We walked through the double doors into a room heavy with the scents of coffee and nerves. People’s parents, spouses, and other assorted loved ones stood stiff and straight, watching for the one that belonged to them, the one they’d come to see. Wide-eyed, they clutched Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee, forcing a smile when they finally found the person they were looking for in the crowd. I watched as Rose ran to her husband and wrapped her arms around his neck. Hilda’s visitor was a middle-aged woman. Her social worker, I presumed. I scanned the room for Cyndi and my dad but found neither. My heart sank. They weren’t there. They hadn’t bothered to come. My name wasn’t supposed to be on the list.
“Sheridan?” Someone behind me – a man – said my name. I spun around. It was Ralph. He was wearing a white dress shirt and jeans, with a brown leather jacket.
“Where’s Cyndi?” I demanded, searching the room again.
“She couldn’t come,” Ralph said, looking down at his shoes.
“Couldn’t come?” I was shattered. “What about my dad?” I was still searching the faces in the crowd of people, now seating themselves at tables in groups of two, three and four. One of them had to be there. They wouldn’t send Ralph by himself.
“I’m sorry, Sheridan,” he said, looking up from the ground, his beady eyes full of concern. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but they’re just not allowed to see you right now, that’s all. They wanted to. I mean, I know Cyndi did. She’s been worried sick about you. That’s why I said I’d come check on you.” He bent to pick up a large paper bag at his feet. “And she sent this for you.” I took the bag and peaked inside. My jeans, two sweaters, socks and underwear, all folded neatly, smelling of laundry detergent. At the very bottom I could feel my slippers.
“What do you mean they’re not allowed to see me? Who’s stopping them?”
“It’s the investigation.” Ralph picked at his greasy fingernails. “You know. For your mom’s murder.”
I paused for a minute, taking it all in. I could understand why the cops would be looking at my dad. The husband is always a suspect. But he had an alibi. They’d see soon enough that he didn’t do it. But Cyndi? What could Cyndi have to do with it?
“Ralph,” I said. He looked up again. “What does the investigation have to do with Cyndi?”
“I don’t know, really,” he said. “Something about tire marks in the driveway being like the ones from Cyndi’s Toyota, but everyone knows she was with Matt that whole night.” He cleared his throat. “You want coffee? I think I see donuts, too.”
“Sure,” I said. “That would be good.” I found a place to sit. He had to know more than he was letting on and maybe a little chit chat over coffee and donuts would loosen him up a bit. While I watched him get us an assortment of donuts and two cups of coffee, I tried in vain to smooth some of the frizz out of my hair. Not a stitch of makeup on my face, hair that hadn’t been properly brushed or styled in a week, and the same pants I’d been wearing since I dove into my mother’s grave a week ago. I looked nothing like the girl he’d met.
“Oh, Sweetheart!” My heart jumped into my throat. It was her, the woman who spoke only to me. I looked around the room at the faces, looking for some sign that somebody else could hear that voice, looking for some explanation for it, something…anything. But they were all just sitting around the tables, talking to their loved ones, or their counselors, or whoever it was that came to visit. There must have been at least twenty conversations going on in that room. I could see their lips move, but the only sound I heard was this one mysterious, cigarette-soaked voice.
“It doesn’t matter what you look like now,” she said. “It’s not like Romeo’s ever gonna want you again, not now that you’re a mental patient!” My palms were damp with sweat, my heart racing. I looked to the front of the room to see if Ralph was on his way back to the table yet. He was standing there, chatting with some man, holding a tray of donuts and two cups of coffee that were getting cold.
“That’s right, Sweetheart,” the woman said. “Kiss that pepperoni tongue goodbye!” Cackling laughter flooded the room. I covered my ears with my hands, but it didn’t help. This woman…this ghost, or whatever she was…there was no escaping her.
“Hell, Sheridan,” she said. “Forget romance. Forget all of that. You’re never getting out of here.” I tried to eavesdrop on the conversation of the people at the next table, to focus on anything but that voice, but still, all I heard was her. She had taken over my mind.
“Well,” she said. “If you have to be stuck in this Looney Bin, at least stand up and take credit for what you did!” My mouth was suddenly unbelievably dry, and my hands had started to shake. It was then that Ralph returned to the table, smiling with his puffed up chipmunk cheeks.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said, setting a cup of cold coffee in front of me. I looked into his beady little rodent eyes and wondered what he saw when he looked into mine.
And then everything went black.
* * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
You could tell it was September. Even in the dark, there were enough streetlights along the way to illuminate a spectacular array of colors lining either side of the road. Trees whose leaves had turned burnt orange, gold, cardinal red… all of them vibrantly displayed against the backdrop of the midnight sky, as though the streetlights were not streetlights at all, but spotlights. The air was cold and dry, with the woodsy, earthy scent of autumn. A subtle hint of smoke hung in the air – the comfort of some distant, cozy fireplace being carried on the wind to soothe me. I pulled my scarf up around my neck and cracked the window open a little more. It smelled like home.
