Now she stood and stretched her legs. The fluorescent overhead lights buzzed in low tones like mental static. The waiting room was mostly empty. The chairs were orange vinyl, each linked to another in six rows. There was an old woman twisting a wrinkled handkerchief between her fingers, sitting alone. A nurse at a desk. A junkie lying across three chairs, probably waiting for a friend who had overdosed. She paced the room. She asked the nurse, whose name tag read “Arlene,” if there was any news. None. She gazed at the remnants of her family; Bobby, her mother, the space between them, meant for herself. Her mother looked no different from any other day, any other time. A stranger would not be able to detect that anything was amiss in their lives if not for the apron strung across Mary’s waist. But then, something had always been amiss in their lives. Only now another little piece of it was out in the open.
She thought of praying like when she was little, kneeling next to her sister at the foot of her bed, her father leading them in the Our Father. The Hail Mary had always seemed too close to blasphemy, the Glory Be too short, and “Now I lay me down to sleep” like asking to die. So it had been the Our Father. She started to say the words, then stopped. “Good luck, sis,” she said out loud, because that was how she felt.
Just then, Bobby joined her. His eyes were bloodshot and she suddenly wondered what time it was, how long they had been there, if it was morning yet and he was tired. She looked at her watch, eleven; they’d been here only a little over an hour.
“Can I talk to you?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Not here, away from your mom.” He pulled her into the corridor outside the main waiting room. Nurses and attendants walked by all in white.
“What is it, Bobby?” she asked in what she hoped was a warning voice. Please don’t fall apart. I don’t think I could deal with that. Not from you.
“What do you think she was trying to tell you in your dream?”
Liz shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I just don’t get it,” Bobby said. “It doesn’t make any sense. If Mr. Martin was there, then why didn’t he call the hospital instead of the police and why isn’t he here now?”
“What are you talking about?”
He rubbed his eyes, spoke in a whisper. “What if somebody did something to her? She was naked, you know.”
“Bobby. I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t want you to talk about that.” She wondered then whether her father was really dead, if he had done this to Susan and Bobby had somehow guessed.
“I’m sorry, that was really uncool. I should never have said that. I don’t know why I said that.” He squeezed her hands, and she knew he thought she should be crying. She tried to encourage tears for his benefit but they would not come.
Her mother found them in the corridor. Mary’s feet were wet. She had left the store without her boots or coat. She shivered, and Liz thought about finding her a blanket, someone should do that. Someone should do a lot of things.
“What were you doing there, anyway? I told you not to go there, didn’t I?” Mary asked. Liz did not respond, and when Bobby opened his mouth to explain, Mary waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter now.” She opened her black vinyl purse and took out a wrinkled five-dollar bill, appraised it, then added another five and placed it in Bobby’s hand. “Why don’t you two go get something to eat. I’ll come get you if something happens.”
At the cafeteria, Liz concentrated on the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. She tried to decipher a pattern. All the electricity in this building was connected to a single generator that was separate from the storm, the town, the mill; linked to every light, every vending machine, every respirator. She listened for her sister’s voice underneath that buzzing.
SIXTEEN
The End of the World, and Nobody Knew but Him
It was a little before midnight by the time Bobby and Liz got to the cafeteria. There were about fifteen people eating at various tables. A group of six, mostly orderlies in light blue uniforms, drank coffee near the register where a small woman sat behind a counter, reading Eudora Welty’s Golden Apples in paperback. The walls were painted blue. Bobby had read someplace that blue was supposed to have a calming effect. Like people were these lemmings, and if you shined the right light into their faces, they’d feel exactly how you wanted them to feel.
He’d kept thinking that Susan would breathe. Her breath, it had been so strange. Like cigarettes and paper mill. Every time he’d exhaled into her lungs and her chest rose, he felt like he’d been giving life, watching a miracle. When the ambulance came and the EMTs lifted her from either end, they tried not to move her too much, but her head rolled parallel to her shoulder anyway. It was then that he understood he had been breathing into a corpse waiting to happen. Even now, he could taste her smoky breath on his lips.
He’d called home and told his dad what happened. He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but no one was in hearing distance, and he told about how he’d administered CPR. His dad had whistled like: Pretty cool, Bobby, I’m proud of you. You’ve got that doctor blood in your veins. Worst of all, he was proud of himself.
His father had offered to come, and Bobby now regretted saying that it seemed like a family thing, maybe later; he didn’t know if he should be here himself. But neither Mary nor Liz was acting the way they should. He wanted to give Mary his jacket, or find her a blanket, or tell her to stick her hair under a hand dryer in the bathroom. He wanted to tell her to please talk to her daughter, because Liz didn’t look so good right now. She looked about an inch away from hysteria. Please take care of your daughter, Mrs. Marley, because I don’t know how just yet.
If his father were here, he would have said all these things with the confidence and ease dictated by the gray hairs on his head. His father would have asked Mr. Willow what the hell had really happened, and it would have sounded fine coming from his father, it would have been perfectly reasonable. No one would have said, And who do you think you are, asking that? Who do you think you are, asking anything?
