by S. D. Perry
John felt helpless before her open admission. “It’s weird, everything ending like this.”
Amanda smiled. “It’s beginning, actually.”
Bob slept most of the day and woke in dizziness and pain just after dusk on John’s couch. He staggered out to the living room, where John and Amanda were watching TV, her bags packed and sitting by the front door. The CSU guys had apparently packed up and left shortly after Bob had passed out, in a great hurry, the reason already played to death over the cable news by the time he finally woke up. Six cops had been seriously injured in a shootout…about the time, in fact, that Bob had been climbing in his truck to drive over to Big Blue this morning. Stan Vincent and the county sheriff, Western Dean, were both dead. Four others wounded, one still in critical.
Bob looked at Amanda. “That’s everyone you dreamed about, isn’t it? Except—”
“Yeah,” Amanda said. “Except for the baby. Well, and that woman with blood in her hair, but that one happened weeks ago.”
“Maybe if you stayed…” Bob started, but she waved her hand at him.
“Walk me out,” she said. “It’s time.”
David Abbey was standing next to his car, a green BMW lightly covered with late pollen from the park’s trees. When they stepped outside, he popped the trunk, making room for Amanda’s things.
“So this is it?” Bob asked. “The two of you leave, and everything goes back to normal? The end?”
Amanda tilted her head. “You could see it that way, I guess.”
“Did any of it mean anything?” Bob asked, not sure what he was asking.
“It will,” she said. He thought about asking her to elaborate, but then thought of her telling him about the paper, about writing a book; it was the only time all summer long that he’d been utterly terrified. He didn’t want to know if there was a fate at all, let alone what it had in store for him.
They said good-bye beneath a waxing moon, the sky clear, the night warm. David Abbey kept his distance, which Bob thought just as well. Amanda promised to be in touch, and Abbey gave John a card with a law firm’s name on the front and a personal cell number written on the back and avoided looking at Bob. Bob had no problem with that. It didn’t seem right to him, her running off with someone who made joke names for himself and sat around feeling bad that he was a goddamn killer, oh the torture; he knew that appealed to some girls. He didn’t think Amanda was one of ’em, but she was so young, so idealistic in spite of herself.
She hugged both of them, Bob got a kiss, and they were gone, too quickly, the car’s lights sweeping over them and driving away. John rested a hand on Bob’s good shoulder, and they watched her disappear, taken away by the man she felt was her destiny, the man who’d wrought death and destruction on their little town.
“It doesn’t seem right,” Bob said.
“No.”
“You going to Sarah’s tonight?”
John shook his head. “She called earlier, said Tommy came home feeling like he was catching a cold.” He smiled a little. “She’s been hanging out with him all day, bringing him juice, watching movies with him. She’s happy.”
Bob nodded. “Mind if I go back to sleep on your couch for the next week? I’m feeling like dodging my phone. Killing a couple of houseplants, too.”
John shook his head. “Be my guest. You’ll have to fend for yourself, though.”
“Perfect.”
They went inside, Bob thinking that he would sleep and recover, that they all would, and get back to who they were before Abbey had come. He was gone. Whatever else happened, it was the end.
Chrissy Fine had thought she knew what tired was, before the baby. She lay down on the floor next to the couch and thought about how she wouldn’t get enough sleep, she never got enough sleep, ever. She used to say how tired she was, but that was bullshit, that was nothing. Since Carter had torn his way through her long, dreamy pregnancy, the self-centered moodiness of that whole thing, she hadn’t slept more than four hours in a row. For weeks, for almost two months. Now there was only the baby, feeding the baby, changing the baby, walking in circles with the baby slung across her shoulder, howling into her ear, barfing down her back. Days of slow torture, of getting just enough sleep to keep from screaming all the time and there was no payoff. She only wanted to sleep, and it was the one thing she couldn’t have. She did everything with desperate, exhausted intensity, feeding him, rocking him, trying to get him to shut up and sleep, just sleep, he was so, so tired, but he didn’t care about her, he didn’t know anything, he was a baby. And it got to where she started crying when he woke up, even when he wasn’t immediately squalling. Sometimes he just looked at her and she wept, unable to understand how other people did it. There were assloads of single parents, and how did they do it, what was she doing wrong? Because most of the time he just cried, his flat face turning red, his tongue quivering, his fists balled by his ears, one tiny arm hitting outward and around in an endless cycle, hit, hit, hit, and she was starting to fear that she’d made a mistake, a bad, bad mistake, the kind you couldn’t take back.
