The Dark Hour

by K. J. Young

  Next to him, Monica rolls over and extends an arm in his direction. “What’s wrong?” Even half-asleep she manages to sound concerned.

  How to explain? “Nightmare,” Mark says. “It was terrible. Lisa was there, and Alma and Roy . . .” He trails off, having to catch his breath.

  She sits up, rubs her eyes, and gives him a hug. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.” Monica is not usually a nurturer, but then again, he has never been vulnerable around her. He lets her pat his back while the words spill out.

  By the time he’s finished, he’s related the whole thing, starting with his walk down the halls of the hospital. He ends with, “It seemed so real.” His heart is just now beginning to slow. “You know how usually dreams are little bits and pieces and they don’t make sense? This one was different.” Different in how it felt, certainly, but also in how he experienced it. The sights, the sounds, the smells. The feel of the flower petals. The antiseptic odor of freshly mopped hospital floors. The rattle of a cart in the hallway.

  “Some dreams are like that,” she says soothingly. “You had a horrible experience, and your mind is trying to make sense of it.”

  He did have a horrible day, the worst of his life. After Lisa fell, slamming against the tile roof, he rushed downstairs to alert the others. The police were called, and before long the place was swarming with men in uniforms. The fact that Mark had been the last one to see Lisa alive made him the one everyone wanted to talk to. He gave his version of the events leading up to the fall many times, and Dr. Cross and the Walgraves were questioned as well. He left out the part about the injection, not knowing if this would somehow get Dr. Cross in trouble, but then later he wondered if the omission would wind up getting him in trouble. He rationalized that if the subject came up at some point, he could always say he’d forgotten, which wouldn’t be unusual given all that had happened.

  The fire department lowered Lisa’s body from the roof. She was declared dead at the scene and carried away in a black body bag. Mark watched as they zipped up the bag, and all he could think was that she might not be able to breathe inside the bag, which didn’t make sense, of course, because she was dead, but his mind wasn’t functioning well. All the while, the black birds cawed and danced on the telephone line up above. Watching this sequence of events was unreal. He had just talked to Lisa. He’d felt her hand in his. The two of them had made eye contact. They’d spoken. How could she be dead? How could it be that he was the last one to see her alive?

  This kind of thing only happened in movies. And yet, it had happened to him.

  When he told the police, he had to sit down because he felt dizzy and light-headed. One of the paramedics said he could be in shock, so they had him lie down on a gurney right on the porch and elevated his legs. And then he felt like a fucking idiot because a girl was dead and they were treating him as if he were the patient, checking his temperature, covering him with a blanket, urging him to drink water. The other four members of the Redevine Society showed up around that time, dashing down the sidewalk to Alden Manor. Neela and Sam Burman were in the lead, with Baird and Lara Whitlock walking right behind them. As they hurried toward Alden Manor, Mark remembered Lisa talking about their names. Baird. Lara. She was right, he realized. The names were too close to Brad and Laura, and now he would always think of that and have to mentally correct for the difference.

  When the four came up the walkway, Mark, who was getting his blood pressure checked, became self-conscious about being treated as a patient, so he looked in the other direction. No matter. They paid no attention to him, but went right into the house to see Roy and Alma.

  For the first time he wondered what these people did for a living that allowed them so much free time during the day. Independently wealthy, maybe?

  Must be nice.

  But why was he thinking about such things? A girl was dead.

  When everything died down and Mark had been medically cleared, Dr. Cross offered to drive him home. While the doctor went back inside to get his medical bag, Mark waited on the front walk. He was biding his time, his gaze toward the ground, when he heard a familiar voice. “I told you so. I told you!” It was the hippie, Doug, standing by the curb, hands at his waist like he was Superman. “What did I say? People go in that house—they don’t come out the same.”

  Mark narrowed his eyes at him. Asshole. What kind of man crowed like that when a young woman had just died? Mark tried to think of a response, something that would shut him up permanently, but nothing came to mind. He was usually fairly quick-witted. Maybe he was still reeling from witnessing Lisa’s death.

