—you’re tired, your conscience is playing tricks on you and you’re also a bit drunk and don’t want to admit it and this is just your body’s way of telling you to get your sad act together, pal—
He felt as if he had not moved in a very long time and began to stir, but his head felt light and as distant as his hands and feet, each perceived action so slow and murky that it seemed to never end. He felt as if he were sending signals to his limbs while standing outside of himself. Something hitched deep inside, he felt it, and for a moment was shocked by an image of himself running through heavy air, the neighborhood a passing blur, his features contorted into a mask of fear that would have made even Split-Face turn away in revulsion. He blinked, bit down on his lip, and saw the hazy silhouette of the old woman standing in front of him.
Everywhere in his body there was sudden, extravagant pain, more pain than he thought he could ever endure without succumbing to death or unconsciousness, but that wasn’t the worst of it, no, not by a long shot; embracing this pain, enshrouding it, sepulcher-like and impervious and tinged with despair, was a wishfulness, a longing, a want beyond comprehension; a need so desolate, fed by a loneliness so absolute and merciless, that he would rather have died than endure one more millisecond of its sentient presence.
He struck out, blindly.
He cried out, silently.
The density surrounding him disappeared, wrenching the pressure from his chest and allowing him to fall onto the bench, pulling in great, liberating breaths of crisp autumn-night air.
Shuddering and groaning, he blinked tears from his eyes and doubled over, pressing his arms against his stomach.
“...a goblin lives in our house, in our house, in OUR house...”
He looked up and caught sight of some tiny trick-or-treaters across the street.
“...a goblin lives in our house, all the year ‘round....”
There.
The world had righted itself.
And there was only one old woman, alone, stoop-shouldered, and smiling to herself as she made her way along the footpath to the far end of the park, out for a pleasant evening stroll and enjoying the sights and sounds of the young ones.
As if sensing his gaze, she turned and gave him a small, almost imperceptible wave, the kind which, between close friends, says, We have a secret, you and I, and with this gesture I seal our bond. Then she went about her pleasant, stoop-shouldered, Halloween-night business.
Of all things, it was the wave that set off an alarm in Robert’s head; there was something cold about it, distant and pitiless—
“...he bumps and he jumps and he thumps right at midnight...”
—and maybe he was just having a panic attack for no goddamned good reason but he could swear there had been something almost threatening in the gesture—
“...a goblin lives in our house...”
—the old woman disappeared along a curve in the footpath that wound behind some trees—
“...all the year ‘round.”
—and a moment later Split-Face stepped onto the exact spot in the path—
—and waved.
“So, Willy,” said Split-Face, “let you and me be wipers of scores out with all men....”
And with those words there came to Robert a vision, brief and hallucinatory, of dozens, maybe hundreds of children wearing masks even more grotesque than the one Split-Face wore, and they were surrounding him, reaching for him, calling for him, crushing him under their Need—
—somewhere in the darkness, a child let fly with three whistled notes, each more discordant and shrill than the one before—
—and with the fading of the third note, the vision abandoned him.
Panic seized Robert, pulled him to his feet and slapped his face, then kicked him in the ass and sent him half-stumbling, half-running out of the park toward his house four blocks away.
The neighborhood blurred as he sped along.
The air was thick and weighty.
Heart triphammering against his chest, Robert took the front steps three at a time and discovered that Denise had turned off all the lights to keep away the trick-or-treaters and then locked the door, engaging the deadbolt as well. Sweating and shaking, Robert fumbled his keys from his pocket, dropped them, cursed under his breath, and grabbed them off the porch; then he was inside, the door standing open behind him, through the hallway, banging his leg against the phone stand and calling her name, hearing a weak, ragged reply from upstairs.
He ran up to her, almost skidding into the wall when he hit the landing, and slammed open the bedroom door.