He looked across the table at Liz. Her eyes were kind of wild, and every time somebody at the other table laughed she practically jumped out of her skin. If she didn’t calm down soon she’d wind up fainting all over again. That would be bad. Really bad. When she fainted at Susan’s apartment, he’d tried to wake her up, but her body had been like dead weight. He’d started crying, and when the ambulance came and she still didn’t open her eyes, it was worse than he ever could have guessed. He’d felt like the end of the world had happened, and nobody except him would really understand.
Bobby cleared his throat and Liz startled, as if just then remembering where she was. “I could call my dad and ask him to come down.”
“Why?”
“He works here. He already called somebody at the ER and told them you were a friend of the family. It might be good to have him around,” Bobby said.
“What would he do, Bobby?” she asked. Her voice had this high pitch to it like she was about to yell at him.
“Forget it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my mother, she can handle this just fine.”
“I know that.”
“You think you need to call your dad because we’re too fucked up to handle this by ourselves.”
“No. That’s not what I was saying at all.”
“Fine,” she told him. “You know, everybody’s gonna be talking about Susan at school tomorrow and it’s not like they have a right to talk.”
And it all fit together. Of course she’d say that. That was exactly the kind of thing she would be thinking about. She enjoyed having secrets, tragedies that belonged only to her. Like she thought she was a better person for having suffered. Every time he complained about having a bad day or some shit like that she could say, Yeah, but you don’t know. My dad died. My sister’s a fruitcake. You don’t know, Bobby. Only people like me can be mature.
What would good old dad tell her? He’d shrug like he had no idea what she was talking
about, give her a hug, take her away from this place, and pop a sleeping pill down her throat.
“I know how you feel,” he told her, because he was not his dad.
“No you don’t. I know you try but you can’t get it, you can’t ever get it. That’s the problem. You’re Wonder Bread, boy wonder.”
He reminded himself where he was, that she was tired, that she meant none of what she was saying before he answered. “That’s not true.”
“You know it is.”
“Are you trying to say I think I’m great? Is that it?”
“No,” she told him.
“Or you think I’d spend time with somebody I didn’t like? You really think that? Why else would I be with you if I didn’t like you? There’s no good reason.”
A look of surprise crossed her face and the thought that passed through his mind before he pushed it away was: I’m Bobby Fullbright and I could be with anybody in the high school that I want as long as they’re under five foot five, so don’t look so surprised. And then he was sorry. Because thinking bad things about somebody who’s just seen their sister’s broken neck is pretty bad. Thinking bad things about your girlfriend is even worse.
“No good reason?” she asked.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why, it’s how you feel, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not.”
He put his hand over hers. She had soft, pale skin that didn’t burn in the summertime. Short, white fingers. He could leave her after this, after high school. She would be one less string tying him to this town. But for whatever reason, he liked that string.
She stood. “Your mom would have gotten us if something happened,” he told her.
“I know. I need to go to the bathroom. I need to go for a while. I’m sorry, Bobby, I’m glad you’re here, but I have to go for a while.”
“Okay,” he said. And then he thought, You know how to act; it’s Liz. You know how to make her feel better. You don’t need Dad. He got up and kissed her. When his lips touched hers, she jumped back and ran out of the room like this was the fourth grade, and she’d just been the victim of a particularly cruel joke.
SEVENTEEN
Collision
It was close to midnight. Georgia O’Brian had been at the hospital for several hours. She sat at the side of her son’s bed and watched his slumbering face. Her father had been right. She was turning into one of those mothers. The kind that can’t leave their kid alone for more than five seconds. The kind that have nothing better to do than act like smothers. It was time to go home.
Before she left, she took one last look at him. He was nothing like her. She had a brief understanding of the man he would become if all went well and he didn’t fall off any roofs or decide to drink some of that polluted water in the Messalonski River. He would be small and dark with bookish glasses, and he would leave this town. He would leave this dead mill town, and be something better than where he came from. She hoped that, at least.
On her way out of the hospital, Georgia swerved to avoid colliding with Liz Marley. Georgia recognized her, kept walking, then turned around and caught up with her. She tapped the younger woman’s shoulder. “Liz Marley, I used to babysit for you,” she said. “Hi, how are you?”
Liz was a pale, pretty girl with a natural flush to her cheeks. Georgia remembered having seen Liz at the Chop Mop a year or so before and finding her frumpy. She smiled that this was no longer the case.
Liz uttered a sound of surprise. “Oh. I didn’t know, I thought I was alone, uh…”
“Georgia, remember? I used to babysit for you.”
“Oh, I know. I should have known. I’m just all shook up, I guess. I’m sorry, Georgia. How are you?” Liz asked. Then she looked down at the waxed floor and traced the cracks with the tips of her Keds.
“How are you?” Georgia replied.
“Good.”
“Are you visiting someone?”
“Oh, my sister,” Liz said.
