SAMMY NEVER CHEATED ON ME, never. I know that. But that night, something happened. Maybe it triggered all that followed.
Her name was Chloe. I've never much cared for the name. It sounds like a fake name for a fake person. Chloe would be the name in giant starburst letters on the cardboard box of a blow-up doll with puckered lips and a rubber 'flesh-like' hole, meant to bring pleasure to some sad man whose wife had left him a decade before. Chloe might be a nickname or a puppy's name, but a grown woman?
She showed up to our Halloween party in silver tights and a tiny red velvet dress that tucked around her body like cellophane. Red pointed horns stuck from her thick black hair. She was beautiful in that terrifyingly exotic way that so many women fear. Slanted cat eyes thick with mascara, and enormous red pornographic lips that made every spoken word look like an invitation for oral sex. Worse, she worked with Sammy. She was the secretary for a comic book artist he was doing a collaboration with.
Most of the guests had gone home. I stopped in the kitchen and filled a tall glass with water, gulping it down in two long drinks.
When I saw her kissing him beneath the oak tree, I felt the weirdest sensation - as if I was tumbling down a mountain caught in an avalanche, getting buried. And as the light began to disappear, I watched my life with Sammy vanish as well. I watched his sweet smile turn grotesque and angry as we fought over the custody of our love child and the stupid bullshit we'd accumulated during our marriage. I watched a real estate agent hammering a for-sale sign in front of our little bungalow, and the tire swing in the backyard getting ripped down to improve the resale value. I saw Chloe putting lipstick on the innocent face of my beautiful daughter and insisting that Sammy enroll her in jazz classes and pierce her ears.
I went crazy. I didn't know it at the time, but I did. I took a knife out of a kitchen drawer and went upstairs to lie down.
I placed the knife beneath my pillow, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 31
Now
Sarah
“C rash at my place, if you want,” Sarah told Will.
He glared at her.
“I have my own places to crash. I don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity. I need your help tomorrow, and I don’t feel like hunting through all your little hovels in the morning.”
Will looked away, and then returned a hard glare at her.
“I’m not exactly ‘Leave it to Beaver’ material, Sarah. What will your friends think?”
“Seriously? I’m a lesbian. I dropped the judgey friends ages ago. We marginalized folks have to stick together.”
“You’re gay?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes, and not the merry kind. I date women.”
He picked his duffel bag off the ground and slung it over his shoulder.
“All right.” He plopped back into the passenger seat.
She smiled but directed her expression toward the window, lest he flee from her obvious joy at his staying the night. It wasn’t the company she wanted, but an end to the niggling unease that woke her at least once every night since meeting him. Fear for his safety, for Corrie, Isis, her mother. Fear drove her out of bed to her home office, where she sketched house plans until her hands ached and her eyes grew bleary. It was ridiculous.
Will was a seventeen-year-old man, able to take care of himself, and yet… She thought of Isis, small and innocent and caught in the same cycle of loss. She wanted to believe that if Isis ever met a similar fate, there would be kind strangers who would guide her.
SARAH’S DOG turned from his spot on the sofa, where she imagined seconds before he’d been springing in the air like a dog on a trampoline. He bounded across the room and greeted Sarah with a cheerful bark.
“How’s my little Archie?” Sarah knelt and scratched behind Archie’s fluffy white ears.
“Hey, Archie,” Will said when the dog shifted his attention to the stranger in his house. He nudged his head into Will’s knee. “Did you name him after the comic strip?” Will patted the dog on the back and held out his palm while Archie licked it and barked a seeming approval at Sarah.
“After Andy Warhol, actually. Well, not him, but his dog.” Sarah gestured at a half-wall painting of a vivid Marilyn Monroe set against a pale blue background.
“Is that an original?” he asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I’m doing pretty well, but not that well. Do you know his work?”
“Nah. I mean, we brushed over it in one of my online classes. Apparently, he’s the father of pop-culture or pop art or Pop Tarts. I can’t say his stuff moved me.”
Sarah surveyed the picture. “I find Andy fascinating because he rebelled against the status quo. He chose an authentic life - not easy to do, as you yourself know.”
Will nodded looking at the image for another moment before taking in the rest of the house’s spacious interior.
“Damn, this place is swikkety-swank. Did you design this?”
“Yep, with the help of my mentor, Richard Haller. This was my third house and my favorite for obvious reasons. I intended to sell the house plans, but after I finished, I knew it was mine. I built it instead.”
“What’s it called?” Will asked, gazing at the slanted ceiling strung with a jumble of hanging silver pendant lights. The ceiling ended at a high white wall that ran between two walls of corrugated metal.
“I’m not sure it has a label. If I had to, I’d call it Modern Refurbished. I took liberties when it came time to focus on aesthetics. The house itself follows the tradition of modernism. I thought a lot about Frank Lloyd Wright when I designed it. I wanted the inner and outer life of the house to flow.” She gestured at the wall of windows that looked out on her backyard, where a mature cottonwood tree stood surrounded by wooden benches. “But I also love re-purposing old materials. This floor is made from palettes.”
“It’s cool,” Will said, dropping his duffel bag behind a chair and leaning over her coffee table stacked with books on unique structures.