  “I seen it with my own eyes.” Doug leaned down and scratched at the section of his foot between the straps of his sandal. “Bad things happen to folks who go in there.” He straightened and pointed a long finger at Alden Manor. “You better watch yourself, mister, or you’ll be next. I always say it’s better to take action than to be a victim.”

  Mark turned away from him, relieved to see Dr. Cross had arrived, bag in hand, ready to drive him home. After they were in the car and buckled up, Mark pointed to Doug, who was now leaning against the industrial building next door, and said, “What do you know about that guy?”

  Dr. Cross followed Mark’s gesture, but Doug chose that moment to step into a shadow. “What guy?” The doctor donned a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “There, in front of that building. The old hippie guy. He’s always hanging around here telling me there’s something screwy going on at Alden Manor.”

  Dr. Cross started up the car and pulled away from the curb. At that instant, Doug darted between the buildings and was gone from view. The doctor said, “There are a lot of vagrants in this neighborhood. If you’re afraid . . . ?” The question hung in the air.

  “No, I’m not afraid. He’s just weird.”

  “I’d ignore him if I were you,” Dr. Cross said, changing the subject. “Just for the record, all of us know that you did the best you could. You have no reason to feel guilty about Lisa’s death.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. It eases my mind,” Mark said, without conviction.

  “I hope this doesn’t cause you to reconsider your position at Alden Manor.” He glanced his way, and Mark saw his own face reflected in the lenses of the doctor’s sunglasses. “Alma and Roy are going to need you now more than ever.”

  “I don’t think I can handle all of Lisa’s tasks,” Mark admitted. He thought about cooking meals and clipping the old people’s toenails and trimming Roy’s ear hair, not to mention, worst of all, Alma’s bathing needs. He couldn’t imagine having to do that. The idea of touching her body sickened him. The skin he could see was grotesque—the rest, the part under her clothing, had to be even worse. Could he actually help her take a shower and wash her hair? Maybe, but there was a definite possibility he might throw up. He thought of what Lisa had told him. You signed on as a home health aide. Did you think you’d make ten dollars an hour and it would all be funnel cakes and Ferris wheels? What he’d actually expected was that he’d be cutting up meat and doling out pills. Maybe doing some laundry and unpacking groceries. He’d been completely ignorant in knowing what the job actually entailed.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Cross said, flicking on the turn signal. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. “We’re going to have a group meeting tonight and figure it all out. You won’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I’ll make certain of it.”

  Mark nodded, relieved. This was great news. He didn’t know who was involved in the group meeting, but most likely it consisted of the Redevine Society and Dr. Cross, along with Roy and Alma. He wondered if Baird, Lara, Neela, and Sam found this new obligation to be a chore. They had thought they were joining a fine-dining group and now were involved in elder care. But it wasn’t as if they had no choice. They wouldn’t do it unless they were fond of the Walgraves. They could walk away anytime.

  Dr. Cross added, “If you need to take tomorrow off, call in the morning to
let us know. We’ll understand.”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be there,” Mark promised him. On some level, he was afraid that if he took a day off, he’d never go back. He needed to keep busy, and working at Alden Manor was preferable to sitting at home with nothing to do, replaying Lisa’s last moments —the tortured look on her face and her anguished words. No one is safe. It’s too late. This is the only way to stop them. Even thinking about it made him shudder. And the way she fell backward, resigned to dying, as if there were no other way. Horrendous. One minute, alive. The next, dead.

  He didn’t know anything about psychotic breaks, but judging from what this experience had looked like, going through one was hell on earth. Poor Lisa.

  Monica was still at work when he arrived at the apartment, so he had to wait to tell her what happened. When she walked in the door, he gave her time to drop her purse and kick off her shoes before he related what had happened at work that day. His telling was matter-of-fact: a troubled girl had killed herself right in front of him. He’d tried to help her but couldn’t. It was awful and sad. Monica listened, fascinated and sympathetic, then asked how he was doing. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine.”

