The Secret Women

by Sheila Williams

  “What do you mean, Laura? What do you mean by ‘contaminated’?”

  “Just what I said.” I reached out to take the book back, and he closed his large hand around it.

  “OK. Do you mind if I hold on to it a little while? I’d like to study it more.”

  “No, I don’t mind. But don’t leave the book open,” I told him. “It’s dangerous.”

  Chapter 36

  Dee Dee and Laura

  Dee Dee knew that drawing. It was in a plain composition notebook with a navy-blue cover, a notebook her mother had left unlabeled and undated. The space indicating “This journal belongs to” was blank. The cover was pristine, as if it never had been used, barely touched by a hand, a fingertip. The pages were all ruled—navy and dark pink on snowy white. No writing anywhere on any page. Laura had not changed her mind. This book contained one thing and one thing only. A single drawing, beautifully executed, the craftsmanship evident in each stroke. A rich, nuanced rendering of a fiend that would be exquisite if it weren’t so horrible.

  A blob of black, shaded from inky to dark charcoal, no eyes, no nose, just a mouth, open, gaping, stretched out and screaming, full of pointed teeth, vicious looking and huge, like a prehistoric shark’s teeth, some with serrated edges. Even without a voice, this thing on the page was . . . real somehow (because it was real to Laura). Real and loud. Its power shattered the eardrum; its plea was desperate, angry, and unforgiving.

  Dee Dee closed the book. This was the face of the voice that had tormented her mother. No wonder she . . . Not going there.

  Dee Dee put the book in the sack destined for the fire pit and picked up the next diary in the box. A My Little Pony diary, its first date unclear.

  Not that dates mattered. Half the time Dee Dee couldn’t read Laura’s handwriting; the other half, Laura left the entries undated or mixed the entries from the 1980s with entries from the late 1970s with entries from the early 1990s, all in the same book. Crazy.

  Dee Dee sighed. Okay. Bad choice of word.

  Has it really been a month since I’ve written in this diary? Yes! I am too busy to write. I feel too good to write about feeling bad. I take one tiny white pill two times a day and one large white pill once a day. And I am me again. I paint. I sing. I dance. I am home with my babies and Luke. I am happy. A little chubby (Dr. Christiansen says it’s a side effect) and sometimes I’m constipated. But what’s that compared to being home? Every sketch I do is of my girls. And I have made a decision. No black. All blue. All white red gold green. No black. And no yellow either. Hearing Charlie Earland’s Hammond B-3 in my head, “Happy ’Cause I’m Goin’ Home.” Yeah!

  Home again. Deb and Dee Dee made me a cake (actually my mom did, but they helped). They are so sweet. Luke says I’m not supposed to drive yet but soon. And then I can take them to school. Like all the other mommies. I adore them.

  My Little Pony diary, no date:

  Back to normal. Eight hour day. Just like on TV. Routines. Boring. I love it! The yellow pills (they are new) have taken the noise away. I don’t even remember now what really happened, and I don’t want to remember. Although when I go in next week to see Dr. Christiansen, he’ll ask me. And he’ll want to see this diary. Won’t he be surprised? There is absolutely nothing in it. And that’s a good thing.

  Same journal, one week later:

  Appointment with Dr. Christiansen today.

  He wasn’t happy that I didn’t write much in this diary, but he is happy that I am feeling better. He will give me permission to drive—Hallelujah! He wants me to continue with my writing and with my art. But he wants to look at my sketchbooks.

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Well.” He looked down at that darned little notebook. It’s so small that I don’t see how he can even read the writing in it! “You once told me that you’d made another sketch of the dark voice. May I see it?”

  I was already shaking my head. “No. It isn’t safe,” I told him, and I meant it. Why I hadn’t destroyed that drawing is still a mystery, but since I drew . . . it, I haven’t opened the sketchbook. The longer it stays in the dark, unopened like Pandora’s chest, the better.

  Dr. Christiansen smiled. “Laura, it’s just a drawing.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but you have to understand what I’m saying. It isn’t safe.”

  “All right. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Doctor, I don’t want to take the horse pills anymore. They make me constipated. And fat.” The question is do I want to be skinny, loose as a goose, and crazy or fat, constipated, and sane? To be or not to be . . .

