by K. J. Young
She straightens, her eyes widening as if she’s reaching a conclusion. “You’re one of them.” Glancing back at Dr. Cross, she says, “All of you are in on it.”
Mark says, “I don’t know what you mean. Lisa, I just got here. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.” His mind races, trying to make sense of things. Yesterday Lisa seemed fine, if a little down. Today she’s had a psychotic break and needs sedation? Something is seriously wrong here.
Tears fill her eyes. “If you’re not one of them, then help me.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “Please.” Her body shakes with fear; she hyperventilates audibly.
Hysteria, Mark thinks, pulling her into an embrace. Is the pounding in his ears the racing of his own heart, or is it coming from her? Her anxiety feels contagious. Time to slow things down. “Lisa, I want to help you. Let’s just take a walk around the block and we can talk, okay?” He lowers his chin to speak to her. Mutely she nods, just as Dr. Cross comes up behind her and sticks the needle into her arm.
As Dr. Cross presses down on the plunger, Mark makes a split-second decision and presses his elbow down, holding her arm in place. Realizing what is happening, she opens her mouth. The sound that comes out shakes Mark to his core. More than a scream, it is a horrible, heartbroken keening, the kind mothers make when they come to identify their child’s body at the morgue. Mark releases his grip, and when he does, she stops her wailing and turns to see Dr. Cross standing right behind her, the now-empty syringe in his hand.
The doctor says, “It’s all going to be fine, Lisa. You’ll see.”
“No.” The word comes out in a guttural sob. She stumbles to the staircase and grabs on to the newel post. With her other hand, she wipes her eyes and turns to look accusingly at Mark. He thinks she’s going to say something, but she just shakes her head, then dashes up the steps, her footsteps clattering on the wooden stair treads.
Mark asks Dr. Cross, “Should I go after her?”
Dr. Cross glances upward. “Let’s give her a few minutes. Once the sedative kicks in, it’ll be easier for us to guide her back down.”
Mark watches as she rounds the second landing and continues on, heading up to the third floor. “Where is she going?”
Dr. Cross says, “When in pain or upset, humans often seek seclusion. It happens with animals too. She just needs a moment to herself. Just leave her be.”
“What happened, exactly? When I saw her yesterday, she was fine.” More than fine, he thinks. She was fed up and stressed out, but not even close to having a nervous breakdown.
Dr. Cross shakes his head. “It came out of nowhere. She just snapped. I suspect her mental state was not that strong to begin with. I take the blame. I should have picked up on it sooner.”
They stand quietly for a few minutes. Overhead Mark hears the quick clip-clip of Lisa’s footsteps as she rounds the landing on the second floor and continues on to the third. He thinks about the expression on Lisa’s face, how terrified and distraught she seemed, and the way Dr. Cross plunged a needle into her arm without her permission. True, he is a doctor, but is this ethical? Mark wants to believe the doctor has her best interests at heart, but he has a sinking feeling he should not have helped Dr. Cross give her a shot against her will, that somehow it’s made him liable for whatever happens to her going forward. Could he be sued or charged with a crime? Lisa is right. This is a weird, weird house, but being here is still better than the tedious tasks he’s done at other jobs: folding turtlenecks, flipping burgers, and trying to sell stereo systems at Radio Shack. Nothing at Alden Manor is tedious.
Dr. Cross clears his throat. “I’m going to tell Roy and Alma what’s happening. I know they’ve been worried about her.” He heads down the hall.
“I’ll go check on Lisa,” Mark calls out after him, and without waiting for an answer, he bounds up the stairs. The air around him changes with each step. Warmer, certainly, but denser and more oppressive too, making him aware of his breathing. If the windows and doors were open, it would be different, but of course, these floors are not in use. When he gets to the third floor, he calls out Lisa’s name, listening as his own voice echoes back at him. No other sound can be heard. All the doors in the corridor are shut, and it’s dark, too dark to see clearly. If only he had a flashlight. Making his way down the hall into the dark, he opens one door at a time and steps into each room, leaving them open afterward to let some light into the hallway.
