Poison

by Galt Niederhoffer

  “He’s two years old, Ryan. He was still breastfeeding two months ago—”

  “You know what?” he says, cutting her off. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” Without another word, he is walking away, toward his car with Sam. He has snapped from susceptible to impenetrable, again immune to reason.

  Sam is crying now, unsettled by the tension.

  “But you said…” It is too late now. Ryan is moving too quickly, fastening the car seat belt, settling into the driver’s seat, as though trying to find cover before a storm. “Can I please say goodbye?” Cass says. This is more a wail than a whisper.

  “I’d like to spend some time with my son. We can try to talk again in the morning.”

  Cass begins to crumble before the car leaves the driveway. The sight of her child being driven away is pain that defies description, watching his face recede, his eyes following her until they are obstructed by trees and distance.

  Cass thinks back to their fight on North Haven—the brutality of the words, the volume, the threat she felt in her body. The strike of the words themselves, which echoed for days. The terror of being the object of her husband’s hatred.

  And then it was over, gone, a moment in time that passed with no proof. A crime with no evidence other than hearsay, a memory, the sounds in her head, and the scar of knowing, wondering if there is truth in what he said, if she caused it, deserved it, enjoyed it. Just as quickly as the world transformed, the world was replaced. His rage is a summer storm. All the evidence evaporates. No way to know if it even happened.

  Now Cass turns and walks back to the house. She must find composure for the sake of the kids. “Alice, Pete, come on,” she calls. “We’re going out for dinner.”

  * * *

  They are several minutes into the meal when things begin to fracture. Cass is standing over the bathroom faucet, washing Pete’s hands with soap when she realizes she has been washing his hands for several minutes.

  “Mom, the water’s too hot,” he says. “Mom, the water.”

  It reveals itself first in colors, the way they saturate and ripen. Then something happens to sound—it echoes in a way that only machines can mimic. Then it is something that happens to time, its shape—elastic and round—and its behavior—uniform and then erratic. Every moment has a duplicate, a twin moment, so that a person sitting across the room seems to exist in two disparate planets. Something peculiar happens to the faces of other diners, curling the corners of their mouths so that they look as though they all have the same genetic mutation. It is a full-scale assault on the senses, giving each a new purpose, as though sight has been tasked with smelling and taste with seeing images. It is a jarring shift to everything she knows, believes, and senses.

  All red things are red as raspberries. All blue things are bluer than oceans. Clouds pulsate at the edges. Glowing circular orbs emanate from every light source. It is a new world that might be interesting had she had time to prepare for it, had it not been done to her. Instead she sits in the restaurant with her children, trying to act as though all is normal, trying to shield her kids from the fact that their mother is coming unglued at the center, she struggles to utter basic words as their waiter stops at the table.

  “Can I get you guys anything else?” he asks. His collegial tone is now abrasive.

  “No,” she says. It is all she can muster. “Wait. Yes. Water.”

  He looks at her with furrowed brow. He knows her, and she knows him. These are not the manners to which he is accustomed.

  “Now,” she says. And while she wishes for better manners, it is this or else devolve into incomprehensible babble.

  Their food arrives, and the children begin to devour it. Scrambled eggs for Alice. Pancakes for Pete. Did she tell them to order breakfast for dinner? Have twelve hours passed in the last ten minutes? Is the food on the table real, or is every object in the room, table and children included, a figment of her imagination? Terrified, she grabs her phone and thinks of an unlikely person. Conveniently, just down the street is a self-proclaimed expert on hallucinogens.

  “Aaron,” she says. “It’s Cass. Your neighbor. From the playground.”

  “I know who you are,” he says.

  “Something bad is happening. Something I think you would understand. I need help. Can you come meet us?”

  Aaron, much to his credit, arrives in less than ten minutes. He exudes the calm and soothing command of an emergency medical worker and a bossy older brother. He distracts the kids with a story about his own toddler. He scores a box of crayons from the waiter, tells them to draw on the paper on the table. He tells Cass to drink her water, orders her another. It is immediately calming to be in his presence, a man acting as a man should, as a caretaker, a protector. His expertise on the subject at hand makes him uniquely helpful. He immediately identifies the most likely culprit—LSD or liquid acid—and fields Cass’s questions with calm and comforting answers.

  “Why does it look like everyone’s smile is turning up at the corners?”

  “Don’t let it freak you out,” he says. “It does something weird to faces.”

  “Time is all messed up,” she says. “Everything is happening in two places.”

  “That’s your cerebral cortex,” he says. “Controls your sense of time. It’s on fire at the moment.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m trapped in a hell and I might never come out of this?”

  “That nightmare quality won’t last long. That’s the bad part of the trip. It gets worse if you stress out. The calmer you are the better.”

  “My throat is dry,” she says.

  “Common effect. It will pass. Drink water.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m connected to every person in this restaurant, all the raindrops on the window?”

  “That sensation of universality,” he says. “That’s Be Here Now. Turn on. Tune in. That’s why people do this shit, to experience the connectedness of all people, things, and nature. For that exact revelation.”

