by Alex Lake
20
Sarah had no idea how much time had passed since Jean had burned a hole in the bottle of water with her cigarette. The image of the water pouring out on to the concrete floor had kept coming back to her, each time more tortuous and more realistic than the last. On a few occasions she hallucinated that Jean was there, doing it again, and she caught herself crying out no, stop, don’t waste it.
But there had been no one there. Just the thirst. And the knowledge that if she didn’t drink, she would die. She tried to calculate how long she could go on, but it was pointless. A person – depending on their individual physiology and condition – could survive, at maximum, a week without water. She didn’t know how long it had been since the last drink, so she had no idea how long she had left.
And it didn’t matter. The thirst obliterated any other feeling.. She was nothing other than thirst. She was defined by it.
She lay on the floor, hot then cold, shivering then feverish. Eyes open or shut: it made no difference. There was nothing to see. There was nothing.
Nothing but the desire for water. Cool, fresh water. Water gurgling over rocks in a mountain stream. Rain falling from the skies. A glass full of ice and lemon and beautiful, life-giving water.
She felt her grip on consciousness loosen. She was aware, in an abstract way, this might be the end. This might be death.
But she didn’t care. She craved its release.
She came to and there was a light.
The headlamp.
Jean.
She shifted on the floor, and blinked. How long had she been there, watching?
‘You’re alive,’ Jean said. ‘I was starting to wonder. I didn’t want to check you in case you were playing possum.’
Sarah didn’t reply; words would have been impossible. Instead she searched for the shape of a bottle in Jean’s hands. Nothing. She could not see through the glare of the headlamp.
‘Looking for this?’ Jean said. She squatted and rolled a bottle toward Sarah. It hit her outstretched hand and she gasped.
It was cold. Wet with condensation.
A drink.
She peered at the label. Gatorade.
She let out a groan and twisted off the top.
It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. No gourmet meal could come close. She felt the cold liquid hit her stomach and it tensed, threatened to retch.
She’d let it settle. Take sips.
But fuck it was hard. All she wanted to do was gulp it down in one go, wallow in the glorious relief.
She stopped herself. Took a sip. Took another.
Then she looked at Jean.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely audible.
Jean shrugged. ‘It’s not out of the goodness of my heart,’ she said, and gave a laugh. ‘Not at all. Mainly I want you alive so you can hear about what’s new in my world.’
Her tone was conversational, an old friend sharing her latest news over coffee.
‘I think,’ Jean said. ‘I think he’s falling for me.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Never.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it. We went for a lovely walk together yesterday. Diana and Roger looked after the kids. All the kids, mine included. It was almost like we were one big family already. Magical.’
Sarah tried to block out the sound of her words. She sipped more of the Gatorade.
Jean lit a cigarette.
‘The beauty of it,’ she said, ‘is I’m going to get back at Diana at the same time as I destroy you. She’s going to be the one who makes it all possible. It’ll be when she’s looking after the kids that I get my chance, you see. Without her – and his ineffectual father – he’d never leave them. No one else is trustworthy enough – me aside – and so it’s perfect she’s here. Little does she know that her last meaningful act on this earth will be to make it possible for me to steal her daughter-in-law’s life.’
Sarah looked away. She had no choice but to hear this, but she didn’t want to watch Jean’s triumphalism as well.
‘It was a poignant occasion,’ Jean said. ‘We strolled through the Town Commons. Bathed in the evening sunlight. We linked arms, talked about you. How we missed you, but how we were both so angry at you for doing this. I’m going to make sure I stoke his anger, by the way. An angry man will justify many things to himself. For example, he’ll think fucking me is justified, because his goddamn wife went and killed herself and he’s mighty pissed at her. And then, at the end, we hugged, and promised to be there for each other. Lovely, no?’
‘Can I have a cigarette?’ Sarah said. She didn’t want a cigarette for the cigarette itself; any object would do so long as it was outside of her and the darkness. She needed something to make her feel like she still existed.
Jean tossed the packet across the floor. Sarah picked it up and took out the Zippo and a cigarette. She struck a flame and lit it, then inhaled. She listened as the tobacco crackled and burned.
The smoke was harsh against her dry, damaged throat and she coughed. She put the lighter inside the cigarette packet and slid it across the floor to Jean. It stopped by her sneakered feet.
Jean didn’t look at it. Without a word, she turned and walked out of the door and up to the house.
21
Ben sat on the couch, Faye on his lap. She was asleep. It was 5 p.m. on a Friday and he would normally not have wanted her napping then as it would rule out any chance of her going to bed at a reasonable time.
But this was not normally. Faye had not slept more than an hour or two since he had told her Sarah was gone. She would fall asleep around nine, and then, by eleven at the latest, she would be in his bed, wriggling and restless. He didn’t mind; it wasn’t like he was sleeping much himself, but it upset him to lie there and watch his daughter jerk awake with a cry, snapping out of some nightmare.
He held Faye tight, relishing the warmth of her body and taking comfort in the fact she was at rest, at least for a few moments. As he looked at her, there was a knock on the door.