With every step he calls out her name, waiting a few seconds for a response before moving on. He turns knob after knob and finds nothing but empty rooms.
When Mark gets to the last door, he finds it slightly ajar. He’s certain she’s in the room, so it’s surprising to fling open the door and find it empty. He checks behind the drapes and calls out, “Lisa?” No answer. He opens the closet door, and instead of finding a rod and some shelves, he discovers it’s an empty walk-in storage area. Inside is another door, slightly open, leading to wooden steps. The attic? With his hand on the doorknob, he tries again, yelling, “Lisa!” then charges up the steps. The stairs turn on a landing and keep going, narrow wooden steps going so far up that he realizes the attic space must run the length of the house, above the ballroom ceiling on the second floor and over the bedrooms on the third.
As he rises, the air becomes claustrophobically hot and heavy, and he has the sensation of walking through cobwebs. When he gets to the top, he finds himself in an open space with tall windows on each end. Mark squints. In one of the front windows, there’s a form blocking the light. It’s Lisa. On the ledge. Oh God. He runs toward her, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.
But before he gets there, she shimmies along the ledge, away from the open window and almost out of reach. Her splayed fingers frame her anguished face; her nose is a spot of white pressed against the glass. A slight breeze lifts her hair off her shoulders.
Mark reaches out the open window and extends a hand, but he doesn’t touch her. His heart pounds in his chest and sweat beads his forehead, but he tries to sound reassuring. “Lisa, come back inside. Let’s talk about this.” He keeps his voice measured and even, as if it’s perfectly normal for someone to be perched on a narrow ledge three stories above street level.
She does not react, is frozen in place. From the expression on her face, she’s seen something traumatic, but he can’t imagine what that would be. They spent yesterday together, and she was worried, but she was essentially fine. What happened between then and now? He can’t even imagine what would drive her to think this is a good option.
It’s possible, he surmises, that nothing happened. Perhaps the doctor is right and she’s emotionally fragile. Maybe all it took was a misinterpreted word or one more added chore for her delicate outer shell to crack. “Lisa, please?” He resists the urge to grab her, knowing that the slightest movement might throw her off-balance. Glancing down, he’s shocked at the distance between them and the ground. From street level, the house doesn’t look that tall, but from this angle, the tiled overhang of the porch and the front walkway appear far away. If she falls now, will the overhang break her fall? No, it’s a solid surface, not a canopy, and this isn’t a movie. No one could survive a drop like that.
“Lisa,” he urges. “Please don’t do this. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. Together.” He curls his fingers, beckoning, and keeps talking, telling her that sometimes things at Alden Manor weird him out as well, that what’s she’s going through is normal. That she’s done an incredible job taking care of two elderly people, and no one would fault her for walking out the door. He adds that he admires and respects her. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Lisa. If you want, I can ask my girlfriend if you can sleep on the couch.” Monica probably won’t go for it, but Lisa doesn’t know that. It’s not a lie if it saves a life. And if need be, he can always insist. It’s his apartment too.
Her face softens, making him think his words are registering with her. With a glimmer of hope, he keeps going. “We can leave right now if y
ou want and head over to my place. It’s an apartment over on Alcott Avenue. It’s not very big, but it’s a safe place for you to stay until you find something else.” Mark wonders what’s going on downstairs. Doesn’t Dr. Cross wonder what’s taking so long? A little assistance would be nice. He considers leaving and going for help, but he doesn’t dare. Her perch is precarious, her state of mind frighteningly muddled. He wonders how much longer he has until the sedative takes effect. Dr. Cross made it sound fairly imminent. Once that happens, he fears the worst.
He continues. “Just take my hand and come inside. We can talk about what’s troubling you.” Slowly, she slides one hand down the glass before stretching it out to him. Her gaze is still straightforward, as if her hand is operating independently of the rest of her body. He breathes a sigh of relief. Progress is being made. “That’s right,” he says. “You’re doing great. Just take my hand.”