  That’s how he’d felt late that afternoon. But the nightmare he just had says otherwise. Clearly, Lisa’s death affected him.

  Monica continues to console him, patting his back and speaking soothingly. “Poor sweet baby,” she says. “You had quite a day. It’s not surprising that this ordeal has intruded on your subconscious.” She wraps her arms around him, and he’s suddenly grateful that she has a large enough vocabulary to use the words ordeal and subconscious. Not too long ago he didn’t care who he slept with as long as they had an hourglass figure and a beautiful face. Monica has both, although she’s not at the top end of the range. She’s attractive, there’s no doubt about that, but she’s not Playboy Bunny material or anything. Still, now that he needs some emotional comfort, she’s proving more than up to the task. That alone is worth a lot.

  Monica is the more objective one, he knows, and she has figured it out. The dream is nothing but his mind toying with him. Emotionally, he has regrets about not being able to stop Lisa’s death, and he would like to be able to tell her so. The part about Alma and Roy coming after him was just dream nonsense—no doubt his brain picked it up from the posters depicting their magic act.

  He shudders. “You’re right. It was awful, though.” He’s too macho to use the words terrifying or frightening, but she seems to understand.

  “Do you want to quit this job?” she asks. “I would understand if you do. I wouldn’t even give you any crap about the rent.” When he doesn’t answer right away, she adds, “They need busboys at work. I know that’s beneath you, but you could do it for a while until you find something better.”

  The thought of working as a busboy is even more appalling than going back to Alden Manor. She means well, but clearing tables is not an option for him. “No,” he assures her. “I’m not going to quit. I promised Roy I’d stay six months, and I will.” He will get through it, and once he does, if it works out the way he hopes, he’ll come out ahead financially and move on to better prospects. The fact that Lisa is gone is terrible—no one can argue that—but there is one positive. Her absence clears the way for him, giving him an automatic promotion.

  If only going back to that house didn’t fill him with such dread. He pushes the feeling aside. Best not to dwell on it. He can do this.

  Just a few more months.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Mark arrives at Alden Manor and is greeted at the door by a tall woman wearing a starched white uniform, tan nylons, and polished white shoes. She can’t be more than five years older than him, and yet she has an imperious air about her. “I am Nurse Darby,” she says with a frown. “And you are Mark Norman?” She has an odd melodic accent that sounds vaguely Eastern European.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’ve been working here for . . .”

  But she has already turned and is heading down the hallway. “There is much to do,” she says. “No time to waste.”

  He follows her to the dining room, where Alma and Roy are eating breakfast. Today’s feast is oatmeal with bits of chopped banana sprinkled on top. Alma has a large child’s bib around her neck and a spoon in her hand. Both of the elderly folks brighten when he walks in the room. “Mark!” Roy says. “So glad you’re here. We were afraid you might not show up.”

  “Of course I’m here.” He smiles.

  Roy adds, “You just missed Dr. Cross. He stayed the night to make sure the transition went smoothly.” He gestures to Nurse Darby with a tilt of his head. The mood of the room is different. With Lisa, Mark always felt a quiet sense of gloom. Today, there is something else, some emotional state he can’t quite place.

  “You can count on me,” Mark says. “I’m reliable.”

  “Reliable is only good when the work is done,” Nurse Darby says, out of nowhere. “And so our day begins.” She turns to Mark. “I am the one with the training and credentials, so I am in charge. You will do what I say, understand?”

  Mark bristles. This woman just shows up and thinks she can order him around? He has seniority, and besides, he’s nobody’s servant. Time to turn on his always reliable charm. “I think we can divide up the chores in a way that’s fair,” he says. “Of course, anything medical and all of Alma’s personal needs would fall to you.”

  Nurse Darby imperiously lifts her chin and folds her arms. “Oh, so this is how we start? You have your own ideas? Well, that will not do. I will run things, and it will go smoothly. You will see. A ship cannot have two captains.”