He didn’t move. He didn’t want to disturb Faye. Whoever it was would either try the door and let themselves in – which was common in Barrow, if you knew people well – or go away. There was nobody else to answer the door: Kim was out on a walk with his dad, Miles was playing a video game in the living room, and his mum was asleep in the guest room.
He heard the sound of the door opening.
‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice. Ben tensed. He didn’t recognize it. ‘Anybody home?’
He covered Faye’s ears. ‘Who is it?’
‘Ian. Ian Molyneux.’
The cop. Sarah’s high-school friend. Ben had often wondered whether there was a history between them; he’d never know now.
But the fact he was here suggested there might be an update. Ben felt a flicker of hope; he snuffed it out. This would surely be a routine follow-up to Molyneux’s first visit.
‘Come in,’ he said softly. ‘Faye’s sleeping.’
Ian walked into the kitchen. He was in his uniform, dark circles below his eyes.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How’s it goin’?’
‘Not great,’ Ben said. ‘But getting better.’
Molyneux shook his head. ‘I’m real sorry, man,’ he said. ‘I still don’t believe it.’
So no update then. The hope went out for good.
‘I know,’ Ben said. ‘It’s hard to take.’ A candidate for understatement of the year, he thought. But what was he supposed to say? He gestured at the fridge. ‘Want a beer?’
Molyneux nodded. ‘Thanks. I’d love one. Been a long day. Big pile-up on 295.’ He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Geary’s IPA. ‘You?’
Ben shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’m steering clear for the moment.’
‘Wise man,’ Molyneux said. ‘So. I came by to check in, but also to fill you in on the search.’
‘Find anything?’
Molyneux sipped his beer. He shook his head. ‘Nothin’.
But then if she went swimming in the ocean – well, the tides are pretty big in the Casco Bay. The body could be anywhere in the Gulf of Maine. I’m sorry.’
Ben couldn’t quite come to terms with the fact he was having this conversation, but he supposed it was what happened when your wife drunk a bunch of booze, took some sleeping pills and swam into the black night of the ocean.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Keep me posted.’
‘I will.’ Molyneux sat back in the armchair. ‘This is the second time I’ve had to deal with this.’
‘Really?’ Ben said. He wasn’t really interested, but Molyneux seemed to want to talk, and he didn’t know how to tell him politely to leave.
‘Yeah. There was another woman who did the same thing. Left a note, and drowned herself in the Casco Bay. We never found her body, either. It was Daniel and Paul’s mom. Jean ended up marrying her husband, Jack.’
‘Right,’ Ben said. ‘Of course. I knew their mum had killed herself. I didn’t know the details.’
‘It’s uncanny,’ Molyneux said. ‘Very similar. Their mom – Karen – disappeared. It was some time before we found out what she’d done, though. She must have hidden out for a few days and then done it. Someone found her clothes by the ocean, along with a note.’
‘And then Jean married Jack,’ Ben said. ‘Which didn’t work out too well either.’
‘I know. She’s a saint, that woman. Bringing up those kids on her own. She’s had some tough times. And the family she grew up in?’ He shook his head. ‘We didn’t know at the time – we were only high-school kids – but the more I hear about her old man – well, let’s just say there’s a reason her brother quit town as soon as he could and never came back.’
‘Was he— was there abuse?’ Ben said.
‘I don’t know for sure. But I think a lot went on in that house we’ll never know about. I met the father a few times. He was a strict man. Serious. I did hear one thing, though, from Howie Davies. He bought the house when Jean’s old man passed away and he wanted to rent it out. We were having a beer at the time and he told me the basement had some weird shit in it. Chains and things. He thought her mom and pop were into some of the kinky stuff. If you’d met ’em you’d never have guessed it. He was a mean bastard and his wife gave as good as she got. So maybe it was something else. Maybe involving the kids.’ He shrugged. ‘But who knows? At least Jean seems to have got out of it unscathed.’
‘She’s been great since Sarah – since Sunday,’ Ben said. ‘Making food, taking care of the kids. I’d have been lost without her.’
‘Jeanie,’ Molyneux said. ‘Always been that way. Do anything for anyone.’
‘She’s great,’ Ben said. ‘Really wonderful.’
Molyneux nodded. He got to his feet and finished the beer. He put the bottle by the sink. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything. You’ll know as soon as I do. And if I can help in any way, let me know.’
‘Thanks, Ian,’ Ben said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Molyneux said. ‘Have a good evening.’
Ben listened to him leave. It was amazing the secrets small towns contained, the things going on right under people’s noses. Who knew what had happened in Jean’s childhood home? Who knew what was happening at this very moment in other parts of town?
In his arms, Faye stirred. Her eyes fluttered open.
‘Dad?’ she said, confused and sleepy. ‘Dad? Is Mom here now?’
Ben felt tears spring to his eyes.
‘No, darling,’ he said. ‘Not now she isn’t.’
Not ever, he thought, and the tears came.
22
Saturday felt worse than the rest of the week. It shouldn’t have: it was the same pattern. Sleepless night, Miles and Faye delicate and emotional, Kim oblivious. Ben had tried to get everyone to go for a walk by the river, but first Miles, and then Faye had refused. When they started screaming on the front porch he gave up and let them go back to watching TV.
