Afterward, I collapse on the floor with the bath mat my only barrier between skin and cold tile. The room spins around me, beige and blue and white forming whorled patterns like an Escher drawing of an impossible staircase. I can no longer make sense of up and down, or of cold and hot.
I sleep.
When I wake, my pajamas are stuck to me, translucent in places where I’ve sweat the most, and damp curls cling to my face. It’s all I can do to pull my weight up, and then I fall to my elbows on the sink’s edge after catching a glimpse of my reflection. The woman in the mirror did not look like me.
One by one, I fling drawers open in the vanity. There are pills somewhere. Aspirin, Tylenol, leftover prescriptions from bouts with strep throat and muscle aches. Or there were. Now there are empty drawers, cleaned-out medicine cabinets. Only a toothbrush and a new tube of Crest are on the little shelf next to the sink. Even my makeup is gone. All of it.
“Malcolm!” I cry weakly. “Malcolm!” And then, “Anne!”
The only response is utter silence.
I shouldn’t think the worst, but it’s all I can think about. That one word, the bane of humans for thousands of years. A word that doesn’t matter in the twenty-first century.
Infection.
And then all the words that go with it: Untreated. Bacterial. Toxic.
I scream Malcolm’s name once more with all the force I have left and stagger back to bed, sick and defeated. So this is what the end of hope sounds like.
There’s no knock to announce him, only the clean click of a key in a lock.
“You don’t look well, Elena.”
No shit.
He tidies up the room, tucking in bedclothes and fluffing pillowcases, making this prison with its thousand-count sheets and Persian carpets comfortable. “Here’s something to eat,” he says. On the tray are two slices of toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of juice, none of which I want. Right now, my body wants antibiotics. All of the antibiotics there are in the world.
“What about my prescriptions?” I say. “I don’t care about the Motrin, but I need the other stuff.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll get them when I go out.”
Liar. Malcolm has no intention of getting the meds for me.
He holds up his phone. “There’s an app on here, Elena. It’s connected to the house security system. I’ll likely be around most of the time, but I might go out.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. For groceries. Whatever. Maybe I’ll be gone an hour; maybe ten minutes. Maybe I’ll park down the street and get some paperwork done. I’m going to stay close to you. Just in case you need me.”
In other words, I shouldn’t try anything. Like the windows.
“Malcolm,” I say, pleading.
“Don’t beg, Elena. It isn’t your style.”
When he leaves, the lock clicks again, sealing me in this room. But my pillows are fluffed, so there is that.
Outside, his car starts up and the engine fades to a hum as he backs out of the driveway.
Along with my breakfast, there’s a book. It’s one of my favorites, spine broken from repeated readings, held together with a thick rubber band. Right now I have zero interest in reading tragic love stories; the title reminds me too much of Anne’s note—I guess you made your choice—and I can’t help but think Malcolm is trying to send me a message. Underneath the book is a torn-out crossword puzzle from today’s paper, as if I needed any more puzzles. Also a napkin and a bottle of sparkling water. There’s no phone because Malcolm hasn’t given my phone back yet.
And I know he isn’t going to.
SIXTY-SIX
I must have slept through the morning and early afternoon. When I wake, my untouched breakfast is replaced by a slice of quiche and a salad, another bottle of water, and a bottle of cranberry juice. I drink the last of these down greedily, get up, and go into the bathroom to do the necessary.
Nothing happens, even though I finished off the liter of water before I crashed, so I go back to bed, sweat-sticky and shivering. There’s also a note on the tray from Malcolm reminding me that he’s not far from home. The words disguised as reassurance are, in fact, threatening. I prop myself up in a half-sitting, half-lying position and stare at my lunch.
There are no pills. No Motrin, no Augmentin.
I can understand his wanting a divorce—I never climbed aboard his commonsense train, or if I did, I stepped off long ago, maybe before Freddie was born, maybe years before that. What I can’t understand is why my husband is going to let me die in my own bedroom.
This is when I start feeling like the worst mother in the world. I should be wondering about Freddie, asking myself if Anne is really at a friend’s house or somewhere else. I should be crying for both of them. Instead, all I can do is cry for me.
I know more about septicemia than I want to right now. Undiagnosed and untreated, it can kill inside of a week, poisoning the blood, shutting down organs, twisting the insides of its victims to the point where they want nothing more than the quiet of death. I know the only thing that will help me is massive, gargantuan doses of antibiotics, right the hell now. So I pardon myself for the self-pity. If twenty-four hours has brought me to this state, I’m not sure I want tomorrow to come.
I’ll try the lock on the door soon. Very soon. Just after I rest for a bit.
Get the fuck up, you.
I will. In a few minutes. First, I’ll shut my eyes and will the nausea away.
Get. Up. Now.
Two sides of me are fighting, the woman and the mother, the part of me who is me, and the part of me I gave away when I delivered my daughters. I think the woman may be winning, but the mother is putting up a good fight. She doesn’t seem to want to let go.
Okay. I’ll try.
Good girl.
Malcolm cleaned out the bathroom, taking everything. But I know things most men don’t. I know that you can always find bobby pins in the corners of drawers, hiding in crevices, invisible in the shadows. I used to count them as I found them. One pin, two pin.
