by James Hunt
***
Claire unpacked the rest of the dishes, loaded them in the washer, and turned it on. It’d been a while since she’d had that luxury. And it felt good. But despite the house, the financial stability, the knowledge that she’d be able to buy groceries next week and not have to stretch one meal into four, Claire couldn’t stop biting her nails.
It was a habit she picked up as a little girl. Her mother scolded her every time she caught her doing it, but the habit wouldn’t break. What Owen had said last night rang in her ears all morning. She’d barely slept a wink because of it, and she’d avoided her father all morning. She glanced out the front kitchen window and saw Matt playing catch with Chloe. When he moved his arms, the sunlight brightened the white of his bandages against his lightly tanned skin.
She just couldn’t believe that her father would do something like that, failing mind or not. But she had to remind herself what the doctors had said. Alzheimer’s could unveil some frightening tendencies, and if that should happen, they should start considering their options. The only problem was that all the options were shit.
“Gah.” Claire winced and looked down at her ring finger. She’d gnawed off a hangnail and was bleeding. She reached for the sink knob, and the pipes groaned. The faucet rattled, and instead of water a black sludge spewed from the pipe, which smelled of sewage.
Claire covered her nose and quickly shut off the sink, letting the black water funnel down the drain. She backed out of the kitchen, still sucking on her finger, making a mental note to tell Owen about the pipes. She hoped that water didn’t funnel through the dishwasher.
In the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, Claire heard the faint murmur of her dad’s television in the den. She’d set it up just like the basement in Baltimore in hopes of giving him some familiarity. But she wasn’t sure if that mattered now.
She paced the dining room, working up the nerve to go and speak to him, and in one swift turn marched down the right rear hallway, the television growing louder.
Roger sat in his favorite chair, unaware of his daughter’s presence. Perhaps even unaware he had a daughter. She knocked on the door frame as she entered. “Dad, I need to talk to you.” When he didn’t respond, her heart cracked, and she took another step inside. “Roger?”
He looked up at her, squinting the way he did when he wasn’t himself. “Yes?”
She hesitated. If he wasn’t lucid, then maybe now wasn’t the best time. She raised her nails to her mouth but stopped herself and knelt at the side of her dad’s chair. She looked up at him like she did when she was a little girl. “Do you know who I am?” Her voice was small and quiet, fearful almost.
Roger smiled. “Of course, Claire-Bear.” He cupped her cheek, his large hand calloused but warm.
Claire leaned into it and then took hold of his hand in both of hers. “Do you remember last night?”
The smile faded. “A little.”
“Something happened to Matt, and—”
“Oh my god.” Roger leaned forward, his voice suddenly frightened. “Did I—”
“He’s fine, Dad.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “But there were some marks on his arm. Bite marks.” She felt him shudder. “Do you remember anything like that?”
Roger’s eyes searched the floor as if the answers were written there in front of him. He squeezed her hands. Even at seventy-three, and with Alzheimer’s, he was still strong. Still resilient. “No.” He looked at her. “Did I do it?”
“We’re not sure,” Claire answered.
Roger wiped his mouth, the wheels of his mind slowly turning, some of them completely broken now, and then he dropped his hand and moved close. “Was there blood in my teeth?”
Claire recoiled. “What? No. I-I mean, I don’t think so.” She thought about it last night. She didn’t really see her dad after it happened. But Owen never mentioned seeing anything like that, and she let herself feel hopeful.
“Well,” Roger said. “I would have had blood on me if I did, right?”
Claire reassuringly squeezed his hand back. “Yeah. I guess you would have.” She stood and kissed his forehead. When she pulled back, his face looked confused again.
“Do I know you?”
She smiled sadly, knowing that they’d have so many more interactions like this over the next few months. Just before she spoke to answer, Chloe screamed.
Claire spun on her heel and sprinted out of her father’s room, Chloe’s high-pitched wail guiding Claire toward the front door and then out into the gravel drive. “Chloe! Matt!” The afternoon sun was bright, and she stumbled blindly. “Chloe!”
“Mom!”
Black spots from the sudden brightness clouded her vision, but she pivoted right toward the sound of her daughter’s voice. Shin-high grass brushed her knees as she weaved around trees and rocks. She blinked quickly, ridding herself of the blinding spots, and found Chloe next to a tree.
Bright red blotches sat high on Chloe’s cheeks that were wet from crying. As she rounded the tree, she saw Matt on the ground, unconscious, a snake slithering away from his body.
“Get back, Chloe!” Claire’s voice was angered, and frightened, and the tone only triggered another wail of sobs from her daughter. She knelt by her son’s body, his eyes closed. “Matt, can you hear me? Matt!” She gently shook him, then checked for a pulse. He was sweating profusely, but his skin was cold to the touch. She noticed the pair of punctured holes in his forearm next to one of the bandages. She checked his breathing and felt the light puff of air from his nose. She picked her son off the ground, struggling with his weight. “Chloe, get to the U-Haul, now!”
Her daughter did as she was told, and she stumbled toward the moving truck, running ahead of Claire, who kept Matt close to her chest, her legs sinking into the soft Louisiana mud, slowing her sprint toward the U-Haul.
With the muscles in her arms burning from Matt’s weight and mud speckled over her legs, she heaved Matt into the U-Haul’s passenger seat, and then helped Chloe inside after. “Put your seatbelt on and then put one on your brother.”