“Susan?”
“She’s fine. I mean, no, she’s not fine.” Liz cradled the back of her skull with the palm of her hand in a sympathetic gesture. “She hit her head.”
Georgia looked down at Liz’s feet, and realized that the red dust on her sneakers was Susan Marley’s blood. “What happened?”
“I knew she wouldn’t like it if I brought Bobby with me but I was afraid to go alone. He’s nice. He doesn’t need this.” Then Liz looked up into Georgia’s face. “She hates me. She hates everyone.”
A chill ran down Georgia’s spine as she remembered her dream, and more importantly, the way she’d grinned at Matthew before his fall. Was it possible that Susan had caused it? “Tell me what happened,” Georgia said.
“Bobby and I found her and he called the hospital. I think it was the hospital. My mom didn’t even say thank you.” Liz looked at Georgia, waiting for her to make a judgment on this statement, but Georgia only nodded.
“Susan wasn’t popular in high school. Neither am I. I don’t know why Bobby likes me. My mom says she’ll find us when it gets really bad but I’m not even where I’m supposed to be. I’m supposed to be at the cafeteria with Bobby. He tried to kiss me but he gave Susan CPR. I could taste her on him.” Liz looked again at Georgia for affirmation, and whatever she saw on Georgia’s face made her squint. “My sister’s hurt and I’m talking about Bobby. I’m talking like an idiot.”
“You’re just shook up.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her. I always think about her,” Liz said. Then her eyes watered. “Sometimes I think she’s not really a person. Like she can’t die. She’s different from everyone else. But the thing is, I want her to die.”
Georgia blanched, not because Liz had just confessed that she wished her sister harm, but because she realized that she felt the same way.
Liz smiled a bitter smile. “You must think I’m out of my mind. I’m sorry. Forget it. How are you, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
Georgia reddened from the memory of the last time she had babysat for Liz and her sister. She had not thought about it for years. “It has been a long time. I always meant to see you after that. I wanted to tell you I did what I could.”
Liz seemed not to understand. She gave Georgia a quizzical look. And then she sucked in a quick breath, as if she had been physically struck. “I’m sure you did.”
Georgia shifted uncomfortably. “What happened to your sister?” she asked.
“You saw. Your mom told everyone in town. Danny Willow even came to our house.”
Georgia coughed. She looked at the ceiling. “I mean, that she’s in the hospital.”
“They’re saying it was an accident. Bobby thinks it might have been murder but I know it wasn’t my dad. He’s dead, too.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Liz.”
This silenced Liz for a while. Then she said, “Maybe I’m crazy, just like her.”
“No,” Georgia told her without conviction.
Liz considered, and then she shrugged, as if she didn’t care what Georgia thought, and for this small act Georgia liked her. “Would you give me a hug?” she asked. Georgia opened her arms, and Liz squeezed her so hard that she knocked the breath out of Georgia’s chest. Soon, she began to cry.
Sitting there with Liz in her arms, Georgia wished she had found the bathroom before this had happened, and wondered why an almost grown woman she no longer knew was crying on her breast, or why she had decided to turn around and reacquaint herself with this girl in the first place. Over Liz’s shoulder, she could see people in the cafeteria eating dinner, the late shift. Meat loaf, soup, their hands curled around large cups of coffee. She wondered what it would be like to work at a hospital. Like another world where nothing counts but what is happening right then. Your whole life in a big building with colored tape and white uniforms and the smell of Top Job cleanser. She could feel the softness of
Liz in her arms. She wondered if the staff was looking; if these things happened all the time. If they no longer cared very much, just something they watched, enacted before them every day.
After a while, Liz sat up. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.”
Liz blushed. “Thank you. You’re nice.”
“Glad to help. Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“I’d kind of like it if you stayed,” she said.
“Okay.” Georgia wiped Liz’s hair from her face. “How did it happen, anyway?”
Liz recounted the events of the evening. When she finished, Georgia asked, “Where is he, then?”
“Who?”
“Paul.”
Liz did not understand.
“Mr. Martin, your teacher,” Georgia said.
“I don’t know. Mr. Willow, the cop, police officer, said he was gonna see him later.”
“If she’s about to die, shouldn’t someone call him?”
Liz looked at her with recognition and it made Georgia’s cheeks redden. A small town. A very small town. “I’d feel weird calling a teacher. And I don’t think my mom would like it.”
“I can call him if you want, just to let him know what’s happening. He should be here,” she said. “He should be told what’s going on.”
“I guess you’re right. But later, maybe? Could we just sit here for a while?”
“Yes,” Georgia said, “we can.”
EIGHTEEN
Phone Call
The most unsettling thing about Georgia’s visit to the hospital was not Susan Marley’s unhappy circumstances, or crying Liz, or the memory of her old babysitting days, but the fact that she remembered Paul’s phone number. She had not used it often. Only at night, when his wife had been sleeping. Once Andrew, the angry son, picked up the phone. She hung up. And then, before a relationship had ever really formed, they broke up.
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