A Buick drives past, stereo blaring with the strains of Aerosmith’s “Dream On.” The driver is clearly oblivious to the drama three floors above street level. Birds caw, and he notices a gathering of crows lined up on the telephone wire, a raucous avian audience flapping their wings and randomly croaking. Such ugly creatures.
“That’s it,” he says to Lisa. “Just a little more.” Her fingertips brush against his, and he’s stunned by the chilliness of her touch. Both of them are perspiring profusely—in fact, his palms are slick with sweat, yet her skin feels cold. A disturbing image comes to mind as he imagines her body on a slab. Mentally he shakes it aside. “That’s it.” He allows himself to relax just a little when his fingers wrap around her hand, and he sticks his head out the window to get closer. He slides his thumb up to her wrist, but he stops when he feels her start to pull back. She’s spooked, he thinks. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see you safe.”
“Not safe.” Her voice, loud and guttural, startles him. Mark tries to make eye contact, without success. When she does glance in his direction, her eyes are swimming, not seeming to focus at all. He’s seen this before, in the disco girls who’ve had too much to drink. It has to be a side effect of Dr. Cross’s injection.
“I can keep you safe.” Mark smiles encouragingly.
She shakes her head. “It’s them and this house. I should have left when I could.” Behind her, one of the crows hops sideways on the telephone wire, forcing another bird to move down the line.
“You can still leave.” He strokes her wrist with his thumb. If he gives a slight pull, will she move close enough that he can grab her? He can’t support her for long, he knows. He continues with the tactic he’s heard on cop shows. Keep the person engaged, take their mind off jumping. Talking them off a ledge—that’s what it’s called. “You don’t want to die, do you, Lisa? You have so much to live for.”
“It’s too late.” The anguish in her voice is heartbreaking.
“It’s not too late. I’m going to grab hold of your arm, okay? Move this way, and I’ll help you get inside. Nice and easy, one inch at a time.”
“No.”
“Please? For me?”
Lisa gives a slight shake of her head and blurts out, “This is the only way to stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“It’s either them or me. I tried to do it, but God help me, I just couldn’t.”
He watches in horror as Lisa leans back, all her weight pulling against his grip. He tightens his hold on her, but it’s not enough, and a second later she pulls loose, falling backward. The descent happens both immediately and in slow motion. When she lands, slamming against the tile overhang with a sickening thud, she ends up on her back. He leans forward, his mouth open, staring at the sight of her body, arms and legs splayed out, eyes wide open and staring up at him.
Mark just saw it happen, and yet he still can’t believe it.
One of the crows sails down from the telephone wire and struts around her body. Another comes to join it, hopping right onto her torso and pecking at her midsection as if she were roadkill. A second later, a halo of blood forms around her head.
Even as Mark screams her name, he knows she’s gone.
Chapter Twelve
Mark walks right past the hospital information desk. No need for directions—he knows the way. The hallways are strangely empty, but through open doorways he sees patients propped up in bed. He hears the beeping of machinery and the intro to the soap opera Days of Our Lives emanating from multiple television sets. The floors gleam, smelling of disinfectant, as if they’ve been recently washed. When he gets to Lisa’s room, the door is slightly ajar. He raps twice before entering. As expected, she’s flat on her back in bed, and also as expected, she’s not fully conscious. A snow-white sheet is pulled up to her chin. Her pale face is perfect, and her hair fans out on the pillow; the sole reminder of the suicide attempt is the wide bandage wrapped around her head, putting him in mind of wounded soldiers in war movies.
Suddenly, remembering the roses in his hand, he sets the vase on the ledge near the window. He walks back to the bed and stands over her, watching her breathe in and out, her eyelids fluttering. He debates whether or not to disturb her. She’s been through such an ordeal, it would be a shame to interrupt her sleep, but then again, he did come all the way here on the bus. Or did he? His forehead furrows as he tries to remember the events leading up to his arrival at the hospital. It’s possible he drove Roy’s car. Or maybe Monica dropped him off? No, that can’t be right. Monica doesn’t own a car. The details are fuzzy, but ultimately it’s unimportant. The main thing is that he is here now and has an opportunity to talk to Lisa.