  Again, that smile.

  “No, Laura, I’d rather you didn’t stop. You’re progressing so well.” He slid out his prescription pad and scribbled something. “Take this to the pharmacy. It’s a laxative. That should help.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I agreed. “I’d like to be able to take a healthy dump once in a while.”

  We both laughed. I tore up the prescription sheets when I got home. I’ll pull back from the white pills for a few days. That should help.

  Red spiral-bound college-ruled notebook, date illegible:

  Feeling sad. Luke wants me to see Dr. Christiansen. I hate going to the bathroom. There’s a shadow in the corner next to the tub.

  Same journal, December?:

  New pills! Yellow ones with white. Feel much better. Not as tired. No shadows. Teaching art at Provident Middle School. LOVE LOVE LOVE it!

  Same journal, date illegible, 19??:

  I am teaching full-time! High school! Finally, I can help Luke with the bills (the Bonneville needs work). Hurrah! Mrs. Carson is taking care of the girls after school and on Thursdays when I have practice. Can you imagine? I help Nancy with the cheerleaders! Gooooooooo Tigers! Can’t do the splits anymore tho’. Too fat. ☹

  Same journal, no date:

  The art show. In May, it’s all that my students can think about. It’s all that I can think about! I’ve coordinated it from opening the door to closing it. Paintings, prints, collages, sculptures, pottery, creations made of objects found on the street and in the garbage (UGH!), and every darn thing in between. I love it! This is what I can do!

  Another sketch of the girls to finish—I’ve decided to be like Monet—the same subject in different light, clothes, backgrounds, colors. It’s the same, but it isn’t the same. Just like me. And they are growing so fast, every day is different. Debora is my baby Einstein, numbers, shapes, calculations. Dee Dee is my wordsmith. She has the vocabulary of a college English prof! Love love love my girls.

  Same journal, no date:

  Barbara has approached me to do a show. Me. Just me! She loves my sketches and the pastels of the girls. She thinks it could make my career as an artist. All I ever wanted. But I need to work. I need to think about work. But worse than that—they want to take photos of me. And I’m so fat! I have a double chin and my stomach has rolls! I’m actually wearing a maternity top from when I was pregnant with Dee Dee! So OK, no more yellow pills. I have to lose some poundage, have to!! One stone should do it. Two would be better. Three sublime.

  Chapter 37

  Laura

  Journal entry, illegible:

  “My candle burns at both ends . . .” —Edna St. Vincent Millay, “First Fig”

  And in the middle:

  Laura O’Neill

  I woke up. My arms ached, felt heavy and broken. I could barely support myself to sit up. I felt so heavy . . . as if I weighed a thousand pounds, my chest thick with breath like concrete. I have to stop taking those damn yellow pills. I feel as if I weigh a ton. No, wait. I did stop taking them. I must have forgotten. But here . . . and here and there . . . a window. Light! How exquisite! Sublime, the brightness! “It gives a lovely light!” Dear Edna, only she could find the words. The sun was out, no clouds, no darkness, and it was so brilliant I wanted to paint it, but I couldn’t. My arms were . . . they felt thick and awkward like tree stumps. The window was defaced by stripes . .
. stripes? No. Bars. Why are there bars on the windows? I’m not home . . . Where am I? What is this place with bars on the windows and . . . Why am I in a hospital? I’m not sick.

  Am I?

  “Oh, you awake?” The woman smiled at me. The sound and smell of ripe Georgia peaches filled her voice. “Okay, honey, I’ll get the doctor. You just rest a moment. You gotta pee?”

  Yes, I did.

  She was gentle and very kind. She let me lean on her as I walked to the bathroom. Once I got moving, the heaviness lifted. I was just clumsy. I guess she stayed with me because she thought I was weak. But I couldn’t remember why I was there. I wasn’t sick. I hadn’t even had a cold.

  And where were my girls? I looked around the room, but there was nothing, nobody but her—in my head I called her Georgia—and me, the room stark and white and clean. And empty. And it seemed like it was late in the afternoon, not morning. Goodness, I needed to get going. Did I go to work today? Maybe not. Teachers’ conference? Hmmm . . . Anyway, school would be let out soon. Dee Dee and Debora would be wondering where I was.