Denise lay half on the floor, half on the bed, sweating and convulsing, dressed only in a thin nightshirt, her skin a hideous ashen shade. She looked at him and coughed up a small spray of blood and mucus that slopped onto her cheek. Robert ran over to her and knelt, trying to be gentle as he cradled her in his arms and tried to get her either fully on the floor or back onto the bed, but she shook her head and placed a trembling hand against his chest, her eyes moving to the phone receiver that swung back and forth from the bedside table; and as he began moving her, Robert asked, “Did you call already?” and she nodded, slowly, wincing from the pain as he touched her face; he felt how cold she was, then kissed her forehead and made the last series of movements that would have her back on the bed but he was too panicked, he didn’t quite have the balance he thought, the angle was all wrong and he slipped and both of them tumbled to the floor and Denise threw back her head to scream but couldn’t, all that emerged was a sickening sound like a deflating balloon that turned her face red the pain was so intense, and as the sound of sirens sliced through the night Robert stared helplessly at his wife’s gaping mouth and straining vocal cords and thought, If she can just scream she’ll be all right, I know it, so please, please scream but no further sounds came from her as she hitched, spasmed, spit up more blood, then lost consciousness. A few moments later there was the sound of feet on the porch and a voice calling and Robert screamed, “Get in here—JesusGod, get in here now!” and it seemed like an eternity before the paramedics made it up the stairs and came into the room and shoved him aside, two of them going to work on Denise while a third readied the gurney and radioed in Denise’s vitals.
We have a secret, you and I, and with this gesture....
Robert ran outside and down the steps behind them, oblivious to the small crowd of costumed shadows that had gathered, jumped in his car, gunned the engine, and followed the ambulance as it sped toward the hospital. Once there, he tried to get to her as she was rolled through the automatic doors; he tried to get a glimpse of Denise’s face, hoping that she could see him and know that he would not leave her alone, not during a time like this, but he only saw the I.V. and EKG hookups that the paramedics had connected en route.
Inside, it was a storm of rushing white lab coats and powder-blue uniforms as the doctors and nurses rolled her into an exam room. Her EKG was erratic as hell, and Robert felt less than useless as he watched the team go at his wife with such skill, efficiency, and speed it seemed unreal; before he could regroup and register what was happening a piercing, keening noise sounded and was quickly muted by a nurse as a sweating doctor in the middle of the group yelled for a crash cart, and Robert was shoved aside by another nurse who rolled the machine past him, and the doctor in the middle of the chaos grabbed the defibrillator paddles—“Clear!”—then Robert was pressing fisted hands against his mouth as the electricity shot through Denise’s body, causing her to jerk and wriggle and bounce in a way that might have been comical if he was watching it in some movie comedy or television show but here only made him want to scream. He didn’t understand enough about emergency medical procedures to know if what they were doing was safe for the baby—unless it had been decided that the child was a lost cause and they were doing everything they could to save the mother, instead—but he suddenly, more than anything in the world, more than anything ever in his life, wanted Denise and the baby to live, to be all right,
to be his family so he could make up for all the little selfish acts that had made her feel she was peripheral to his world rather than intrinsic to it, please live, please, and he asked forgiveness for all the small, everyday, thoughtless hurts he’d inflicted on her, real or imagined, begged forgiveness and salvation from a God he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore, just, please, he needed them, needed for them to be allowed to live so he could make everything up to her, to them, he’d no longer ignore her needs, he’d even find a new line of work if she wanted him to, they’d be okay, they’d get by, they could make new plans, together, as a family, just let them live and—
—“Do you really think we’re ready to be parents?” he heard the ghost of his voice ask her after they’d gotten the news. “I don’t know about you, but after the last couple of times...well, you know, that kind of responsibility scares holy hell out of me.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Denise replied, playfully smacking his arm. “A little late for that now. All my life I’ve dreamed of meeting a man I’d love enough to want to have children with; just my luck that when I do, he develops a retroactive case of Peter Pan Syndrome.”
“It’ll be fine this time.”
“I hope so. I’ll pray for it.”
“I know you will.”