Red pin, blue pin.
Mine aren’t red or blue but blond, a perfect match for the light wood cabinetry in the bathroom. On my knees, I run my hands over the smooth bottoms of the drawers, searching for any irregularity. I don’t need to count the pins I find. I need one.
Keep looking.
I keep looking, but only after I throw up the thin mix of water and juice I’ve managed to keep down until now. And then I look again until I find it. The lone bobby pin is there, in the second drawer down, wedged into the joinery. I pry it out and hold it up like the goddamned Olympic torch.
Ten minutes later, I’m a sweaty mess, lying on hardwood by the door to my room with a racing heartbeat for company. I can’t breathe.
Breathe. Think of Freddie and Anne. And breathe.
I can’t. Oxygen comes to me in shallow, bird-like bursts as I hear the purr of an engine, far away, then closer, telling me Malcolm is back. In a way, I’m thankful for the excuse to crawl back into bed and hide myself in the sheets.
SIXTY-SEVEN
I have dreams tonight.
I’m in a small room that smells of burnt coffee and medicine while men in white coats pull at my limbs, stretching and contorting me until my muscles scream high notes. On my right and left, girls in pleated blue skirts dance together, arm in arm. One of them is Oma. The others are my daughters, Judy Green, Rosaria Delgado, Mary Ripley. Everyone has the face of a human and the body of a fox. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
There’s a door at the far end of the room, half-open and half-closed. Is the glass half-empty or half-full? the old question goes. I think “full,” and the other part of me says “empty.” I think “closed,” and the other part, the mother part, says “open.” Freddie begins to cry, while Judy Green holds something to my throat, something shiny and sharp.
Lissa
and Ruby Jo walk into this room, one on each side. They take turns leaning down to me, whispering.
It wasn’t all coercion.
There was consent, too.
Most people don’t know.
And the ones who know don’t care.
Now, Judy leaves the parade of girls and steps forward, accusation in her eyes. You knew about the tests being swapped out, didn’t you?
No. No, I did not. My lips and tongue form the words, but no sound comes out. Someone has taken out the piece of me that makes sound.
They hurt us in there. They hurt me, and they’ll hurt your daughter soon, too.
I see ugly pictures forming in my mind. I see the fat guard at the state school. I see a key in a lock, and bolts tumbling out of their chambers. I see boots, heavy and black, moving across a wooden floor. I see dirty hands fumbling with zippers, buttons.
And I hear things, too: guttural sounds, feral grunts; the whimper of a no silenced by a cupped palm; rustling sheets and the sharp crack of a slap that turns everything still.
I hear no and No and NO! And then, nothing. Only pillow-stifled cries and that single word everyone says when things get too black to bear. Mommy. Not God, not Jesus, not any spirit from above, but Mommy. And then my own voice, stronger now, saying, Don’t you dare touch my little girl.
Everything hurts when I wake up, squeezing my eyes to a bright November sun. The tray on the side table is still there with its book and crossword puzzle and fresh bottle of water. Instead of quiche, there’s a cold grilled cheese sandwich. Somewhere outside, church bells ring. Sunday morning is here.
I’ve been asleep—or unconscious—for sixteen hours.
I could do the crossword puzzle, I guess. No. Too much mental effort. I pick up the Styron book from the tray and decide to read a few pages. At least the beginning isn’t depressing, and it may take my mind off the fact that I’m closed inside this room while the rest of the world dresses for Sunday services and goes to all-you-can-drink champagne brunches.
Styron rests in my lap for a few minutes while I let my body rest and recover. Who knew it would require so much effort for such a trivial task as picking up a book? Reach, pick up object, retract arm. Each action saps my strength, and I have so little left.
I think I might be dying. No. Dying is a passive experience. Someone is killing me.
The rubber band, dry and brittle, snaps when I try to slide it off. No wonder, it’s been holding these pages between their covers for too many years now. I really should have replaced it and given Anne a fresh copy of her own when she told me she wanted to read it. I really should go back to sleep.
Oh no, you shouldn’t. It’s Mother Voice again. I’ve begun to hate her.
My book is not a book anymore. When the spine shifts at its weakest point, dividing it into two separate volumes, its guts are missing, sliced out clean to form a cavity in the middle, as if someone has carved out the heart of this story and replaced it with a new one.
Mother Voice speaks to me, urging me on.
Stay awake, El.
I read Anne’s note five times, and each time it brings fresh tears.
Mom,
Dad made me write that stuff. I’m sorry. I saw something on his computer. Hope you find this and bring Freddie back. I love you.
Anne
“Bastard” isn’t a good enough word for what my husband is.
Underneath her note is a slip of paper with a string of letters and numbers. That’s one key. My problem right now is that I need a different one, a metal key that will unlock my door and get me out of here. Also, I need a new body, a body that doesn’t hurt and vomit and sweat, but I’m stuck with a password to Malcolm’s laptop and a fucking bobby pin. So I start to work, hoping Malcolm’s car doesn’t come purring up the driveway.