There weren’t many cars on the highway at this time of night. Everyone was either already at their destination or they were home, tucked in bed with their lover or a good book and a bag of chips. I drove faster than I ever had in my life. My foot was heavy on the pedal; my thoughts, lost in a place I dare not follow. I drove on autopilot, barely even realizing where I was when I pulled into the driveway. Had I meant to come here?
I shut off the engine of Cyndi’s Toyota and stepped out of the car. The only sounds were the rustling of the tall trees that lined the property, and the hard, steady pounding of my heart. I looked up at the house, visible only by the sliver of silver moonlight that peaked through the trees, and a shiver crept up my spine. It was just like the dream I’d had the night Mother was killed.
“The night your dream came true!” The raspy voice of the woman who still wouldn’t let me see her blew in on the breeze. I felt a slight smile form on my lips. I’d been expecting her.
And then I was inside, approaching the stairs to the second floor. I could feel the weight of the axe in my hand, but I had no recollection of retrieving it from the woodshed. I also had no idea why I’d come here. Mother was gone. My dad had not yet moved back into the house, and perhaps never would after what had happened here. How could he even consider sleeping in that bedroom again? For that matter, how could I be on my way to that very bedroom myself? And yet, here I was, slowly climbing the staircase, elaborate banister under my left hand, axe in my right. I paused after each step to look at the framed photos along the wall, photos I’d seen a million times that suddenly looked very new. Maybe it was knowing that I’d never see Mother again, except in photographs. Or maybe it was just how they looked in the dim moonlight that peaked through the blinds and curtains.
When I reached the master bedroom I stopped to take a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Had the room been cleaned or would I see my mother’s blood splattered on the walls and floor? And the bed sheets. Had anyone removed the bed sheets? Who would have cleaned up the mess? Certainly not my dad. How could he bare to do it? Aunt Jenna? Forensics? And if it hasn’t been cleaned, should I do it? The thought of it made my stomach turn.
“You don’t have to clean it, Sweetheart,” the woman croaked. “You’ve already done your part.”
I shuddered and walked through the doorw
ay. The room was freezing. Someone had left a window open, probably trying to air the room out a little, rid it of the smell of death. I closed the window and went around to Mother’s side of the bed.
Someone was there, under the covers!
“Who are you?” I demanded.
A hand peaked out and slowly pulled down the blankets. I braced myself, gripping the axe with both hands in case I needed to defend myself against this intruder. And then I saw.
It was Mother.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY
I awoke with a start. I was in a big white room, lying on an exam table. Nurse Crystal was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
“You’re awake!”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“You passed out in the cafeteria.” She pumped her hand and the cuff tightened around my arm.
“But how did I end up in here?” Pump, pump. The cuff got tighter.
“We brought you in here to keep an eye on you.” Nurse Crystal pumped her hand two more times, squeezing my arm so tight it felt like it might burst. “Oh,” she said, smiling. “Your cute little visitor wanted me to give you that bag.” She nodded her head towards the foot of the exam table. There sat the big paper bag Cyndi had packed with my clothes. The bag Ralph had brought.
“Where is he?” I hoped he wasn’t waiting for me in my room.
“He went home.” Finally she released the pressure and removed the cuff from my arm. I rubbed it to get the feeling back.
“How long was I out?”
“Longer than we like to see, but nothing to worry about,” she assured me. “It was probably a reaction to one of your meds. We’ll let Dr. Jain know what happened.”
What had happened? It was Visiting Day. Ralph was there. And that woman was taunting me. What was it she’d said? Something about taking credit? Credit for what?
“So how do you feel, Sheridan?” Nurse Crystal asked. She’d made the notes in my file and was now standing with her arms folded across her chest, looking at me suspiciously.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay then,” she said, unfolding her arms and helping me off the exam table. “Let’s get you to your room where you can rest more comfortably.” We walked silently to my room where she checked my blood pressure one more time. “Now I don’t want you doing anything but resting until dinner. I’ll be back to check on you.” As Nurse Crystal walked out the door, Hilda and Marge walked in. Visiting hour was over. I could hear the others in the hallway, shuffling back to their own rooms, chit-chatting about their visits.
“Sheridan!” Hilda shouted when she saw me. “Are you okay?” She plopped down on the edge of her bed. Marge sat next to her, both of them wide-eyed and curious.
“Yeah,” I told them. “I just passed out. No big deal. Nurse Crystal says it was probably from one of the meds.”
“Fuck,” Hilda said, exhaling heavily. She pushed herself back to the middle of the bed and sat cross-legged.
“They’ll fix it,” Marge offered, getting up to go sit on her own bed.
“Hey, Hilda!” Mark called from his doorway across the hall. “Hilda, where art thou?” He laughed. It was a happy, carefree laugh that left me feeling cold. How could anyone in his right mind laugh like that in a place like this? “I have a surprise for you!” He yelled. Hilda ran to the doorway. “Woo hoo!” Mark shouted. Hilda shrieked and ran back to her bed, flinging herself on it and giggling like a schoolgirl.