She took his hand in hers. “You’ll come around someday. Meantime, I think I’ve got enough faith to cover both of us in that department.”
He hadn’t been able to tell her, then, that he was worried he’d make the same thoughtless mistakes with their child that both of their parents had made with—
“Flat-line.”
An unseen saber slashed open Robert’s center.
The doctor applied the paddles again—nothing. Robert felt a cry clog the back of his throat and fought to swallow it down, down, down, calm down, breathe steady, that’s it, c’mon, doc, do it again, make it work this time, c’mon, c’mon—
—he watched, numbed and horrified, as a gleaming scalpel appeared in someone’s hand and swooped like a bird of prey, the incision made, the blood flowing, and suddenly the doctor had his hand inside Denise’s opened chest, massaging her heart, and Robert caught a glimpse of white vein beneath membrane—
—“Oh, God,” someone said—
—oozing, something was oozing between Denise’s legs, a dense, sickening, clotted glop of pinkish-red meat trapped in a crawling flow of black blood, water, and something that had the texture and consistency of cottage cheese.
Robert glimpsed part of a tiny face, and then another doctor was bending between Denise’s legs, gloved hand reaching inside her.
The other doctor slumped his shoulders, then pulled his hands from Denise’s chest—
—sudden but slow movement, and suddenly Robert saw between Denise’s legs—
—the silhouette of a nose, a section of what might have been its chin—
—the EKG was snapped off—
—Denise’s body began to deflate, it seemed—
—the room spun—
—and Robert elbowed his way through the ER staff toward his wife and child.
He could hear the voice of a news announcer as somewhere in the waiting room a television blared: “...in Florida born without a brain died a little after nine-thirty this evening. Doctors say that, due to the spread of infection, its organs are now useless and so they will not attempt to harvest....”
Robert saw his child, its impossibly large head, and heard himself whisper, “It’s got two brains, that’s why it’s like that, you see.” He looked at the staring eyes of the doctors and nurses. “There’s been a screw-up somewhere, you understand, and my—our baby, it has the Florida baby’s brain, too, you know?” He approached the doctor who’d given Denise open-heart massage and gripped one his bloody-gloved hands. “It...it has an extra brain, see, so all you have to do is just...just take it out, okay? Everything will be fine if you’ll just take out that extra brain. Please? Just take it out. Just...take...it...out....”
Someone gently took his arm, leading him to an office near the end of the corridor, and once inside, shoved a Styrofoam cup filled with hot, bitter coffee into his hands and eased him into a cushioned chair as a solemn-faced doctor entered and looked at him with something that was supposed to be sympathy but more resembled pity.
Robert sipped at his coffee and wept quietly. He felt as if his metabolism had somehow been altered in these last few minutes. His body was slow, heavy, awkward, cold—as if the force of gravity had been increased slightly. His face felt like a pillow attached to the front of his head, with small tubes placed for his eyes and mouth. He had no peripheral vision whatsoever, and when he heard himself mumble something—who knew what—his voice sounded at first densely muffled and then hollow and echoing. Voices surrounded him as if there were people in another room adjacent this one, separated only by a thin paper wall. Foregrounds and backgrounds shifted erratically, making him dizzy, confused, wanting desperately to go back and find Denise sitting up and very much alive so he could touch her, kiss her cheek, take her hand, and apologize for all the things he promised her that never saw fruition, but most of all he wanted to go back and take away the fear and pain of her last moments; she’d died alone and confused, with no familiar face near and that seemed so cruel....
So, as the doctor talked, Robert cried: for all the holidays he and Denise would never celebrate, for every disappointment she’d ever experienced, every joy that was dampened, every hope that was spoiled, all the things she wanted to do but never did and now never would...he cried for all of it.
A cough, a sniff, a deep breath, and he fumbled the half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He’d sworn to Denise that he’d quit weeks ago—and he’d had every intention of quitting before the baby was born—but he’d been so anxious lately, what with the baby coming and all the brouhaha over Jeffries leaving and who was going to get the anchor slot...besides, he never smoked around Denise, he wasn’t that self-absorbed. She’d understand, he was sure of that.
