by Herta Feely
“What are we going to do?” she eked out.
“We?” Bill said with disgust. “Get the hell out.” He stood and hurled the yearbook across the room at her, but she remained there stock still. On his way out, he shoved her so hard that she flew against the wall, her head shuddering against the edge of the bookshelf. Pain shot through her as she sank to the floor with a whimper.
As Isabel stood at the gas pump, she felt impatient, watching the dollars mount while the gallons accumulated at a snail’s pace. She was in no mood to wait until the tank was completely full, so she stopped the flow of gas. She went around to the trunk where she always kept sneakers and a set of black leggings and a dark gray t-shirt for her almost daily lunch workouts. As she withdrew them, she noticed a yellow two-gallon plastic can she kept in case her car ran out of gas. She stared at it. It seemed as if divine providence had placed the container there.
She returned to the pump and filled the gas can a little more than halfway. After screwing the lid on, she set it securely behind the driver’s seat. Then she used the bathroom to change into her workout clothes and got back into her car.
It was a little before ten o’clock when Isabel parked a block away from the Littleton’s. Though she hardly cared what happened to her, she still had enough sense to take precautions. Lugging the heavy plastic container, she trekked carefully through several backyards, none of them with fences, and peered into lit windows making sure no one saw her.
A few minutes later she arrived at the back of the Littleton’s house. Almost all the lights were out, except a couple on the second floor and one on the third. As she set out to do what she’d imagined only a short while earlier, her breath came in big gulps. For several minutes she squatted in the shadows by the side of the house to stop her trembling. She tried to steady her hands as she unscrewed the cap. She inhaled the gaseous vapors, which braced her.
Do it now, she told herself. The image of Phoebe’s lifeless face and limbs fortified her resolve. The bare branches of trees waved in the night sky. The only sounds were the faint soughing of the wind and the loud thump of her heart.
Staying in a low crouch she moved around to the front of the house, tiptoeing up the four wide steps to the veranda that ran the length of the house. She eyed the large picture windows that stared out at the front yard and the narrow panes of glass on either side of the mammoth custom-made doors that seemed to be watching her.
Unsteadily, she backed down each wooden rise as she poured the liquid onto the surface of the three lower steps. She avoided the one that connected to the veranda itself. That was as far as her plan went. If the fire climbed that last stair to the wooden deck, well, she’d leave that up to fate.
Several times she checked over her shoulder for passersby or late-night dog-walkers, and constantly she listened for cars, ready to sprint to the safety of the bushes and shadows alongside the house. She was imagining the damage – heavily charred steps – and figured it was minimal compared to what she really wanted, which was to burn the whole damn house down. She had to at least destroy something. How else could she repay that horrible Sandy Littleton? But this was only the beginning. After the last of the gasoline dribbled onto the bottom stair, she pulled out a pack of matches.
Her hands shook violently. Finally, she managed to rip out a match and strike it against the coarse strip on the back. Nothing. She tore out another. It too refused to light.
She again steadied herself. The fumes of the gasoline reached into her nostrils. Calm down. Take a breath. Phoebe. Do it for Phoebe. Once more she tried. This time, the match flared to life. She threw it at the steps, but the tiny flame extinguished before arriving at its destination.
“Damn it,” she whispered, separating another match from the pack. This one she struck carefully and again it caught. Shakily, she lowered the flame to a spot of fuel on the lowest step. At last a tiny fire danced and began to spread along that single stair. She imagined it engulfing the house, bit by bit, reaching inside the living room, then traveling upstairs into Sandy’s bedroom. She imagined her shrieking in pain as the searing heat consumed her. But the fire on the step threatened to die.
Finally, Isabel took the entire matchbook, held it to the diminishing flame, allowed it to ignite, then flung it onto the step with the most fluid. This time there was a pop and suddenly all three stairs were ablaze.