“He flashed me!” She told us between fits of laughter.
“Flash him back!” Marge said.
Hilda sat up, her brown eyes filled with glee. “Do you think I should?”
“That’s what I’d do,” Marge told her. “That’s exactly what I’d do.” It sounded like a dare.
Hilda turned toward me, wanting confirmation that flashing some guy in a mental hospital was a good idea. I shrugged my shoulders. What did I know?
“Hilda!” Mark called. “Where’d you go?” Hilda ran back to the door of our room. She looked both ways down the hall and then lifted her shirt, exposing her breasts to Mark, who undoubtedly stood across the hall not believing his eyes. Because even with Hilda’s brown teeth and drab brown hair, tits were tits. “Woo, Baby!” Mark shouted. “Shake those thangs!” Hilda shook them.
“My God,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone. “I’m gonna take a bath before dinner.” I got up and went to the bathroom, thankful for a door to close, to be able to shut out everyone else, even if it didn’t have a lock on it. I ran a bath as hot as I could get it, adding a little shampoo to make some bubbles. I swirled my hand around in the water and as the bubbles parted I saw my reflection, only it didn’t look like me. Not really. I removed my clothes and stepped into the water. It burned a little, turning my skin red. It felt good. Like I was alive. I leaned my head back against the tiles and slid down until the water was up to my chin. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to stay right there, enveloped in warmth, secluded, alone.
“Sheridan,” whispered the ratty voice I’d learned to expect to show up everywhere. There was no alone anymore. “When are you going to face the music? When are you going to let yourself see who you are? When are you going to accept what you’ve done?”
“No,” I said, burying my head in my hands. “I can’t listen to you anymore.”
“The wicked witch is dead, Sheridan, and you know who deserves the prize for that! Rejoice! Rejoice and set yourself free!” I could hear Hilda giggling outside the door.
“No,” I begged. “You have to stop talking to me. Please.”
“You finally did it,” she croaked, ignoring my pleas. “You finally made her pay for all the heartache and misery she caused you all those years.”
“What?” I whispered to the air, to the invisible woman who refused to leave me alone. “What are you saying?”
“You’re the one who killed Mother, Sheridan,” the gravelly voice spat. “You know it was you. You’ve always known.” The words echoed around me. “It was you! It was you! You, you, you!”
And then Mother’s head appeared in front of me, just like before, with that Mona Lisa smile on lips stained with her own blood, bottle green eyes rimmed with the blackest black, her head tilting to one side as she swayed closer and closer, her short blonde hair wet and plastered to her scalp like she’d been swimming. I reached out to touch it, instinctively, and as I did, I saw blood on my hands, running down my forearms before falling like little red raindrops into the bathwater.
“No,” I cried. “Please make this stop.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Mom?” I looked up at my mother’s head, impossibly swaying in mid-air. “Mom, please…” She smiled wide then, a smile wider than she’d ever shown in life.
“Sheridan,” Mother’s voice came out of the blood stained lips. “I forgive you.”
I felt my face contorting in unbearable pain as tears streamed down my cheeks. I could see it now. All of it: the drive in Cyndi’s car, seeing my dad’s axe in the woodshed, feeling the weight of it in my hands, going upstairs and finding Mother in bed.
But it couldn’t be true.
“Oh, Sweetheart,” the woman laughed. “But it is.”
I slid a little further down into the tub, the steaming water up to my nostrils now. I closed my eyes, blocking out Mother’s swaying, smiling face, and sunk further down until my entire head was under water and my knees stuck up in the air. Holding my breath, I saw myself tossing clothes into a dumpster, taking a shower, blood streaking my hair, my face…
“Sheridan,” I heard the woman whisper. “It’s time to face the music.” Even under water, there was no escaping her voice. “Remember,” she said. “Just let yourself remember.”
Suddenly, I was taken back to that night so long ago, when Mother held the pillow over my face. The image of her, standing stoically there in the moonlight, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday, and then, all the times she’d put me down, told me I wasn’t ev
er going to find a man to love me, that I would never amount to anything…
“Payback’s a bitch!” croaked the phlegm-filled voice that refused to leave me alone. My every instinct told me to sit up, to get my head above water and inhale some air, but I forced myself to stay still, to hold my breath a little longer, willing away that voice once and for all.
“I won’t be ignored, Sweetheart!” she threatened. “Open your eyes!” But I refused to be faced with Mother’s bloodstained grin. Instead, I held my breath even longer, until the voice started to drift away, and then longer still, until finally, I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
I felt myself sinking into the most glorious blackness, where there was no nasty woman saying crazy things to me, no floating heads, no hospitals, no nightmares.
There was nothing at all…except for the sound of a deep, guttural laughter, rich with mysterious undertones, echoing in the darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Noelle MacLeod is a Canadian writer of novels, short stories, poems and songs. She earned her B.A. in English at Acadia University.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER One
CHAPTER Two
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Since September Page 9