by Pike, JJ
She couldn’t help herself; her mind returned to “why?” every time she allowed her attention to wander even the slightest bit.
It wasn’t only that it was a sin to take your own life, it was the waste that bothered Aggie. They were survivors. The point was to make it, not end it. Fran had been working to save the world, just like Mom. Why would she struggle and fight and get all the way to safety—basically they were two or three hours from a place that would keep all of them away from the fallout—only to kill yourself?
“No. Oh, God. No.” Mom fell to the ground behind Aggie, her hands over her mouth, tears rolling down her face. “What have you done? What in the world? Oh, no…”
Betsy, limping heavily and leaning on a crude stick, brought up the rear. She was the best prepared, it seemed, for gore. She examined Bill as a professional would, not a panicking daughter. She took his pulse. Checked his pupils. Told him to, “Breathe deeply. Keep looking at me. Don’t look down. It’s all going to be okay…”
He was still crying, but Betsy managed to get him to look at her, tell her how many fingers she was holding, and shift away from the body. She rummaged through her medical bag, found a syringe, filled it—she didn’t explain herself and no one asked any questions—and gave Bill a shot.
“That’s going to help with the pain.” She packed away her gear. Aggie noticed that Nurse Betsy didn’t dispose of the needle. She deposited it in what looked like a pencil case and turned back to her patient. “I don’t want to knock him out, but I don’t want to leave him in agony. That ought to take the edge off. Get him home and, if his pain hasn’t abated by then, you can give him some oxy. We have a ton.”
Aggie only had eyes for her father. The noise Mom was making was out of this world, not keening, but not plain crying either.
“Aggie, I want you to take your father back to the house. I’ll help…” Betsy and Aggie looked down.
Alice had slid Fran’s head into her lap and was stroking her brain-addled hair, talking to her in Spanish. Aggie had never heard her mother talk Spanish. It had a soft, rolling, sweet sound. Or maybe it was that she was caught between whispering and sobbing over the limp body and mashed head of her former assistant that made her sound so gentle.
Betsy prodded Aggie into action. Together they lifted Bill off the ground and stood him up. Well, “stood” was a bit of an exaggeration. He was sort of slumped between Aggie and the tree, groaning and whimpering.
Betsy wrapped Bill’s left arm around Aggie’s shoulder. “Let him lean all his weight on you. No. Don’t put your arm around his middle. You don’t want to touch his right side or his bandages or let the stump where his right hand used to be bump against you. He’s going to be in a lot of pain. Get him back to the house.” She stopped and lowered her face so she and Aggie were looking at each other directly. “Are you listening to me?”
Aggie nodded. She was watching her mother out of the corner of her eye, but she knew what Betsy was saying was important. “I’m listening. Get Dad home. Don’t touch his bad arm. Give him lots of drugs.”
“You didn’t send those off with Hedwig, did you? We still have oxy?”
Did they? Or had she messed up again? Was her dad going to be in agony because she couldn’t think under this much pressure? She could. She knew she could. She was Agatha, not Petra. Sorry, Sis, but you’re not known for having a cool head. That would be me.
“Agatha? Come in please.” Betsy’s voice cut through the fog as she waved her hand in front of Aggie’s face.
“Yes. We still have all kinds of pain meds and thyroid blockers. I made up a bag, remember? I put it in the kitchen for you. Or at least I think I did. I’ll find it. We’ve got something. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. I guess. If we don’t, I’ll pour a bottle of brandy down his gullet and ride Indigo to the mines and back. I won’t let him suffer.”
“Not a whole bottle of brandy.”
Jeez, Betsy couldn’t have thought she was being serious. Nope. She did. Her forehead was all creased and she’d scrunched up her nose like there was a skunk around. She thought Agatha might be dumb enough to give her dad alcohol poisoning.