Isabel grabbed the gasoline can and ran behind the house. She took a moment to glance around and catch her breath, then crossed the backyard into the neighbor’s property and crept away. This time, as she traversed the same gardens she’d traveled earlier, her right foot slipped into a dark puddle. She lost her balance and tumbled headlong into the sodden earth.
Instantly, frigid water seeped into her clothing. She gasped. Instead of jumping up, though, she simply sat there, her mind struggling to understand what was happening. Where she was. What she was doing. At once, though, her mind snapped into place and Isabel moved into action.
She got up on her hands and knees, grabbed the plastic container and desperately tried to force water into it. When that proved futile, she scrambled to locate her cell phone, found it, tapped it on. Its glowing surface lit up her frowning face. She took a deep breath and struck three numbers: 9-1-1.
About to punch the green call button, something stopped her. What was that? She looked up. A fat, wet drop of rain landed on her forehead. Then another and another. She stared up into the dark heavens in disbelief.
A moment later, her heart still sprinting, Isabel got behind the wheel. She prayed the fire hadn’t gotten out of control. A fierce rain forced her to switch on the car’s wipers. Her teeth chattering, she finally remembered to flick on the seat heaters. Two houses before the Littleton’s she pulled up to the curb and peered at the dying fire.
Frightening thoughts tugged at her. What if the fire had torn through the house? What if something had happened to Jessie? Or Bill? The notion terrified her. While moments ago she might have cursed the change in weather, now she felt grateful.
Though she departed the Littletons’ neighborhood with the image of the scarred stairs etched into her psyche, slowly, she began to feel as if she, not some vigilante, some alien being, were inhabiting her body again.
Now all she wanted was to be back at Phoebe’s bedside in the embrace of her parents, who’d be waiting for her. A few blocks from the hospital she changed out of her wet clothes and discarded the leggings, t-shirt and gas can in a roadside trash container. She proceeded to the hospital, where she examined herself in the mirror of a bathroom near the ICU. She shook her head at the forlorn image, then thoroughly washed her hands before sniffing her hair and brushing the imagined smoke out of it.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
It was shortly after midnight and Sandy was exhausted. After Bill had struck her, for the first time ever, she’d locked herself into her study and refused to come out. When smoke from the burned steps penetrated the house, she hadn’t cared. Not just then anyway. Some tiny, diminishing part of her believed she deserved to die because of what she’d done, while a more substantial part believed she was the one who’d been wronged.
She wasn’t even entirely sure there had been a fire, but if there was, intuition told her that Isabel had set it, or she’d sent someone, though she was equally certain that someone was not Ron Murrow. No, he wasn’t the type. Whereas Isabel, acting all cool and lawyer-like, possessed a streak of meanness a mile long.
Sandy considered herself a keen observer of human types, but she also figured it would be hard to prove that Ms. High-and-Mighty had committed this crime. As her mind jumped from one thought to the next, she knew she could ill afford to make such an accusation as it would only further expose her and shove her deeper into a hole she was already struggling to get out of.
A year earlier, when Sandy had arrived in Bethesda, she’d imagined being invited to balls and galas and at some point making it into the Style section of the Washi
ngton Post or the society section of The Washingtonian magazine or even of Bethesda Magazine. But it had all proved elusive. And she certainly didn’t want to be in the spotlight this way. She could already see the headlines: Woman Uses Facebook: Causes Girl to Commit Suicide. Girl’s Mother Retaliates, Starts Fire. No, no, no.
She replayed Isabel’s entrance into her kitchen several times. Though it had disarmed her, she’d relished the look on Isabel’s face when she realized that her dear husband had lied to her. Sandy had been caught between wanting Isabel to know she’d had an affair with her husband and keeping that news hidden from Bill. At least now she knew Ron hadn’t had the guts to tell his wife she’d given him a meal for the family, afraid what else she’d given him would be written all over his face. Men were so predictable.