  The kids have regained a measure of calm, transforming the paper tablecloth into a colorful mural. The waiter has abandoned niceties and seems to be avoiding the table. Aaron sits in the spot that would usually be occupied by Ryan. He has assumed the role of babysitter, only he is looking after the adult as opposed to the children.

  Either because he is kind or because he is an expert in this particular substance, Aaron provides the soothing assurance that this will soon pass, that all is not lost, that Cass and her faculties will return in six to twelve hours. She trusts him as a child trusts a parent. She willingly submits to his help, leans on him to shepherd her and the children out of the restaurant, follows him back to his home, docile and grateful, while the world continues to look like the cover of a Grateful Dead album.

  * * *

  The children fall asleep in Aaron’s guest room despite the night’s upheaval. They are young enough to enjoy the unexpected and thankfully not yet wise to a world in which evil can be imagined—at least not in any more concrete terms than games about monsters and dragons. Aaron’s wife and son are asleep nearby in their bedrooms. The house is unapologetically cluttered with yellow walls and features from the seventies—dark cabinets, Formica counters, and vinyl flooring. The effect is heightened both by a vaguely sour smell and Cass’s current state of intoxication. It is familiar but indistinct—pot? Baby’s diapers? She spends the next several hours pacing Aaron’s living room with Aaron offering guidance and consolation. By dawn, she has regained the coherence to return to the guest room and fall into the bed that contains her children.

  Alone again, surrounded by two of her three children, she chides herself for misjudging this man, for the danger of condescension, the errors of her judgment. Running through the events of the week, Cass struggles through her stupor, to piece together a narrative, to make sense of all the nonsense. She comes to the bizarre but compelling conclusion that Ryan placed the substance on the doorknob, inducing her to touch it and dosing her with a hallucinogenic
substance. But why would he do this? Just as a means of harassment? What would he gain by causing her to behave like a tweaked-out teenager at a summer music concert?

  The answer comes to her as suddenly as the question. If Cass were to behave in a bizarre and unhinged manner in public, it would corroborate Ryan’s chorus, his claims of mental illness. A silver bullet for his defense. It would discredit her as a witness. It would effectively neutralize any claims she makes against him and, if deployed correctly, help him to gain custody of the child they have in common.

  “Put the kids inside,” he’d said. “We can talk for a minute.”

  She struggles to recall the moments of the previous evening, summons her memory as though ordering items on a menu. She remembers opening the door, watching Pete and Alice set down their backpacks, then closing the door and walking back outside to Sam and Ryan. She remembers seeing Pete in the window, staring at her and Ryan, his eyes large and somber. She remembers a story Ryan told her once about his girlfriend in college. She grew up on a hippie commune. One night she and the other kids got into the grown-ups’ stash of punch spiked with acid.

  “Did they take you to the ER?” Ryan had asked.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They gave us crayons.”

  Is Ryan capable of such a prank, such a crime against her? She pictures him now as he was in their home, the man she loved. She pictures him standing over the stove, laboring over the latest concoction—the best batch of almond milk, the perfect scrambled eggs, the fail-proof roast chicken, the magic, pot-infused cookies he made, a “little Jamaican magic.” Yes, he is capable, she decides. She knows it in an instant. Not only is he capable of it, he would enjoy it. An act like this would delight every facet of Ryan—builder, tinkerer, chef, chemist, architect, rebel. An act like this would thrill him.

  Before she falls asleep, she summons the energy to write one last email.

  “To Whom It May Concern,” she writes. “It has come to my attention that a sitter I hired from your agency supplied a false name and false references. She claimed to have a medical license that is nonexistent. Everything she told me was a lie. Obviously, I’m quite alarmed that the agency failed to catch this and, most of all, that this woman was in the presence of my children. Please respond at your earliest convenience.”

  SEVENTEEN

  It is Thursday, and Cass has a busy day before her. She must change the locks and pitch the food, clean the clothes, and empty the closets. She must purge her house of everything that could be toxic: food, sheets, clothes, all the floors and every surface. Forks, spoons, knives. Dishwasher. Washing machine. Oven. She must scrub and scour every inch with the most stringent solution. She must call the lawyer and call the cops. She must prep for court again. She is like a soldier on a raid, except stronger. She is a mother.

  Before she drives the kids to school, she writes a text to Ryan that is devoid of emotion. It is almost suspicious, she notes, how literal and unadorned her wording. If he were half the sleuth she is, he would immediately know that something was different.

  “See you at Tucker’s at 4:00 P.M.”

  He does not respond for several minutes.

  Panic rises in her throat. It matches the burning sensation that has taken up residence in her intestines, the swirl of nausea that rises from her gut to her mouth and the burning that stings her esophagus every time she takes a sip of water.

  “4:00 P.M.” This is all he writes. But it’s enough to quell her nerves and to cause her to drive faster.

  She checks his phone for something new, some morsel of evidence. Nothing since the last exchange, the painfully scripted dialogue between Ryan and Marley. She’d seen better writing on daytime television. She scrolls more frantically through the phone, texts from friends and colleagues.

  “Meet up for a drink this week?” says the guy who works in the next office.

  “Reminder to pay your cell phone bill before it is disconnected.”