She lay on the floor and rocked herself, wondering how she could have wasted so much time, and just as she started to drift, to imagine that the bottle under the couch wasn’t more than a day old and that it was actually a sleeping bird, Carter woke up with a long, snuffling grunt and immediately started to bawl.
Chrissy closed her eyes, aching inside. She was scared of Carter; she wanted him to stay asleep, to not wake up and need things from her all the time, every time. She dreaded him.
Carter wailed to wake the dead and choked, a wet, strangling sound. Chrissy sat up immediately and saw by the light of the television that Carter had puked up the bottle he’d fallen asleep with, and it had run down his face and into his mouth, down around his squashed little neck, all over the couch. He was only wearing a cheap onesie, and it was soaked.
“Shit,” she said, and sat him up, patting his back with one hand, holding his tiny chest with the other. Warm, reeking formula coursed over her wrist, and then he was just shrieking; she’d blown her only chance for real sleep, maybe for another whole day, because he wouldn’t settle down for hours. He was furious, and she’d been so stupid, wanting a single moment for herself.
She picked him up and walked into the bathroom, holding him as far away from her as she could manage as he screamed, beating at the air, kicking wildly with his still-bowed legs, and she nearly tripped over a towel on the floor but then didn’t. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, the look of despair on her own face, her bad complexion, her paralyzed eyes. She saw the leaking, howling bundle of need that she’d invited into her life reflected, his cyclic cries beating at her, echoing in the miniscule bathroom that only had a shower that wasn’t even sealed properly; Carter’s face was crooked and unknown in the mirror, a changeling baby. She saw the roll of her stomach and her flat hair. She was twenty-three but looked forty and felt worse, and this was her life now; this was what she’d chosen for herself.
“It’s OK, baby, it’s OK,” she said, and knelt in front of the shower stall, trying to hold him with one hand while she flipped the plastic tub over. She managed, only getting a little puke on her arm, and got him into the tub.
Carter kicked and squalled, and she reached up to turn on the shower; the head hung down on a long, metal hose, and it was aimed away from Carter, but the water pressure spun it around, spraying both of them with cold water.
“Shh, shh,” she said, grabbing the showerhead, holding it, waiting for the water to get warm, while he screamed, the sound her mother had referred to fondly as the newborn cry, a kind of toneless, undulating wail that went on and on. She adjusted the water, leaning against the stall’s moldy plastic floor, aiming the pulse of warm water onto Carter’s belly, up to his sticky neck. He screamed and screamed.
The tub, a cheap, angled bin shaped like a frog with a foam mat glued to the bottom, was filling up. She reached up and turned off the water once it was to his c
hest, his flailing legs submerged up to their chubby knees. Sometimes warm water did the trick, but tonight this wasn’t the trick, he wasn’t having any of it.
She unbuttoned his stained suit and pulled it off him, and he screamed, and she used the wet suit to mop the spit up from around his neck, and he screamed, and she took off his diaper, and he screamed, and she saw that he had a nasty diaper rash in spite of all those changes, the skin around his tiny penis red and raised. She hadn’t changed his diaper since…since after lunch, could that be right?
“Carter, baby,” she said, and felt tears coming, she was so, so tired, so stupid and tired, and she was doing a shit job, anyway. He didn’t deserve this. She leaned against the thin metal that held the shower door and watched him wail and circle his arm around in the pukey water, and her tears were for both of them. She just wanted to sleep, that was all, just to sleep. She couldn’t do this.
