to — ”
“Just listen a minute, okay? I’ve been thinking about this ever since you left here yesterday and I want to get this off my chest. Now, I know you hated them, maybe even more than you hated me. And you had good reason. They were cold people. You and I were different; I could see beneath their crust, but you didn’t want to look. Then you left for the big city and I stayed home and got married, which was the only thing I really wanted to do, I guess. Anyway, you were gone, so you didn’t see what I saw. You know, they really loved you, Margaret.”
“Nice of them to let you know. Of course, it would’ve been nice if they’d filled me in on the secret.”
“They talked about you a lot. They were very proud of your success in advertising. When Mom was killed in the car accident, Dad completely fell apart. I’ve never seen a man cry so much. I had to care for him like a baby. But even though I was waiting on him hand and foot, I felt like nothing more than an annoyance to him . . . because he kept asking for you. He wanted to know why you weren’t at the funeral, why you hadn’t called, or at least written. By then, you hadn’t written in a long time and none of us knew how to reach you. He started drinking heavily, then got cancer. Right up to the end, he kept asking for you. He hardly knew who he was, but . . . the last thing he said to me before going into the coma was, Tell Maggie how much her mother and I loved her . . . and that we’re both sorry.’“
By the time Lynda finished, Margaret’s head was bowed so far forward that her chin rested on her collarbone. Her eyes were stinging from the tears that were dropping into her lap.
“Oh, please don’t cry. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, or anything. I just wanted you to know that behind their cold, unaffectionate fronts, they loved us both very much. They loved you. So now, you can love them, too. Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean it’s too late. Now please, Margaret, don’t cry.”
Margaret did not move or make a sound.
Lynda got up on her knees and reached out her hand. “Come here. Please, come over here.”
“Now stop crying,” Lynda whispered into her ear. “I’m the dying patient, I’m supposed to be crying.”
When Lynda tried to pull away, Margaret held on to her and said, “No, not yet. Just a little longer. Please.”
A moment later, Margaret backed away from the bed, removed her compact from her purse and gasped at her reflection as she sat down in the chair. “Oh, God. I look like a raccoon.” She grabbed a small box of tissues from the bed table and began to clean her face.
“I’m glad you came to see me, Margaret. I really am. It makes me feel so . . . you know, this might sound stupid, but it makes me feel young. I even feel a little hungry. I might have some Jell-O later.”
As she reapplied her mascara, Margaret glanced at Lynda, surprised by her sudden surge in energy. She was sitting Indian-style on the bed again, bouncing ever so slightly, like a schoolgirl sharing secrets with her girlfriends at a slumber party.
Lynda said. “I wish I could go to that reunion with you Saturday night, just to watch, just to see their reactions. You’re gonna knock ’em dead. Are you going to the cocktail party, the dinner, or both?”
“I don’t even know if I’m going to the damned thing.” Margaret said, slapping her compact shut and slipping it back into her purse. “I think I’d rather spend the weekend with you. You know, I could rent a VCR and hook it up to that thing — ” She nodded toward the television on the wall. “ — and rent a few movies. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could even — ”