“I’m pretty sure we still have some oxy.” Aggie felt her blood pressure coming down. Talking about practical matters was good. For both of them. Betsy wasn’t looking at her like she was a dummy anymore and she was almost back in her own body. Almost. “I remember dividing them up so they weren’t all in one location. Yes. I’m sure. I didn’t want us to lose them in a raid. I divided them up and put some in the small bag I handed to you when…”
“Good.” Betsy gave her a light push towards the house. “Get going.”
“Then what? What do we do when we’ve given him drugs?”
“Wait for me,” said Betsy. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Go. Take him. He doesn’t need to see this. Now. Agatha? Look at me. I want you to turn around and walk the other way.”
With that, Aggie was on the path walking towards the house with her dad’s arm around her shoulder, leaving Mom and Betsy with the rag doll that used to be Fran, except now she had a massive hole in the back of her head.
“It can’t have been,” said Bill.
“What can’t have been?” Aggie had her eyes on the ground. He wasn’t paying close attention to where he was putting his feet. If she didn’t guide him he’d fall flat on his face.
“It can’t have been her. It’s not possible.”
He didn’t want to believe Fran could have done such a thing. Neither did she, but facts were facts. Fran had blown her brains out.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
In the trees, partly covered with a couple of huge branches, Aggie spotted a military vehicle. Her heart leapt in her chest. Of course! Fran had come in a Humvee. They didn’t need to drag Paul across the open countryside on a sled. She could get Dad settled and come back and snag the military vehicle. She could even use Petra. There was no lifting involved. Petra could drive Paul to the mines. That would make her sister very happy.
“The girl was young.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He slid away from her. He was going to fall if she didn’t grab him around the waist but that meant touching his right side which Betsy had strictly forbidden her to do. She snaked her hand around him and gripped him tighter, willing him not to fall down.
She barely touched the sling that held his stump, but the sound he made was something like the screech of foxes followed by the yip of a hundred coyotes pulling apart an old stag. She wanted to let go of her father immediately, take her arm back, put time in hard reverse, and never hear that sound again. But she had to hold on to him. He was staggering. Floppy. Disjointed. Like he was already drunk. She’d never seen anything like it.
She wasn’t strong enough to keep him upright. They were both going to go down. She aimed herself at a tree and marched hard and fast, then propped him up as best she could.
He wailed, calling down the sky to obliterate his pain.
“Okay. Okay, Dad? Dad?!”
He couldn’t hear her. He was in another world. He slid down the trunk, cradling the place where his arm used to be.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’m going to go and get help.”
She ran faster than she’d ever run before. It was all she could do not to look over her shoulder. Would he move? Would he stay? Was he going to pass out?
She burst through the front door, gasping and gagging for air.
Mimi was in the rocking chair in the front hall, Bryony in her lap. Paul was at her feet, still lashed to the sled. Still sleeping. Bryony had a small backpack in her lap, but they’d also brought down three of Betsy’s creepy dolls. Aggie hadn’t seen the two-foot dolls that used to dominate Jim and Betsy’s house since they moved in. Betsy must have removed them to safety when her gaggle of guests landed.
She tried to regulate her breathing and get her thoughts in order, but she was stuck between the horror of what she’d seen in the woods and the outlandishness of the scene in fro
nt of her.
Bryony had picked out three dolls. One had on a flamenco dress, frothy tiers of frills cascading down her legs. The other two were in Gone with the Wind get ups: massive, poufy skirts and petticoats, plunging necklines and hair piled high on their heads. Aggie had never liked the dolls but seeing them now was like being catapulted back in time. Before, things were simple and clean and the weirdness of their neighbors only went as far as dolls in period costumes. Now, arrayed decoratively beside a little girl who was willing to attach herself to anyone who showed her the slightest kindness, the dolls felt like a desperate grab for normalcy.
Aggie was still winded from the running, but seeing the dolls was like being socked by an invisible fist of truth. The idea that their lives were never going to be the same landed hard, like a granite boulder in the center of her rib cage. She bent over and did her best not to pass out. Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. It was a new world, but she’d remade herself before. She could do it again.