The days stretched on forever now that the baby was here. He was exactly eight and a half weeks old, and she couldn’t imagine doing this for another day, another second, and there was no choice. She was trapped because she’d gotten pregnant and she’d been twenty-two and full of stupid ideas about raising a baby on her own, because she’d had no real responsibilities and it had sounded like something solid, a goal, something to do.
Carter cried, aaa, aaa, aaa. Chrissy cried, hating the sound of him, hating herself for wishing that he hadn’t been born, wishing that she would wake up from the dream she’d been living since the day she’d given birth to this screeching stranger, the nightmare of her life.
I should go get the baking soda, she thought. The rash was ugly, but the baking soda was in the kitchen; she couldn’t leave him in the tub, even angled like it was. Little babies drowned when they were left alone, even for a second. She’d read it in one of Cindy’s old magazines, how people turned their backs for a second and their babies inhaled water and died, just like that, no suffering, no nightmares ahead of them. They were just gone.
I could go with him. Even if she got away with it, she’d never be able to live with the guilt. She wouldn’t want to. She could go get the baking soda and the bottle of aspirin, too, and come back and keep the water warm and eat pills until the unthinkable happened and everyone would be better off. Maybe he wouldn’t drown. Maybe he’d scream until the neighbors came up, but she’d be gone, she’d be sleeping, and maybe—
Carter peed suddenly, an arc of urine that splashed up and out of the slanted tub, splattering across his tiny nose, droplets landing in his open, gummy mouth. He gagged, startled, and looked at her, his dark-blue eyes seeming to seek hers, his expression comically shocked.
Chrissy stared back at him, and then he started to scream again, outraged, and Chrissy laughed, feeling her wave of hopeless despair give way before a sense of sudden excitement. It was the first time she could remember him actually looking at her, seeing her. And it was the first time in a month she hadn’t felt alone, totally alone.
I’m his mother, she thought. I’m Carter’s mother.
“It’s OK,” she said, and pulled the plug on the little tub. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so, so sorry.”
Water gurgled down the shower drain. She grabbed the towel from behind her and lifted him out of the water, wrapping him snugly, putting him against her shoulder. He leaned into her, resting against her, his cries finally dying down, his tiny fists curled against her shoulder, and she walked him back into the living room and threw a baby blanket over the puke spot on the couch. She bobbed as she walked, speaking softly, letting him hear her voice, and he was calming down, he was actually yawning against her neck, his body a helpless, warm weight.
She decided suddenly she would fess up to her mother about how she was feeling, and how sorry she was about everything, and maybe her mother would help her figure out what to do, to make actual plans. If not, she could call one of her old girlfriends. Leslie would help her. So would Tamara.
I could do that, she thought, marveling at the awareness.
Chrissy doubled the towel up under Carter’s bottom and laid him down, curling herself around him at the couch’s edge, and she fell asleep watching her son study her face, watching him clutch at her fingers. After a while, Carter fell asleep, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A few days after the tragedies, Port Isley’s mayor called an impromptu town meeting at the community center. He welcomed representatives from churches and other places of worship and several business owners to his panel of speakers, scheduling the meeting for six o’clock. When it became obvious that the community center, which could easily seat a town basketball game, wasn’t going to hold half of the people who’d turned out, Poppy moved everyone to the fairgrounds, suggesting that they all grab some food and reconvene at eight somewhere big enough to accommodate them. No one objected, and word spread.
Better than a thousand people were there by eight, and more continued to arrive. Someone had thought to bring candles, boxes of them, and when Poppy spoke to them about their losses, flickers of light spread across the open field, mostly lost in the gold of the setting sun. People wanted to talk. Dozens of men and women from those who’d gathered stepped up to the stage to ask for help, to say a few words, to share information. A man was missing: Herb Winchell, middle-aged, receding light hair; a slightly hysterical wife held up his picture. Neither Jaden Berney nor Max Reeder had been found, but searches were starting up again, independent of the PIPD or the county. Someone had started a fund for Georgia Duray, a young, pregnant widow whose husband had died in a fall down the stairs; the bank was accepting donations in her name, and there were similar funds set up for the families of the officers and deputies who’d died. The line of people seemed to keep growing, and Poppy stood back and watched, occasionally speaking to his assistant, having him write down reminders of things that needed to be done.