This time, I last more than five minutes with the bobby pin, my ears straining for any foreign sound, anything other than the distant bark of a dog or the pealing of Sunday-morning bells. When I’m tired, that other voice, that Mother Voice, tells me to get up and start all over again. She’s like some sick cheering squad. One more try, one more wiggle of the straightened bobby pin and desperate turn of the door now. If it doesn’t open, I’ll rest. To hell with Mother Voice.
But the knob turns in one glorious, hallelujah-worthy twist. Expecting the resistance, I turn with it, slamming my shoulder into the wall as the door swings open.
I’m out of this room.
My house has none of me in it anymore. No wedding photographs, no pictures of me with the girls, no piles of mail or notepads or shopping lists, nothing that says Elena Fischer Fairchild. It’s an odd thing to realize I don’t exist. When I manage to climb the stairs and reach the office, everything of mine is gone. This is okay. I don’t want anything of mine; I want something of Malcolm’s.
I yank the power cord from his laptop and dash downstairs, tearing past Anne’s and Freddie’s rooms at the slow speed my limbs allow, stumbling back into my bedroom for the book and Lissa’s pen, which I stuffed into the downy insides of my pillow on Friday night. I wish the next stop could be this bed, this soft down pillow, but I ignore their temptation and race back to the kitchen, to the junk drawer in the corner where we keep spare keys.
Please let the Acura key be here. I’ll trade my soul if it’s here. I try not to think about the fact that I may have already traded said soul, that I have nothing left to bargain with.
The key is here.
There’s a thirty-second delay when I leave the house through the back door, the November cold hitting me like a punishing slap on my cheeks and bare arms and shoeless feet. I throw everything into the front seat of the car before falling into it myself and making another trade with fate in exchange for the Acura starting up. When it finally rumbles to life, I reverse out of the driveway, just as the alarms begin their screaming.
SIXTY-EIGHT
If I turn to the right, I can reach Sarah Green’s house in a matter of seconds. If I turn left, I’ll reach Chain Bridge Road and face another choice. Right, hospital. Left, city. House, hospital, city. My brain weighs the probabilities.
Sarah Green may be home or she may not be. A drive-by won’t tell me which is true; her car is religiously garaged. If home, then no problem. If not home, then I’m wasting time I don’t have.
Because I don’t know where Malcolm is.
Maybe I’ll be gone an hour; maybe ten minutes. Maybe I’ll park down the street and get some paperwork done. I’m going to stay close to you. Just in case you need me.
So I turn left toward Chain Bridge Road, and I start the process all over again. If right, hospital. Drugs, bed, sleep. If left, city. Newspaper, scandal, daughter.
In my mind lurks a single question: Which do I want more?
A computer would calculate the input, the output, and the consequences. It would do this coldly, in the same way a bank of computers measures each of my daughters’ test scores and birth weight and the combined income of her parents. A computer would work in a series of zeros and ones, and it would spit out a new number, a different number, a quotient. Its product would be invariable.
I’m also calculating. I’m counting the numbers of phone calls to nearby hospitals, and how many transfers will be necessary before the right nurse answers with a cheery, “Oh, yes. She’s here. Are you the next of kin?” I’m counting the ways Malcolm will find to corrupt my story, and the lies he will tell to doctors before assuring them he’ll keep my belongings safe. I’m counting on him to use everything he has to discredit me.
So I turn left. Toward the city. Toward Bonita Hamilton and Jay Jackson and an end to all of this.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the intersection of Thirteenth and K Streets, in time to watch a crowd of people pour out from the Methodist church a half block away from where I’ve parked. They’re pouring out because they aren’t working.
Today is Sunday, Washington’s day of rest. Time to pray up and eat pastries.
The District of Columbia doesn’t have the landmass or the population of New York, so I count on anonymity while I wait. That, and the probability that Malcolm will be checking out neighbors and hospitals instead of newspaper offices. With the Acura still running and the heat at full throttle, I wait, watching for signs of life at the entrance to 1301 K Street.
There isn’t any. Not for the first half hour, and not for the second. Or the third.
But I’ve kept busy. I’ve been playing inside Malcolm’s computer.
SIXTY-NINE
I turned off the Acura’s engine at eleven, and an old blanket from the trunk is the only thing between me and the chilly air that’s seeped into the car. But this isn’t what turns my blood cold. I’ve just read the first line of Malcolm’s email from the end of September.
Maddie,
Happy to hear the project is a go. Am waiting for complete list of undesirables to be compiled. Will send over when ready. So you know, I have five teams working on the decoy tests for history, math, physics, chemistry, and life sciences. We should be ready to roll by the late October exam date.
Malc
Monster.
His file system has more layers than the goddamned Pentagon, and the first dozen documents I open are nothing more than bureaucrat-speak, memos, and dry reports. Until I get to the folder labeled Tests. These are new. I open three of them, their cover pages familiar because I’ve been handing them out on a monthly basis for a few years now, right before I read my students the rules.
You have one hour.
You may not speak to any student.
You may not leave the room for any reason.
When time is called, put down any and all writing implements. If you do not, ten points will be automatically deducted from your score.
Master Class Page 24