Mark needs to make things right between them. God knows he hasn’t always been the best person, but he’s certainly not the worst either. And now a girl is dead, or almost died—he’s not really sure—because he didn’t handle things well. A better man would have saved her. He failed, which is not surprising. Despite his attempts to get past the flaws stamped into his psyche at a young age, he is still a loser. Maybe this is something he’ll never overcome. A flush of shame washes over him as he thinks of how he’s fallen short once again. At the very least, he can apologize to this girl in the bed. Words have power, he knows, but at the same time words can never be enough. Right now, though, they’re all he has.
“Lisa?” He leans over and whispers, “How are you doing? I brought you some flowers.” He gestures to the vase and notices the flowers are no longer roses. Somehow they’ve morphed into tulips. A big improvement, he thinks. Tulips remind him of springtime and fresh starts. And God knows he needs a fresh start.
With a sigh, she opens her eyes and then says his name so faintly he can barely hear it.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. Mark. I came to see you to tell you I’m sorry.”
“Mark,” she whispers. Her hands come out from under the sheet and grip the front of his shirt.
He nods. “Yes, it’s me.” She pulls with such force that he’s nearly on top of her now. His ear is just over her mouth; she’s trying to tell him something important. “What is it, Lisa?” He holds his breath and listens but can catch only a few sounds. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
She tries again, but he still can’t make sense of what she’s saying.
Out in the hallway a cart rattles as it goes past. He wishes for silence so he can hear better. Finally, he speaks his piece. “I came to tell you I’m sorry, Lisa. I shouldn’t have let Dr. Cross give you that injection. I should have gotten you off the ledge. You’re dead now because of me. I hope you can forgive me.” The words don’t sound much like something he’d say, but getting them out makes him feel better. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Lisa?”
With a shove, she pushes him backward, and with a shaking hand, she points. He turns to see Alma and Roy in the doorway. He knows it’s Alma and Roy, even though they look different. Roy’s flesh is decaying off his bones just like in the poster. Bits of skin stick to his skull, but his friar’s fringe of gray hair is still evident. He wears
his usual baggy old-man pants and button-up shirt, but the fingers gripping his cane are skeletal. His sister’s fingers wrap around his bent elbow. She looks much the same, except for the fact that she’s missing her head. A surge of disgust rises in his throat when he spots Alma’s disembodied head on the floor near her feet, tongue out, eyeballs dangling out of the sockets.
Lisa’s voice rises from the bed behind him. “Run!”
Every fiber of his being wants to flee.
But in the way of dreams, he is rooted to the spot, watching in terror as Alma and Roy move closer and closer. As they step forward, Alma kicks her head like a soccer ball so it rolls toward him. Roy’s skull-face leers at him, his tongue flicking snakelike in and out of his mouth.
Mark knows they’re going to get him and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. When Alma’s rolling head lands next to his foot, the tongue stretches out grotesquely and licks his shoe with loud slurping noises. Roy, meantime, has extended his skeletal fingers so that they’re brushing the front of Mark’s shirt. His skull-face grins.
In a flash, Roy has a grip on his shirt and is pulling him closer. He licks his teeth as if about to bite into something delicious. His mouth is so close to Mark’s face that he can smell the rancid meat on his breath.
Mark remembers he is in a dream. With a huge effort, he wills himself toward consciousness. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
And like being shot out of a cannon, he finds himself thrust into a completely different atmosphere, wide awake in the darkness of his own bedroom. He sits up, his pulse racing. A sob rises in his dry throat. He’s in bed with Monica, who slumbers next to him. Somehow, while he slept, the covers became untucked from the end of the bed and are now awkwardly wrapped around his legs.
As he’s untangling himself from the sheet and blanket, he mutters, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” the words echoing the pounding of his heart. It was only a dream, he tells himself, but it felt so dangerous. His breathing turns to wheezing.