Three delicious memories of Ron – their date at the Jefferson Hotel, Jack’s Boathouse, and the Georgetown Mall garage – caused a smile to flicker across her lips. She’d especially enjoyed sucking him off. The way he’d groaned and shivered had truly delighted her. So satisfying the way she could make a man feel. It always amazed her how stingy women got with sex as they grew older. Like Isabel. Jesus fucking Christ, give a guy a break!
Outside, the heavy rain had turned into a wintery slush. She could hear its angry tapping against the window. Loud enough to creep her out. She wrapped her arms around herself.
If only she could find some wiggle room. But how, and where? She figured that nothing angered a man more than something that threatened his manliness. Suddenly Jessie, the kid Bill had loved, was the ugly reminder of a guy who’d come before him. No, of a guy who’d fucked his wife and gotten her pregnant in a way he couldn’t and never would. She’d always taken the blame for not being able to get pregnant again, but now she imagined he saw through yet one more lie of hers. That he hadn’t gotten hip to the truth sooner had surprised her: she hadn’t wanted another fat belly ruining her figure. One baby was plenty. And how could she love another child as much as Jessie?
Maybe after he’d had time to think things through, Bill wouldn’t leave her. The whole freaking mess would die down and he’d forgive her. But if he did want a divorce, well, she figured she’d get at least half of all their money and the property they’d accumulated. Her mind scrolled through their assets, something she kept track of. At least she wouldn’t be broke. Maybe she’d move to another town and set up camp there. Maybe this time she’d go someplace warm, someplace less snotty, and find a nice old rich man to take care of her. Maybe she and Jessie would go to Florida. If Jessie would forgive her. But she couldn’t think about that now.
With that in mind, Sandy got up, unlocked the door, and went downstairs to make herself a cup of coffee. In the morning she’d have a little talk with Jessie. She’d explain herself. Or try to. Would she understand that, bottom line, she’d done it for her? Okay, it was wrong to snoop. But really, after all the stuff she’d done for Jessie, didn’t that count for anything?
As she wound down the steps to the first floor, the stink of smoke was more noticeable, and fanning her face with one hand, she called out. “Bill. Jessie.” Several more times she hollered their names. She stopped halfway down the steps, finally realizing that nobody was home. They’d gone and left without a word. Frightened, she crept into her bedroom and locked the door.
Isabel cast a quick glance at Phoebe before greeting her parents and apologizing for being so late. Then she clung to her darkhaired mother like a desperate child. How had her life spun so completely out of control? Her mother fixed her with a kind stare and told her that although everything seemed bleak just now, it would turn out all right. That she ought to “give her problems up to God, to the powers that be” and give herself a rest. “You just have to let go and believe,” her mother, a devout churchgoer, told her.
Like her father, Isabel had scoffed at this advice many times over the years, but now, she was willing to heed her mother’s advice. So after a few minutes of quiet conversation, in which Isabel said nothing about Sandy Littleton’s role in preying on Phoebe, and certainly nothing about the fire, she hugged her mother once more.
On his way out, her father stopped and clasped her hands. “Don’t forget, I’m here for you too, Iz.”
Isabel withdrew her hands. It was such a typical thing for him to say. All because she hadn’t hugged him or given him any attention. A cavalcade of emotions assaulted her. She’d gone into law because she’d wanted to please him. Because like him, she liked the concreteness of rules and regulations. She knew of his aversion to the messiness of emotions. “Jesus, Dad, don’t you know anything?” she found herself saying, “You’re part of the reason she’s in here. Just like me.”
He stiffened. “Why, whatever do you mean?”
In a sudden moment of clarity, Isabel pitied him. Too tired to get into it, she said quietly, “Just think about it. The demand to be perfect, successful, and all the rest runs in the family. And so does the need. Maybe some other time we can discuss it.” Though she doubted that time would come. He stood there appearing puzzled.
She accompanied him to the door of the ICU, where her mother waited. She bade them both good-bye and went to the vending machine for some coffee. It would be a long night. About this she was certain.