  “Mr. Connor, your dry cleaning will be ready for pickup at 4:00 P.M. at the Cherry Street location.”

  Nothing new, nothing fruitful. But one text draws her attention now, from Ryan to an unknown number. It is dated late September. It is neither a love note nor a sext, but a more plaintive missive. A selfie of Ryan in repose, pouting in a way he seems to find terribly alluring. But more incriminating still than this exchange is the picture below his own photograph: a photo of a guitar. A gift, it seems, for a woman with a penchant for “all things strings.” The muse and the “lyre.”

  A quick draw on her database reveals an unsettling detail. The unknown number belongs to an Ohio address with a name that lists only a first initial. C. Alloy. Cass racks her brain for some possible association. C. Claire, Christina, Catherine, Charles. Then it strikes her: Wikipedia.

  C-Alloy: a synthetic man-made compound comprising more than one metal. Alloys are used in commercial production due to their excellent corrosion resistance and prove to be useful in a number of applications such as flue-gas desulfurization, chemical processing, and food processing and storage as well as pharmaceutical applications.

  * * *

  Ryan is standing outside when they reach the restaurant. Sam looks unsettled as well. His clothes are the same as he wore the day before, and his hair looks unwashed.

  “Want milk,” he says and reaches for her. He whimpers as he does when he’s tired.

  Cass can see it in his eyes—the redness at the edges, the jerky quality to his movements. This is not the fluid, playful Sam who leaps into his brother’s and sister’s arms, the child whose joy is contagious. Cass fights the urge to ask, to play the detective. Where did he sleep? How many hours? Who else was in the bed last night? Nothing she says will yield the truth or useful information. Right now she has a more important objective. She must act entirely nonchalant. She must stay calm until she has her child, and then she can run, then she can scream, then she can call for help. Hopefully, this time, someone will listen.

  “You guys have a nice night?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says. He is being curt. This is the brevity of anger.

  “Thanks for taking good care of him,” she says.

  “Don’t thank me,” he says. “He’s my son. It’s not something I do for you.”

  “Of course,” says Cass. “Just a figure of speech. Hi, sweetheart. I’m so happy to see you.” Without another word, she reaches for her child, hoists him under his armpits, turns, and walks back to her car. She opens the door to the back seats, where Alice and Pete are sitting, and begins the process of getting Sam buckled into his car seat, which, even on a normal day, requires some strength and maneuvering. She can feel Ryan watching her move, feel his eyes on her. The buckle snaps into a lock as he calls her name. She has given herself away. Both of them know now.

  “Cass,” he says.

  She does not turn around. She closes the back seat door. She keeps moving. She opens the driver’s seat door.

  “Cass,” he says.

  “Yes, Ryan,” she says. She drops into the driver’s seat. She closes the door. She turns the ignition.

  “I get him tomorrow at five,” says Ryan. “As per the agreement.”

  “Yes, Ryan,” she says. “That’s the agreement.” She turns and glances at the back seat, registers the alarm on the faces of her children.

  “Cass,” he says. His volume has changed. This is anger. This is suspicion. “Cass!” he shouts.

  She closes the window. It rises slowly.

  “Cass!” He knows that something is wrong. Something is different. He senses she has turned on him, that he may never again see these children. “I would kill for that child,” he says. “If you take him from me, I will kill you.”

  But her foot is on the gas. Now the car is moving. She is pulling out of the parking lot, peering in the rearview. Ryan is running behind, eyes wild and arms churning. But she doesn’t really see him. All she sees are her children�
��s faces. Alice’s eyes, solid and blue, open in terror. Pete, covering his eyes as though hiding from a monster. Sam, gazing out the window, watching his father with a curious look as Ryan chases after the car long after they turn the corner. Three reasons to fight, to be strong; three reasons to be believed. Three things to believe in. Three faces in the rearview. Their faces are tight with fear, their eyes blank, their mouths flattened. But they are together, and they are safe. She drives with new purpose. She has Matthew on the phone before she reaches the next stoplight.

  “Serve it,” she says. “I have him.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Matthew says. “I’ll call his lawyer.”

  “I need to go to the cops,” she says. “We need real protection.”

  “You sure you want to do that?” he says.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” says Cass.

  “For many reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  “First of all, they’re the cops. They can do whatever they want. They could take you into custody. They could take your kids. You could be questioned. This man is the father of your child. Are you sure you want him locked up? I know this may be crass to say, but if your husband loses his job, he can’t pay alimony and child support.”

  Cass scoffs, too repulsed to dignify the notion.

  * * *

  Cass and Matthew sit in Portland’s third precinct. Pete and Alice are in school. Sam is with his new best friend, Aunt Nora.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Matthew asks. “Attempted homicide is a serious allegation.”

  “Please stop asking me that,” says Cass.

  “It’s my legal obligation to remind you that the cops can do whatever they want. They can take you in for questioning, take your kids into custody. Both of these things are possible.”

  “Why would they take my kids?” she asks.

  “Because this is a confusing mess,” he says, “and he will make counter-allegations. The state can do whatever it wants when it comes to the interest of children.”