Henry Dawes had stopped by to talk earlier that afternoon, and they’d made some decisions. The council needed to be reformed, a new police chief elected—the remnant of the PIPD was limping along with help from a similarly traumatized county sheriff’s office and some mediators from the state, but they weren’t prepared for any more emergencies, not as things stood.
Poppy saw and spoke to a lot of people that night. He didn’t know if Bob Sayers was among those gathered—he wasn’t, in fact—but he thought of the old reporter often as the daylight faded, as the candles re-created the fairgrounds in curving lines of light and more people came, joining a community that they hadn’t known they’d needed. What Bob had said, about doing something instead of talking about it. It was nearly fall, the hot weather having peaked, and the summer people were drifting away, many of those who promised to be back not meaning it, afraid of how they’d felt there, afraid of the things they’d done or thought of doing, but Poppy wasn’t worried. Port Isley would take a hit, but the seasons would change, as always, and summer would come around again.
The meeting lasted until well after midnight. Poppy stayed until the end.
Tommy was on Hemet Nesingwary’s latest hunting quest when his mother called up the stairs. The tone of her voice told him that it was time for the talk, which he’d been expecting. School was due to start in a couple of weeks, and his mother had been conspicuously silent about when they were going to leave. Tommy, who’d been extremely good since that night he and Jeff had gone to the carnival, wasn’t sure what to expect.
He left Warcraft running and headed down the stairs, to where his mother and Aunt Karen and John Hanover all waited in the living room, John’s presence hinting at the direction things were going to take. He thought of Jeff, who’d been as frightened and sick as he had after what had happened at the fun house. Tommy thought that he wouldn’t mind staying, maybe. Karen wanted it, no doubt, and John had been around a lot lately and had been cool, not really a dick at all. Tommy had been so freaked after the carnival that John’s gentle, steadying presence was kind of nice. He was always polite, and super nice to his mother, not in a f
akey way. Jeff was a year older than Tommy, but that wasn’t a big deal, here; they hung out almost every day now, and he could go here or go to a school where he didn’t know anyone, just to be an hour closer to his father and Vanessa.
Maybe they want my opinion, he thought, but looked at their faces and saw that it was already decided, one way or the other. They all looked so serious, afraid at how he would react to whatever they wanted to say.
“Tommy,” his mother said, and glanced at John, who looked nervous, and Tommy waited, thinking of what he’d promised so that he could survive in the fun house, about being good to his mother. No matter what she said, he would try to accept it with grace and good humor. He would try to make her proud.
EPILOGUE
They decided to drive to California, to where Chelsea lived with her mother; Amanda suggested it. She thought they could get to know each other a little on the way. The first night, he’d driven and she’d slept, stars passing overhead, their headlights eating the dark, spitting out dotted lines and the hum of the engine. She woke when he pulled into a hotel parking lot, a nice place. He rented a single room with two beds, but after he’d crashed on one of them, she’d curled next to him, sleeping deeply and without dreams in the silent, semisterile quiet of the dark room, pressed against his back. She woke a few hours later and showered and changed, going for breakfast and cigarettes while he slept on.
She sat in the restaurant across the parking lot from the hotel, a chain diner, and ordered pancakes and coffee. The waitress had three kids and a mother with cancer, but she was OK, worried and stressed out but basically OK. Her name tag said “Wendy,” but she thought of herself as Dee. Amanda smiled sincerely at her, feeling brave and alive, feeling like the world was different, like she was different in it. She thought of David, asleep, and remembered his arms around her in the early morning, and thought that things might go that way, someday, if she wanted. She might go to school, she thought; he had money, although for the first time in forever, that seemed unimportant. For now, the possibility was one among a billion, and there was nothing to decide, not today.