“What’s going on?” said Mimi.
“Where’s the bag?” Aggie couldn’t stand there like a bump on a log, sucking up extra oxygen. She needed drugs for her father. Immediately. Ten minutes ago. A time machine. A way to make this all stop. She’d gotten her dad back for three minutes and she was about to lose him again. She dove into the kitchen. The medical go-bag she’d made up for Betsy was right there. She could do this. She grabbed the bag and raced back into the hall. “Where’s Petra?”
“Slow down,” said Mimi. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She didn’t want to say too much in front of Bryony. What Fran had done was too macabre and strange. The kid had seen enough bad stuff; been in a camp for the terminally ill; lost her mom to the plague. It was a wonder she was even upright, let alone cradled in Mimi’s lap. “Can’t stop. Can’t explain. There’s been an accident. I need to get back.”
“Who’s been hurt?” Mimi put her hands over Bryony’s ears.
Bryony pulled them off, her face serious. She wanted to know. Trying to keep kids in the dark was stupid and old-fashioned. Aggie didn’t know exactly why she adhered to the old ways. It had been a knee-jerk reaction.
“Fran’s been injured.” It was only partly true, but least it wasn’t, “Fran blew her brains all over Dad and he’s having a meltdown and is in enough pain to kill several people many times over”.
“Let me know if I can help.” Mimi rocked Bryony.
“Where’s Petra?”
Mimi shrugged. “I have no idea. She was down here a few minutes ago. She’s been hovering over Paul like a mother hen, but she said she needed to find something…”
Bryony took her thumb out of her mouth.
Mimi stopped talking and concentrated all her attention on the little girl.
“She’s in the attic,” said Bryony and promptly returned her thumb to her mouth.
Aggie took the stairs two at a time shouting her sister’s name. “Petra! Petra! I need you. Can you come down? I need help.”
Petra stuck her head out of the hatch in the ceiling. “This place is amazing. Do you think Betsy will let me borrow the baby clothes? There’s a whole trunk. I know it’s a terrible thing to ask, but I’m going to need…”
“Come down.” Aggie waved her arm, willing her sister to get down by her side and make herself useful.
“Chill, Aggie. I know you want us all gone, but Mom and Dad are out in the woods, so we’ve got a little time to spare.”
“Dad’s hurt. Mom’s got Fran…” Would Petra have a meltdown if she knew what had happened? Probably. The less she knew, the better. “I need you.” Aggie turned back to the stairs and held on to the bannister and trip-trip-tropped down, like a goat out of one of Midge’s bedtime stories. She couldn’t afford to slip. She slowed her step. No more injuries. They had to hold it together now. She really was the adult and her parents really were the teenagers. They’d totally flipped roles all the way. “Come on. Come on,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Follow me down the trail.”
She pelted back outside and into the trees. Once they got Dad situated they could go and collect the Humvee. Oh, please let there be keys in the ignition. No. Fran wasn’t that stupid. They’d be on her. In her trousers or pocket or…where…where were the keys?
The vision of Fran sprawled under the tree was vivid. She’d had a gun. It was in her slack hand, but it was definitely there. Not that anyone would think Dad did it for a second, but it was still a good thing to have recalled. Her brains splattered all over the forest floor? Not so much.
Dad was still at the base of the tree, right where she’d left him. He was babbling and crying, still talking about how young Fran was and how impossible it was and how he hadn’t seen it coming.
Aggie opened the bag and shuffled around in the scissors and bandages and blister packs. There, in the side pocket, was a bottle of Oxycontin. Betsy had said she could give him some. Was it too soon? Could he have it now? She checked the bottle for dosing instructions. If she gave him less than the recommended dose that would be okay.
“Dad?” She took his hand and squeezed it, doing her best not to let her fingertips touch the jagged scar where the bear had ripped into him. She applied just enough pressure so he’d know she was there. “You need to take these.” She showed him the pills in her hand. “Can you do that for me?”