  Mark chuckles reflexively and then makes a quick decision. Let her be in charge if it’s that important to her. He’ll play along. Eventually, with time and some strategizing on his part, it will shake out in his direction. For now, it’s best not to make a scene. He bows in her direction. “Whatever you want.”

  The next few hours go by quickly. Under Nurse Darby’s direction, he is busy every minute: folding clothing, mopping floors, and doing dishes. He barely sees Roy and Alma. Nurse Darby has taken their care upon herself. He is on his knees scrubbing out the toilet in Alma and Roy’s bathroom when he hears the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. A second later, Nurse Darby appears in the doorway. With a crooked finger, she beckons. “You will come with me.”

  After putting the toilet brush back in the holder under the sink, he quickly washes his hands while she waits. Without a word, she leads him to Roy’s bed. “We will strip off the old sheets and put on fresh ones,” she says. “This must be done at least twice a week.”

  Her condescending tone pisses him off. He’s not some idiot who needs constant direction. Besides, who decided twice a week is the rule for bedding? Is this something she learned in nursing school? He would guess it’s just her random preference. He says nothing, just continues helping. With both of them working together, it goes quickly, and a few minutes later, they are in Alma’s room repeating the process.

  As he tucks the sheet in between Alma’s mattress and box spring, his fingers brush against something solid that doesn’t belong there. It feels like a chain. He pulls it out and examines it. It’s a necklace—Lisa’s gold cross. He sneaks a peek in Nurse Darby’s direction, but she is busy creating hospital corners and is not paying any attention to him. Surreptitiously, he slips it into his pants pocket. How did it wind up in Alma’s room? He has no idea. Alma seems too addlebrained to have found it and secreted it away, but it doesn’t make sense for Lisa to have put it there either.

  Before he can give it much thought, Nurse Darby orders him to put the sheets in the washing machine and to meet her in the kitchen afterward. “We will be making the lunch,” she says.

  While he’s cutting up apples and she’s making sandwiches, the nurse attempts small talk for the first time since they met. “Mr. Walgrave says you are like a grandson to them.” Her eyebrows rise questioningly.

 
; Hearing this, Mark feels a weird, elated glow, but he is careful to give a neutral response. “I am very fond of both of them.” A satisfactory comment.

  “And he says that you will be put in charge of everything very soon.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  She gestures around the kitchen. “He says all decisions will be up to you. About the house, their care, their finances.”

  Mark concentrates on the apples, careful to separate the seeds from the slices. From outward appearances, he’s busy and calm, but inwardly he’s rejoicing at the news. This is, he thinks, a step toward the deal that Lisa turned down. He holds back a smile. “I will gladly take on whatever responsibilities they would like me to have.”

  She nods. “Then I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Shoot.” He arranges the apples on each plate in a crescent pattern.

  “They will need more nursing care as they reach the end, which will be soon, I think.” She pauses, and Mark waits. “If you are in charge of arranging for care, I would be happy to be the full-time nurse. Around the clock, I mean. At my last job, I was the charge nurse at St. Mark’s. I am more than qualified to make their last days pleasant and pain-free.”

  He stands upright and stares at her. She was once a charge nurse? And now she’s doing personal care nursing in someone’s home? Kind of a come-down in status. Why? He has a hunch. “Why did you leave St. Mark’s?”

  “I . . .” She looks stricken. He’s caught her off guard. She smooths the front of her dress. “I had a personal conflict with another staff member. We could not work together.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll definitely keep you in mind when it comes time to make that decision.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.”

  But he knows that when the time comes there’s no way in hell he’ll choose Nurse Darby. Working with her is like having a sharp pebble in his shoe. One day in and already he would like to wring her scrawny neck. He imagines that with enough pressure her eyes would pop out, like the novelty squeeze toy he had as a kid. His next mission is to have her gone, by whatever means possible.