Claire skirted around the truck’s hood to the driver side door and climbed inside. The keys were still stuck in the ignition, Owen’s way of testing true Southern hospitality. She cranked the U-Haul to life, then floored the accelerator and swerved down the gravel road.
Matt shivered in his seat, and Claire removed one white-knuckled hand from the wheel and placed it on her son’s arm. His skin was ice-cold but he was moving, and that meant he was alive. Crying, Chloe laid her head down on Matt’s shoulder.
A few low hanging branches smacked the top of the U-Haul and a truck driving in the opposite direction honked at her speed, but she ignored them. The National Guard couldn’t slow her down.
Traffic thickened the closer they moved to town and the tires screeched as Claire maneuvered between the cars, their blaring horns growing angrier. Main Street appeared, and she leaned forward until her chest pressed against the steering wheel, her eyes scanning the row of buildings for Dr. Talbert’s office. She was scheduled to visit today at three for the bite marks on Matt’s arm.
Signs for the hardware store, grocery, and gas station flew by, but she jerked the wheel sharply to the left of the road when she spied the letters MD in her peripheral.
With the engine still running, but the U-Haul in park, Claire grabbed hold of Matt and pulled him across the seats. His limbs dragged behind him as he lay limp, and Claire cradled him in her arms. “Chloe, come on!” Her daughter followed, her short legs struggling to keep up with her mother, who shouldered open the doctor’s office door. “I need help!”
Heads snapped in her direction, looking away from their phones, magazines, computers, and waiting room television playing a rerun of Friends. An elderly woman behind the reception desk rose from her chair as Claire adjusted Matt’s weight in her arms.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Snake bite,” Claire answered, her voi
ce cutting in and out. “I don’t know what kind it was.”
A man stepped out from behind the wall separating the waiting room and the examination rooms, and Claire noticed Dr. Talbert inscribed on his coat. “Let’s get him in the back.”
Claire followed the doctor to the closest available room and laid Matthew on the table.
Dr. Talbert opened Matt’s eyes and flashed a light in them, pressing his fingers against the side of Matt’s neck. “Rachel, bring in the cardiac monitor.” Dr. Talbert removed his stethoscope and checked the boy’s breathing as Rachel wheeled in a machine and lifted Matt’s shirt. She placed small suction cups over his chest and stomach. “Let’s get an IV hooked up as well.”
“What about anti-venom?” Claire asked. “Don’t you have something like that?”
“Without knowing what kind of snake bit him, we don’t know what anti-venom to use,” Dr. Talbert answered. “But the fluids will help keep his organs functional until it passes.”
“How long with that take?”
“I’m not sure.”
Matt convulsed on the table, and foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth. The nurse and doctor stabilized his head and placed a wooden bit in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue off.
“Oh my god,” Claire said, covering her mouth.
“Mommy.”
Claire spun around and saw Chloe in the doorway, her eyes locked on Matt. She went to reach for her, but one of the nurses in the hallway pulled her away from the traumatic scene.
“Keep his arms steady!” Dr. Talbert said, but even with the nurse, they could barely keep all of Matt’s one hundred pounds on the table, the convulsions worsening.
Claire jumped in to help and watched the foam bubbling at the corners of Matt’s mouth turn red. His eyes popped open and he screamed, spewing blood in speckled bits like a volcano. He arched his back, his legs and arms pinned by the three of them, and he squirmed.
The green lines of the cardiac monitor spiked up and down in jagged peaks, beeping wildly. Matt’s body offered one final spasm and then he collapsed on his back, his body limp. The green line plummeted and the fast-paced beeps were replaced with a single monotone beep as Matt flat lined.
“No!” Claire howled like a wounded animal, helplessly clawing at her son’s legs as the doctor pumped Matt’s chest, his small body convulsing with each heavy-handed compression. The nurse pulled at Claire’s arms, but she resisted, taking hold of Matt’s left foot that tilted lifelessly to the side. Her knees buckled as the steady beep of the EKG filled the examination room.
A tightness took hold of Claire’s chest, and she clutched it as the nurse holding her by the arms tried to pull her up. Another wave of sobs scrunched her face and creased her lips into a painful, solid line that lay as flat as the cardiac monitor for her son’s heart.
Dr. Talbert stepped back from the table, his shoulders sagging with his arms limp at his sides. He turned to Claire and said something. But those words weren’t right. They couldn’t be. Matt was ten. He was healthy. He loved baseball and being a big brother. He was a good kid. He was her son. Her first born.
“God, no!” Claire’s face reddened and she grew more hysterical.
“Ma’am, please,” the nurse said, trying to pull Claire back. “It’s best if you don’t stay. Please.”
Claire smacked the hands that reached for her or Matt. “Don’t you touch him!” She hovered over his body protectively, holding his face, his skin still ice cold. She pulled him to her chest and slowly rocked him.
Tears dripped from Claire’s face, raining over her child like an afternoon shower. She shook her head, feral moans escaping her lips. She stroked his hair, pushing the bangs from his forehead, and then gently leaned down and kissed his cheek. When she removed her lips, she laid her head on his chest.
A faint beep echoed through the room. Claire lifted her head and looked back to the monitor, the green line still flat. She looked at the nurse and doctor, both of whom were staring at the screen as well. “Did you hear that?”
Claire turned back to Matt, fanning the flames of hope. “C’mon, Matty. Come back. Please, come back.” She shut her eyes, praying. She wasn’t sure who was listening, or what was listening, but as she whispered promises to a being she wasn’t even sure existed, another beep sounded. And then Matt opened his eyes.