  “Listen, I’m feeling fine,” I told Georgia. “Could you get my clothes, please? And my purse? I have to pick up my girls from school.”

  Georgia—her name was Donna, according to the tag pinned on her uniform—smiled at me and patted me on the shoulder. “Listen, Laura, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?”

  “No. No, thank you. I just have to get my purse and my clothes and get out of here.” I looked at my wrist, but my watch was gone. “I had a watch on . . . a little Timex, silver with a black leather band . . .” I pulled out the drawer in the stand next to the bed. It was empty except for a penny hiding in the corner.

  “Just sit right there. I’ll be back, honey, okay?” She walked briskly to the door, then turned back, speaking to me over her shoulder. “You’re sure that you don’t want anything to eat?”

  I shook my head and smiled or tried to. I felt anxious, worrying how my girls would feel if I wasn’t there to pick them up. Dee Dee would put her thumb in her mouth, and Deb . . . I smiled thinking about my oldest girl. Deb’s lips would settle into a thin line as she would play her best “big sister” part, stoic and strong.

  “Don’t cry, Dee Dee,” she’d say. “You don’t cry. Be a big girl. I’ll take care of you.”

  I’ll take care of you. Mommy’s just sick, that’s all.

  Mommy’s sick?

  “Please . . . I’ve got to pick up my daughters!”

  “Don’t you worry,” Georgia/Donna said as she came back into the room. “Your daughters are fine.”

  How did she know?

  My heart hadn’t been beating, but it was beating then. Hard. I knew what that was: fear. No. Terror. The feeling I got when I had to run. To get somewhere, anywhere—it didn’t matter where. I looked out the window, but nothing looked familiar. I didn’t know where I was. It looked like, felt like, a hospital. I was wearing a white gown with navy stripes, loose and ugly, fastened in the back. Where were my clothes? My car . . . I had to get to my car, had to pick up my children, had to get dressed, had to get dressed, had to . . . and not so much time. Oh my God, what would the girls think if I wasn’t there? And their father . . . Luke was in Columbus on business. He couldn’t pick them up. It was up to me, it was up to me . . . I was supposed to be taking care of them. It was up to me.

  Debora’s voice floated through my thoughts.

  Mommy’s sick.

  Why was Mommy sick?

  I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t. And then I thought if I could just stop my heart, then I could breathe. So that’s what I did. I let my heart stop, and then I exhaled, long and hard, and then I took another breath and let my heart start again, and then . . .

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Neill, I’m Dr. Keller.”

  “Umm, that’s nice. But my doctor is . . .” Geez, what is his name? Oh, now I remember. “Where’s Dr. Christiansen?” I asked.

  The man smiled. “Doug . . . Dr. Christiansen is on sabbatical. He’s in Oslo.”

  “Oh, it’s cold there.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I fumbled with the chair as I tried to get up, but it seemed as if my legs weren’t working properly so I sat down again.

  “Well, Dr. . . . Keller. Listen, I’m fine, really. It must have been a touch of the flu or something. I’m okay now. But it’s late, and I have to pick up my girls from school. They’ll be wondering where I am. If I could just get my clothes and my purse and my car . . .” Where had I parked my car?

  “Mrs. O’Neill . . . Do you mind if I call you Laura? Let me begin by reassuring you that your girls are just fine. Their father picked them up from school so you don’t have to worry.”

  “But Luke is in Columbus.”

  The doctor smiled and put his hand on my arm.

  “No. He’s here, and Deanna and Debora are with him. Would you like a glass of water? Or something to eat? You must be hungry. You haven’t had any food since you’ve been here.”

  The caution lights flashed yellow and a deep dissonant honking sound blasted repeatedly in my head HONK HONK HONK HONK. The yellow lights hurt my eyes. I’ve always had a problem with yellow. That’s why I don’t use it in my paintings.

  “Since I’ve been here?” I repeated. “Where is here?”

  Dr. Keller smiled again. I was beginning to get tired of that smile.

  “The Shawnee Springs Hospital.”

  The caution lights stopped flashing, just froze. Now all I saw was a huge streak of neon yellow. The honking continued HONK HONK HONK . . .

  “H-how long have I been here?”

  This time the doctor did not smile.

  “Two days, Laura,” he said somberly. “Today is Thursday.”