Back in the ICU, reclining in the leather-cushioned chair beside Phoebe’s hospital bed, Isabel quietly sipped her coffee and watched Phoebe’s even intake and exhale of breath, which, despite the maddening sameness of it, went a long way toward steadying her nerves. Until her thoughts veered back to Ron and Sandy.
What had happened between them? Where had they met? For a moment she considered whether the encounter had been innocent, until the image of Sandy curled up beside Ron at the parents’ party popped into her mind. And the night he’d used the word “hon.” And other recent aberrant behavior. She sat upright. No, she couldn’t allow her thoughts to venture further in this direction. She would read. From her oversize bag she withdrew that all-time great piece of children’s literature, Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone.
On opening it, she saw the original publication date, 1997, three years after Phoebe was born. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that, Feebs,” she whispered to her daughter. As if it were somehow significant. But painful thoughts followed. Her daughter had turned 14 while lying in a hospital bed. And Ron had forgotten her birthday. He’d been too busy meeting up with Sandy and then covering his tracks. The extent of his deception appalled her.
To keep from breaking down, she turned to the first page of the story and began to read about the Dursleys of Privet Drive, a couple who believed they were “perfectly normal.”
Normal, Isabel thought. If only things could return to normal. But they were so far from normal it was insane, even when reviewing events from a detached distance. Her daughter lay inert after having tried to commit suicide, a woman – a treacherous woman – had used Facebook to prey on her daughter, her husband had lied to her about…about who knew what, and to top it all off, she’d just committed arson! Could things get any worse? Then she looked at Phoebe. At least she was alive. “Please wake up, baby. You hear me? Your mommy misses you.”
Staring at the fanciful cover of Harry Potter, she thought, if someone wrote a novel about our situation, no one would believe it. Far too strange. And so was love…what people did in its name. She thought of the strange shapes of love. She sat, listening to the hum and bleep of the machines. Let go and let God, she heard her mother say. And as for her girl, she knew there was nothing more anyone could do for her. It truly seemed to be up to some higher force.
Perhaps an hour or so later, Isabel’s calm shredded as the conversation with Dr. Bailey once more insinuated itself into her thoughts. She hadn’t been very encouraging. If Phoebe didn’t wake up soon, she and Ron would have to make a decision no parent should have to make. When to let their precious child go. The mere thought of it made Isabel’s gut churn. She clutched Phoebe’s hand, recalling Dr. Bailey’s words.
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�If she has no brain function, then—” Dr. Bailey had stopped. “Then there’s no sensation,” she’d said, speaking softly, “hence, no awareness of the pain.”
To keep her despair at bay, she began massaging Phoebe’s left hand, avoiding the bandages on her wrist. “Hello, sweet girl, how are you? I’m sorry it took me so long. Did you miss me? I missed you. I miss you every minute, every day.” She closed her eyes and slowly but gently kneaded Phoebe’s arm, then stood up and went to the foot of her bed. “Did you have a good visit with Grandmom and Grandpop?”
She lifted the covers off Phoebe’s legs and began rubbing them, first one, then the other, humming the tune to “You Are My Sunshine.” When she finished she placed the sheet and blanket back over Phoebe’s legs, tucked them under her cold feet, and moved around to her left side to begin working on her other arm and hand, careful to avoid the IV tube taped to her wrist.
“Feebs, do you remember when you were little and we were at the beach? That thing I used to sing to you?”
She inhaled a deep breath and in a quiet voice, so as not to disturb the other patients and their families, began to say the words she used to sing, “I paint the trees green, the sky blue, I toss glitter on the sea… you know why?” She waited for the reply Phoebe had given countless times, Why? She watched Phoebe’s lips with anticipation. Come on, baby, say it.
“Because I love you,” she said, finishing the poem she’d made up for her baby daughter.
Isabel startled at the sound of a voice. Her eyes blinked open. The Harry Potter book still lay open in her lap, a couple of feet away Phoebe was still unconscious, and Ron stood at the foot of the bed observing her, his face appearing to mask all emotion. In a split second though, the lurid events of the previous day came hurtling back into Isabel’s mind.