“Get comfortable. I’m going to walk Archie, and then I’ll pop some food in the oven.”
“WHY DID YOU BECOME AN ARCHITECT?” Will asked, eating the last egg roll and scooting closer to the fire, where he stuffed a pillow beneath his head and reclined on the floor.
Sarah took a sip of wine and pulled her legs beneath her on the couch.
“My dad spent most of our childhood sketching his dream house. He always said one day he’d find a little lake in the forest and buy a piece of land, and we’d build the house. Unfortunately, he never did. Partially because the design was a nightmare and never could have worked, but also because it was the dream more than anything else that he loved. His passion moved onto me. I drew dream houses too. When it came time to declare a major in college, I’d already known for a decade what I wanted to do.”
“That’s cool,” Will said. “My dad was a technical writer. I almost feel like I should do it too. I don’t even know why.”
“Did he love it?”
“Nah, not really, but I don’t know many adults who love their jobs. Do you?”
The first person who popped into her mind was Sammy. He had loved his job.
“Some of them do, the happiest ones do. I would never have become an architect if I didn’t love it.”
He closed his eyes and yawned.
“Why aren’t you with family, Will? Not to pry. I’m just surprised.”
“My dad was an only child and wasn’t close with his parents. They live in Boston. My mom has a brother that lives downstate.”
“And you didn’t want to live with them?”
“They believe my dad is a murderer.”
Sarah sighed. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah, and logical too. They’re not exactly open-minded. They never liked my dad to begin with. I’d rather live in a dumpster.”
“Well I’m happy you’ve found better options than that.”
He grinned.
“Yeah, the arc
ade is a slight upgrade. I’ve had friends offer, but…” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “They all sort of tiptoe around me like I’m fragile. I’m not fragile, my dad wasn’t a murderer, and I prefer to be on my own. I have a job. I’m saving for my own place.”
“What’s your job?”
“The Computer Caper.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stained business card, handing it over.
“There’s no phone number. Your name’s not even on here.”
“I prefer to work incognito. My business is mostly word-of-mouth. I need that back.” He plucked the card from her hand.
“Do you only have one business card?”
“I had about twenty, but I’ve passed them all out. I’ll order more one of these days, but why bother? I’ve got more work than I have time for.”
CORRIE
* * *
I LAID Isis in her crib, her lower lip trembling with breath, and kissed her forehead before returning to the great room where Fletcher sat, legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap.
“She’s beautiful,” Fletcher said.
“Thanks,” I told him, guilt crowding my brain. “Since Sammy died, I‘ve lost touch with being the mommy she deserves. I can‘t tell you the last time I got on the floor and played with her. I feel terrible.”
“It’s not your fault, Corrie.”
I walked to the window, where mist swept off the lake and crawled over the shoreline. A mass of dark sky prowled the horizon; soon rain would drench the house and lawn.
“It is, though. Parents don’t get to stop. No catastrophe justifies abandoning our children. My mother was a drinker, an alcoholic. She abandoned us, and I hated her for it. Now…” I trailed off, unable to say the words, hating myself for the comparison.
Fletcher looked uncertain, but then seemed to find the words he wanted.
“When Lauren died…” He paused. “Lauren was her real name, not Ann. When she died, I ceased. I mean it, every single routine in my life stopped. I switched from drinking soda to black coffee. I stopped sleeping. I chucked my TV out the window.” He chuckled. “I couldn’t tolerate any aspect of my life that reminded me of Lauren. Eventually, the new habits replaced the old, the new me was born, and that’s how I survived. It may be a long time before you’re on the floor again with Isis, Corrie. My advice? Let go of the mother you used to be and let a new one be born. For both of you.”
I smiled, forced my feet across the room and perched on the edge of a maroon chair, planting my hands on the carved mahogany arms to stop their restlessness. “Tell me about Lauren.”
He gazed at me a moment longer, and then nodded.
“I met Lauren in college. She was studying to be a teacher. I was a wayward soul, taking philosophy and psychology courses, but had a no-preference major.”
He shifted in his chair and glanced around the house again.
“I must admit, Corrie, this house seems like a strange place to recover.”
I stiffened, a little flare of defensiveness lighting in my head.
“It’s big,” I said.
He laughed.
“Big’s not even the half of it. It’s…” he paused and looked toward the fireplace. The black mouth yawned empty beneath the grinning pagan face. “Unsettling.”
“It grows on you,” I murmured.
“I’m sure it does, though I sense an invasion more than a growing.”
I frowned but didn’t argue. I needed this man, and I didn’t want a petty squabble over the strange house to send him on his way.
“Tell me about Lauren,” I prodded.
He returned his eyes to mine.
“We were oil and water in the early days. I liked to sit around chain-smoking Virginia Slims and discussing Tolstoy. She headed a bunch of activity groups - sand volleyball, ski-club, softball. She was in a sorority when I met her. I poked fun at her. She could have blown me off, should have. She smiled and said, ‘Join us.’ I didn’t. I would not reduce myself to the sun-tanned, always smiling Phi Beta Whatta’s, but then I saw her one day in this little park at the edge of campus. She was sitting alone, reading a book. Something happened. That strange magic that has people using words like ‘the one’ and ‘love at first sight.’ The words don’t do the experience justice, and the hard thing is the moment is fleeting and you might only get it once in your life.”