He took the pills and popped them in his mouth and chewed. Oh, yuck. She hadn’t thought of that. He needed instructions. Like a toddler. “Dad. No…”
He was using his forefinger to brush the chalky crumbles off his tongue.
“What’s wrong with him?” Petra stood over them.
“There was an accident,” said Aggie. “Fran got hurt. He’s in shock.”
“If he’s in shock he needs to lie down and elevate his feet. You want to make sure the blood flows to his brain…”
“Petra. He can’t lie down. He’s in agony. Any pressure on his arm and he screams like a madman. I need water.” She hadn’t brought the most basic supplies with her. She’d been so focused on the meds bag she didn’t think about her mini go-bag. She had a LifeStraw with her at all times. Except now. When she needed it. Oh, god. She’d left her rifle down the path with Mom and Betsy and what was left of Fran. She totally wasn’t keeping it together like she wanted to. What a mess. Being an adult was the pits. “You stay with him. I’ll get water.” And the keys to the Humvee and everything else I can think of.
“Why don’t we just walk him back to the house?”
“You shouldn’t be lifting anything…”
“I’m not an invalid, Aggie. I’m fine.”
Was it true? Was it really okay for her to help lift him up and shepherd him to the house? Dad had fussed so much when Mom was pregnant with Midge. He’d insisted that she rest and sleep while he took the kids out for bacon and waffles or to the water park or any place but home; all so Mom wouldn’t be bothered. Then again, Mom was a special case. That had been right around the time she’d gone off the rails. It had never occurred to her until that moment that Dad was actively keeping them away from her.
“So?” Petra had her hands on her hips, looking very in-your-face and Petra-ish, but sounding softer, gentler, more like she was listening rather than waiting to say whatever it was that had just popped into her head. “What do we do next?”
“Betsy said not to touch his bad side, but he needs support. I don’t know if he can stand…”
Bill pushed himself out of his slump so his back was resting on the tree. He blinked several times, as if he was trying to clear grit out of his eyes. “She would have been younger than you…”
“Who’s he talking about?” Petra leaned in close and stroked her father’s cheek. “Who are you talking about Pops?”
Bill laughed, then sobbed, then laughed again. “It doesn’t add up.” He unfurled his fist, brought something bright and small up to his eyes, peered at it for a few seconds and closed his fingers around it again.
“What’s that?” Petra mainta
ined eye contact but reached towards his hand.
Bill jerked his fist to his chest, crashed into his bandaged stump, screamed, and let his arm drop. Whatever he’d been holding rolled out of his slackened fingers. He pressed himself against the tree in order to stay upright but didn’t stop wailing.
“Okay. Enough. You take his good side and I’ll take his bad side and we’ll just move him home as fast as we can.” Aggie stuffed the scrap of striped fabric—which turned out to have a little face and arms and legs—in her pocket and ran to her dad’s bad side. “Ready? One, two, three…”
The two girls hoisted Bill to his feet. It was harder than Aggie’d thought it would be. It wasn’t that he was resistant, but he wasn’t all floppy like he had been when she and Betsy had picked him up. He was bracing against the pain, that’s what it was. They dragged him—swearing, screaming, writhing—along the knotted footpath towards the house.
“I’ve got to stop, Ag.” Petra had slowed and they were barely halfway there.
“What’s up?”
“He’s pulling my hair.”
Aggie couldn’t look over her dad’s shoulder to see what Petra meant but it seemed so improbable—that he’d deliberately or knowingly do anything to harm any of them—she stopped and leaned back. Petra was right; Dad had a fistful of her hair in his hand.
“It’s all my fault,” he said. “Everything. All of it. It’s my fault. What am I going to tell her?” His legs buckled under him and he began to fall. Petra didn’t have a good grip. He was slipping away from them. Aggie had no choice but to wrap both her arms around her father and hold him while he screamed.
CHAPTER FIVE