by Joy Fielding
In fact, I was no one.
Myra Wylie was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when I pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside. “Please go away,” she said without looking to see who it was.
“Myra, it’s me, Terry.”
“Terry?” She turned her cheek to me, smiled with her eyes.
“How are you today?” I walked to her side, grasped the bruised hand she extended toward me.
“They told me you were sick.”
“I was. I’m feeling much better now.”
“Me too. Now that you’re here.”
“Has the doctor been in to see you yet?”
“He was here a little while ago. He poked and prodded, lectured me about eating more if I want to keep up my strength.”
“He’s right.”
“I know. I just don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.”
“Not even for a piece of marzipan?” I produced a small candied apple from the pocket of my navy pants. “I stopped at the bakery on my way over.”
“In this rain?”
“It’s not so bad.”
“You’re a darling girl.”
I opened the wrapping, broke the small piece of candy into two pieces, placed one on the tip of her tongue, enjoyed the pleasure that filled her eyes. “I saw Josh today,” I said.
Immediately her eyes darkened, like the sky. “Josh was here?”
“No. I drove to Coral Gables.”
“You went to Coral Gables?”
“To his house.” I deposited the remaining piece of marzipan on her tongue.
“To his house? Why?”
“I wanted to see him.”
“Is there something wrong? Something the doctors haven’t told me?”
“No,” I reassured her quickly, as I’d reassured her son only hours ago. “This wasn’t about you. It was about me.”
Concern swam through the milkiness of her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just needed to talk to Josh.”
Myra looked puzzled. She waited for me to continue.
“He told me he’s back with his wife.”
“Yes.”
“He says you’re not very happy about it.”
“I’m his mother. If that’s what he wants, then I’m happy.”
“It seems it is.”
“I’m just an old worrywart, I guess. I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”
“He’s a big boy.”
“Do they ever really grow up?” she asked.
“How long have you known?”
“I think I’ve always known they’d get back together. He never stopped loving her, even after the divorce. The minute she started making reconciliation noises, I knew it was only a matter of time.” Myra twisted her head from side to side, no longer able to find a comfortable position.
“Here, let me fluff that up for you.”
“Thank you, darling.” She smiled, lifted her head, allowed me to extricate one of the meager pillows from behind her head.
“I wish you’d told me,” I said, kneading it with my fingers.
“I wanted to. But I felt a bit foolish after the things I’d said about her. I hope you understand.”
“It would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
“I drove all the way down there, made a complete fool of myself.” A sound, halfway between a laugh and a cry, escaped my lips. “How could you let me do that?”
“I’m so sorry, dear. I had no idea. Please forgive me.”
I smiled, smoothed several fine strands of hair away from her forehead. “I forgive you.”
Then I lowered the pillow I was holding to her face and held it over her nose and mouth until she stopped breathing.
TWENTY-FIVE
It’s such a strange sensation, killing another person.
Myra Wylie was surprisingly strong for someone so frail. She fought me with a determination that was stunning in its ferocity, her long, skeletal arms flailing blindly toward me, gnarled and brittle fingers clawing helplessly toward my throat, the muscles in her neck warring with the pillow in my hands as her desperate lungs screamed silently for air. Such stubborn tenacity, the instinct to survive in the face of certain, even longed-for, death, caught me temporarily off-guard, and I almost lost my grip. Myra seized that split second’s hesitation with all the strength left in her, twisting her head wildly from side to side and kicking frantically at her sheets.
I quickly refocused, pressing down harder on the pillow, patiently watching as her feet twitched to an almost graceful stop beneath the tightly tucked hospital corners of her narrow bed. I listened to her last desperate intake of breath and smelled the pungent odor of urine as it leaked from her body. Then I counted slowly to one hundred and waited for the unmistakable stillness of death to overwhelm her. Only then did I remove the pillow from her face, fluffing it out before returning it to behind her head, careful to arrange her hair the way she liked it. It was damp with the sweat of her exertion, and I blew gently on the matted strands at her forehead in an effort to dry them, watching as Myra’s thin eyelashes fluttered girlishly in my warm breath, as if she were flirting with me.
Watery blue eyes stared up at me in frozen disbelief, and I closed them with my lips, my hands trembling toward the exaggerated, open oval of her mouth, contorted in a way to suggest that, even now, she was still trying to suck air into her withered, broken frame. My fingers quickly molded her lips into a more pleasing shape, as if I were an artist working with fast-drying clay. Then I stood back and observed my handiwork. She reminded me of one of those floats people buy for their pool, stretched out and waiting to be inflated. Still, I was satisfied that Myra looked peaceful, even happy, as if she’d simply slipped away from life in the middle of a pleasant dream.
“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 such 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 s
eparate 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?