He stared at the cigarette between his index and middle fingers. Across the desk, the doctor nodded his head and produced an ashtray from a drawer, along with a half-empty bottle of some single-malt scotch. As Robert lighted his cigarette the doctor—whose nameplate identified him as D.S. Steinman—poured a dash of liquor into Robert’s coffee, cleared his throat, and said, “We have a secret, you and I.”
Robert started, blinked, spluttered out a stream of smoke, and said, “Wh-what? What’d you say?”
“I asked if you’re willing to sign the necessary forms.”
Robert took a sip of the scotch-laced coffee, then looked at his hands and for some reason thought of the Florida baby’s parents. What was there for them to cling to now? All that suffering, and what good did any of it do? Whose pain was eased? What purpose was served?
“It looked like something that floats,” he said.
Steinman remained silent.
Robert swallowed. Twice. Very hard. “What forms?”
“Organ donation consent.”
He glared at the doctor.
Vulture Culture. You learned to live with it.
Steinman chewed on one of his thumbnails for a moment, then pulled his hand away and said, “We’re a little pressed for time, Mr. Londrigan. I don’t mean to seem morbid or cold-hearted—and I can’t even begin to imagine the pain you’re in right now—but there are people who urgently need what only you can give them right now. What this could do for the children on the list alone....” He held up a computer printout. “There’s a one-month-old girl in Philadelphia who needs a liver transplant, another baby that was seriously burned in Bloomington needs a skin graft, another has to have—”
“Enough. God, enough,” said Robert, wiping his eyes.
Steinman tapped a finger against his watch. “I don’t mean to pressure you, Mr. Londrigan, but—look, fetal tissue is the perfect transplant material; it bonds instantly and the body won’t reject it, but it’s useless once infecti
on sets in. In a case of hydrocephalus, that happens very, very quickly. I am more sorry than I can possibly express about your loss, and I know how crass I must appear—if not outright ghoulish—at this moment, but please understand that there are adults and children who’ve been waiting months—often years—for donors such as your wife and daughter and—”
“It was a girl?”
Steinman paused, then nodded sadly.
Robert felt one corner of his mouth start to turn upward. “Denise wanted a girl. Huh. Whatta you know.”
Steinman flexed his right hand, obviously impatient and trying not to show it. “Look, Mr. Londrigan, I—”
“Do it. Do it. Cut them open and take whatever you need, whatever’s useful—skin, bones, eyes—it had her eyes, did you see that? Take whatever you want. I’ll sign the forms.” A pause, then: “Denise’d kick my ass up between my shoulders if I didn’t.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, goddammit!—and don’t look at me like that. I’m not acting under duress, and there are no visions of malpractice suits dancing in my head. I know you did everything you could to save her—to save them—Doctor Bishop told us it was going to be a rough pregnancy, what with the two previous miscarriages. I just never thought that...ah, hell, never mind. Gimme the things.”
Steinman, grim-faced but relieved, pushed the papers toward him.
Robert, deadened, signed them.
“This is a wonderful thing you’re doing,” said the doctor. “Think of it as keeping some part of your wife and child alive.”
“Take the bad with the good, huh?” Robert shoved the signed forms across the desk, threw down the pen, and stood—albeit unsteadily. “I want to see my family.”
But they had already been taken away.
Robert wandered into the ER waiting room and sat down, too stunned to think. People moved by him one minute as if in slow motion, the next as if in double time. It occurred to him that he really ought to be calling people—his sister, his parents (Denise had been an only child, and both her parents were gone, her mother having died just after last Thanksgiving), the station, someone—but, just as in the park earlier, he couldn’t get his body to obey his brain’s commands. What the hell could anyone do about it now, anyway? Denise would have waited until morning to start making the necessary calls. “No use in ruining their evening,” she’d say, always considerate of others, even if they did not show the same concern for her.
In Silent Graves Page 3