  The honking sound stopped, just froze in place and just blasted in my head to go with the constant yellow light. I blinked my eyes. My head felt as if somebody had slammed it with a baseball bat.

  “I . . .” I stopped my heart again so that I could speak. “Why am I here?”

  He took a deep breath and tilted his head slightly. “You don’t remember? Do you remember anything about . . . the time before you came here?”

  “Well, of course I do. I am not an idiot! I took the girls to school, went to work, two classes to teach, went home, did laundry, called my mother, paid the electric bill, sketched out two portraits of Dee Dee and Debora, worked in my sketch pad, ironed the girls’ blouses for school tomorrow and their dresses for Sunday school, talked to Luke at work and went to JCPenney’s to pick up the new blinds for the kitchen, then stopped at the Sohio station on Long Street, had Bo put air in the back tire. I cleaned the bathroom twice to make sure that the rust stains were completely gone, then I scrubbed out the refrigerator because it was sounding funny and I wanted to make sure that no one could hear it, and then it was time for the school to let out. Debora had a piano lesson with Mrs. Charles. I drove up to the school—they go to North Elm Elementary, and I picked them up and I had to take the back way to get to Mrs. Charles’s, so we went down Mill Avenue, then turned left onto Broad and took the Big Mac across, but this truck cut me off and . . .”

  Dr. Keller was still not smiling. I was beginning to miss his smile.

  “And . . .”

  It was like watching a movie with perfectly pitched sound and sharp images full of true-to-life color, not that psychedelic stuff. The traffic on the bridge was heavy, but not gridlocked. The woman in the maroon Pontiac Sunbird . . . me? No. I couldn’t have been . . . She pulled over in the outside lane and parked, and I wondered why she did that; there wasn’t enough space for a car to park. She got out of the car and ran over to the railing, her face dripping with tears, her mouth spread wide in a smile. Or was it a grimace? Was she in pain? She rocked back and forth against the railing, then swayed from side to side as if she was doing some kind of modern dance. Or maybe she’d been drinking. Or was on drugs. LSD could make you do things like that. And then she raised her hands toward the sky as if willi
ng it or the gods or God or something to come down.

  She opened the back door of the car, reached in and pulled out a small child and dropped her over the side. The other child was heavier—she was older, I think—so it took some doing for her to lift the girl, and by that time another driver, a man, had stopped and was trying to prevent the woman from dropping the little girl over. He grabbed the child away from her—the poor thing was screaming in terror. And the woman laughed, climbed up on the railing, and tried to jump off the bridge into the river.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so white.

  The doctor nodded. He still wasn’t smiling.

  “Yes. That’s . . . exactly what happened. You saw all of that?” Dr. Keller sounded as if he didn’t believe me. As if I hadn’t seen the movie.

  “Yes. Of course, I was on the bridge too, driving to Debora’s piano lesson, following right behind a Sears truck, and then . . .”

  I rewound the tape in my mind because it seemed to me that I had missed something. The little maroon Sunbird looked so much like my car and the little girl so much like my Dee Dee and the other child resembled Debora and the woman . . .

  This time the caution lights did not flash, the horn did not honk. I wouldn’t have heard them anyway. The silence was too loud. My heart stopped beating, my lungs stopped inhaling, and I

  just

  stopped.

  “I . . . Did I . . .” My lips felt as if they were as big as pancakes, and my throat felt as if it had filled up with shattered glass, cutting slicing piercing the membranes. I could not bring myself to say the awful words, to ask.

  Dr. Keller looked down for a moment at his hands, then lifted his gaze up to meet mine.

  “Dee Dee’s fine, a broken arm, a few bruises, but she’s good. And Debora never even got wet.”

  “I’ll get the death penalty for this,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “No, Mrs. O’Neill, Laura. You are ill, very ill.”

  “No, no, I deserve to die . . . really . . . and I can do this,” I told him with confidence. “I can die all by myself.” I had already stopped my heart and my lungs. Now all I had to do was stop my brain and it would be over. The flashing lights, the horns, the voice that kept growling at me, the pain . . . I could make it be over. I could die. And then my little girls would be free to live in safety, and feel secure, and would never again have to worry about a derangednutcasecrazyass mother driving too fast and throwing them into . . .