He felt like a failure, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. There was no manual for dealing with this. He put Kim down for a nap, and called Jean.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m fucking this up,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to do with the kids.’
‘Have you talked to anyone about how to approach it? A counselor?’
‘Not yet,’ Ben said. ‘You think I should? I’m not sure the kids are ready.’
‘I don’t think it’s ever too early,’ Jean replied. ‘But you could talk to someone alone. Find out when they think Miles and Faye should get help, and what kind of help is available. You could try Rachel?’
Ben looked out of the window at the backyard. A tall pine – he’d often worried about it coming down on the house in a storm, but it seemed the least of his problems now – swayed in the breeze.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will.’
Rachel picked up on the second ring.
‘Ben?’ she said. ‘How are you? I’m so sorry about Sarah.’
‘We’re doing all right,’ Ben said. ‘In the circumstances. That’s why I’m calling. I think I need some advice. I was wondering if you have a minute?’
‘I have as long as you like. Would you prefer to meet in person? I could come to the house?’
‘Maybe next time,’ Ben said. ‘But for now we can talk on the phone.’
‘OK. Go ahead. And Ben – I hope you don’t think I’ve been ignoring you. I was planning to get in touch but I didn’t want to intrude.’
‘It’s fine. We’ve been pretty raw all week.’
‘I can imagine. So how can I help?’
Ben paused. ‘It’s the kids,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to be there for them, but I’m not sure it’s enough. I need to know what I should be doing to help them get through this.’
‘Being there for them is a great start,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s what they’re going to need more than anything. But there are some things you could do, some things to watch out for.’ She coughed, then carried on. ‘The main thing is to listen to them. Let them explain their feelings. Sadness, anger, resentment, grief: whatever. Let them talk it through, then explain the feeling – if not the situation – is normal.’
‘There’s nothing normal about any of this.’
‘I know. But their responses will be. And they need to know that. And then, when you’ve listened and explained and talked it through, don’t dwell. Do something with them. Start an art project, or read a book. Move them through the feelings.’
‘At the moment they mainly want to watch TV or play computer games.’
‘I think that’s fine, in the short term. For a while, you’re going to be in survival mode, Ben, so it’s a case of whatever works. But as you process the grief you’ll be able to manage to do some of the things I mentioned. And don’t forget external help. There are organizations who specialize in working with children who’ve lost parents.’
‘Do you know any?’
‘I can find out for you. And they can be tremendously helpful. They have places you can take the kids where there are people to talk to, scream rooms where they can scream and punch bags and let their feelings out. That kind of therapy is a bit outdated, these days, but it works.’ She coughed again. ‘How are they doing?’
Ben glanced at the TV room. ‘Miles is very withdrawn. Faye is devastated. Kim seems quieter than usual, but I think she’s too young to really know what’s going on.’
‘Don’t forget her in all this,’ Rachel said. ‘Grief can affect very young children – even infants – in ways we don’t fully understand. But I’ll ask around and get back to you with the names of some specialists in this area.’
‘Great,’ Ben said. ‘Thanks. I think we’re going to need help. I mean, we can’t even have a funeral. There’s no body.’
‘You could have a memorial service, to say goodbye?’
‘We will,’ Ben replied. ‘I need to get around to organizing it.’
&
nbsp; ‘How are you doing?’ Rachel asked. ‘This must be very difficult for you.’
‘Honestly,’ Ben said. ‘I don’t even know. I’m so preoccupied with the kids, I haven’t thought much about myself. But when I do, I go from sad to angry to fucking irate that Sarah did this to us.’
‘Unfortunately that’s normal with a suicide,’ Rachel said. ‘In the same way as your kids’ reactions are normal. You have to work through it.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘You need to not dwell as well,’ Rachel said. ‘Find some activity to take your mind off it. Let your subconscious process some of this stuff while you occupy yourself with something totally different.’
It was, in theory, a good idea. The problem was he didn’t know what could actually stop his thoughts returning over and over to Sarah and what she had done.
‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
He put the phone down, glad they had talked, but aware, suddenly, of how long this was going to take and how difficult it would be.
And of what a godawful mess Sarah had left him with.
23
In the end Ben went for a long walk. It didn’t work – all he did was veer from anger to sadness to grief. He found it hard to notice what was around him; at one point he passed a man out walking his dogs – Florence and Truffle, he called them – and it was only when the man looked at him with an expression of concern that he realized he was crying.
When he got home, he opened the mailbox and took out the mail. He hadn’t checked it for a few days and there was a thick bundle. He walked into the kitchen and put it down on the counter. He could deal with it later.
Diana was sitting on the couch, reading a book. She looked up. ‘Would you make tea?’ she said. ‘I’m rather thirsty.’
‘Sure.’
‘How was the walk?’
‘Good. It didn’t exactly take my mind off anything, but it was worth it for the exercise.’ He filled the kettle. ‘I can’t help feeling angry at Sarah. It makes it all so much more complicated.’