I nodded, balling my hands into fists in my lap and struggling to breathe. I knew the feeling. I’d experienced the magic.
He hesitated and looked at his feet.
“I’m sorry, Corrie. I shouldn’t have gone there. This is fresh for you, and I remember those encounters of my own after she died. It was like a knife grinding in my chest every time a couple kissed or laughed or held hands. Happiness had become like poison to me.”
“Don’t stop, tell me the rest.”
“We were on Moosehead Lake, drinking. It was close to dusk and my friend Gary was driving the boat. Lauren went up to sit in the bow seat, and Gary was driving so fast. He didn’t see the waves. We hit ‘em going fast. I saw her fly up into the air. Her face is frozen in my mind, that look of shock, and then she was overboard. She disappeared into the water so fast, and by the time we got the boat turned around and circled back to her, she was gone.”
“Could she swim?”
“Like a seal,” Fletcher said, frowning as if it still puzzled him. “But I heard something, a thud. I don’t know if she hit her head, or the boat ran her over.”
He stopped and closed his eyes, shook his head as if that might remove the images seared there.
“We didn’t find her body for two days. The coast guard was out, helicopters, search-and-rescue teams. A tourist found her tangled in weeds on the north side of the lake along an isolated stretch of forest.”
I heard a thud upstairs and jumped.
Fletcher looked toward the stairs.
“Is there someone else here?”
I shook my head.
“This house makes a lot of noise,” I said. “Sammy liked to say ‘it talks a lot.’”
Fletcher peered at the foyer, but when no one appeared, he continued.
“After the funeral, I dropped out of school. Like I said, I stopped functioning. I read books, a hundred at least.”
“On the occult?”
He nodded.
“The one-year anniversary of her death was approaching, and I dreaded it. I decided to take my own life.”
CHAPTER 32
Now
Sarah
“Y eah?” Sarah called at the knock on her study door. Her study consisted of a hexagonal room perched on the top of her house. It was the only upstairs floor and allowed sunlight to stream in through six windows, one on each wall. Today, rather than sun, rain poured down the glass and occasionally Sarah glimpsed a streak of lightning in the gray sky. Her drafting table stood in the center, and waist-high file cabinets designed to look like sleek bureaus butted all but two walls. She had installed surround-sound speakers and played a variety of binaural beat tracks that helped her immerse in a new project.
The door to her study lay at the bottom of a staircase. She heard Will call up.
“You have a guest.”
Sarah frowned, staring a moment longer at the drawing of the Millers’ new summer cottage, over four times the size of her own house, and reluctantly set her pencil down. She trotted down the stairs to where Will stood. He grinned.
“What?” she asked, irritated at the interruption.
He stepped aside, and Sarah saw Brook standing inside the front door. She held a bottle of gin her hand.
“Isn’t it a little early for gin?” Sarah asked, stopping halfway across the room.
Brook looked momentarily wounded, and then wiped the expression and smiled.
“Isn’t it a little late in your life to be bisexual?” She gestured at Will, whose mouth dropped open.
“What? No,” he said shaking his head and stealing a glance at Sarah, who smiled and winked at him.
/>
“It was a joke, Will. I can’t believe your humor has finally run out.”
“Well, I,” he sputtered. He looked between the two women, and then shrugged, returning to the couch where he had several books opened and a bowl of tortilla chips balanced precariously on a stack.
“If I find salsa on that rug, you’ll be licking it up,” Sarah called as she led Brook to the kitchen.
“I love wool with my salsa,” he yelled back through a mouthful of chips.
“Did you adopt a son since I last saw you?” Brook asked, setting the bottle down and perching on a high-stool.
Sarah pulled a bottle of tonic from the refrigerator and poured them both a glass. She never worked buzzed but knew she wouldn’t be returning to the Miller house that day.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” she told Brook, passing her the glass. Their fingers touched, and Sarah felt the stirrings of passion.
Brook took a sip, studying Sarah over the rim of the glass.
Sarah noticed her low-cut black shirt and the pale pendant wrapped in a silver moon resting on Brook’s chest.
“I considered fashioning a voodoo doll and punishing you, but thought a peace offering might be a wiser choice.”
Sarah twitched, imagining the leathery doll in the attic at Kerry Manor.
Brook saw the look on her face.
“I’m sorry, was that in bad taste?”
Sarah sighed and drank her gin and tonic, miserable that she’d blown off Brook and still wasn’t sure why.
“I don’t have an excuse,” Sarah admitted. “I mean, I do, but nothing that’s good enough.”
“I’m not here for an excuse,” Brook said. She traced her finger, the nail painted dark violet, along the rim of her glass and then slipped her finger into her mouth.
“I-” Sarah started, but Brook stood and pressed a finger against Sarah’s lips. She moved closer and Sarah smelled the piney sweetness of gin on her breath. Brook leaned in, her generous mouth painted dark.
Calling Back the Dead: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 18
