The Promised World: A Novel

by Lisa Tucker

  William didn’t say anything; he was staring out the window, watching as they turned down one familiar road after another. Long before New Grandma turned into the enormous driveway, he had a bad feeling about where they were going. But he didn’t tell Pearl or New Grandma that he’d been here before. He didn’t want anyone to know that he’d seen every part of this creepy place.

  It was during one of the last Challenges. His father had brought him here on a Sunday morning so early that he was trying not to yawn as Daddy explained that this Challenge was about learning to escape. Daddy had made a bunch of drawings that showed all the rooms and halls of this big house. William was going to have to figure out a way to get outside from every room. He would have been really scared, except that Daddy said he’d do it all with him. He would never have to be alone in this spooky-looking house.

  “Who lives here?” William asked, looking up at the windows reflecting the sun. He was worried that the people would come home and be mad that he and Daddy were using their house like this.

  “No one. That’s why we’re using it, even though you won’t ever have to escape from any place that’s half as complicated as this. It’s good practice, though, and we can take all the time we need.”

  But when they went inside, it wasn’t lonely and deserted like the empty house at the end of their neighborhood. It had rooms full of furniture and even wood by the fireplace.

  Now, as he forced himself to walk through the huge front door, he felt like crying, remembering how much better it was to come here with his father than with New Grandma. Pearl seemed excited; she said, “What a great house” over and over as New Grandma showed them the wall of books in the den and the humongous white kitchen and the view of the woods in back. There were deer in the backyard, just standing around like they had nothing to be afraid of.

  But William stayed super quiet. In his head, he was listening to Daddy telling him that he could always escape, even if a house had confusing halls and bedroom doors that locked from the outside and bars on all the windows in the basement. Like this one did, which his father called a “deceptively beautiful prison.”

  He asked what “deceptively” meant, and Daddy said, “It’s all a lie. It looks entirely normal, but the grown-ups who lived here were very bad. The children were like Hansel and Gretel.”

  William was horrified. The Hansel and Gretel story was his least favorite in the fairy-tale book, because it was so weird. “They tried to eat the kids?”

  “Worse,” Daddy said. “They tried to destroy their souls.”

  “Wow,” William said. He didn’t know exactly where the soul was, but he knew it was the most important thing, since his father always said so. He said, “But the kids won in the end, right?” The kids always won in Daddy’s stories. That was the point of the Challenges: to make sure William would be a brave kid who could win, too, no matter what. To make sure he would always, always be safe.

  But this time his father shocked him. “No,” Daddy said. “Gretel escaped, but Hansel didn’t.”

  They were standing in the front hall. Daddy was looking up at the long wooden staircase that went up and turned and went up some more. “Hansel died here?” William breathed.

  “You could say that.” Daddy’s voice was all hollowed out and empty, like the tree in their backyard. “Even if he didn’t accept it at the time.”

  Just the thought of that dead boy made William start to tremble and clear his throat. What if Hansel’s ghost was about to come down those stairs right now? What if the ghost even wanted revenge and took it out on him?

  After a long, awful minute, his father leaned down and took William in his arms; then he held him against his chest and said he was sorry for scaring him. “You don’t ever have to worry about Hansel, I promise.”

  “Why not?” William said, when he’d calmed down enough to speak.

  “Because he doesn’t matter now. He was a coward who, over time, became everything he hated.” Daddy shrugged. “Let’s just say he wasn’t worth saving.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Patrick was incredibly frustrated that the hospital hadn’t figured out how to make Lila better. She’d been there for almost two weeks, and they hadn’t even decided on a diagnosis yet. Not that this had stopped them from treating her with a cocktail of heavy-duty medicines that made Patrick’s head spin when he googled them. No wonder Lila could barely function, given that every one of the meds had drowsiness and lethargy listed as side effects. She was awake more often now, but she couldn’t seem to do much beyond lying in her hospital room. He kissed her each time he arrived and again before he left. That was the extent of their communication beyond his random comments about such fascinating topics as what was on TV or the weather.

  He felt guilty for turning on the TV in her room when he came to visit her, but he couldn’t think of what else to do to pass the time. He’d offered to read to her, but she’d said no. The books he’d brought to the hospital, many of her favorites, were on the windowsill, exactly where he’d left them. The doctor said she probably wouldn’t feel like reading for a while. When Patrick asked if she would ever feel like reading again, the doctor said he assumed she would, but then the doctor didn’t believe Lila’s decision to leave her career was that strange. “Depression often causes people to lose interest in their jobs and their hobbies,” he said. “Sometimes they even lose interest in their children.”

  “Are you saying that my wife is depressed? That’s the official diagnosis now?”

  “It certainly seems likely,” the doc said. “We’ll know more after we’ve given the medicines a chance to work.”

  In other words, if the depression drugs worked, then Lila had been depressed. The logic seemed backward to Patrick, and it angered him when they refused to admit it, but then everything seemed to anger him right now. Luckily, he was done with his finals and he’d turned in his grades, so he didn’t have to deal with anyone in his department. He didn’t even have to talk to anyone on the phone, which was a good thing after what had happened with Ashley, though of course it was probably worse with her, since he continued to blame her for starting all this.

  She’d called a week ago Tuesday, ostensibly to speak to his wife, but when Patrick said Lila was in the hospital, Ashley didn’t ask why. He assumed Pearl or the police or both had told Ashley what had happened, but he wasn’t sure how much she knew and he was relieved she didn’t expect him to discuss it. As it turned out, the only thing she wanted to talk about, or more precisely, rant about, was what had happened with her children and how unfair it was. She said the people from Child Protective Services were treating her like a monster. They acted like she was guilty of not only fostering an environment of child abuse—the main charge for which she was being investigated—but also of abusing the kids herself. They didn’t just take away Pearl; they took Maisie and William, too, “for no reason.” They wouldn’t even say whether she’d be allowed to visit her kids while the home study was being done.

  She skipped over his question about where CPS had taken the children, saying only that they were fine and he didn’t need to worry about it. “But I can’t visit my own kids?” she barked. “Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty in this country?”

  Her attitude seemed so ridiculously inconsistent—not to mention hypocritical—that he couldn’t resist pointing out that the same thing had happened to Billy.

  “No,” she sputtered, “it’s not the same at all. Billy could have gotten William killed! It figures you wouldn’t get it.”

  “You’re right. I don’t see the distinction. If anything, I think this is worse. Billy was the children’s father, while your boyfriend is nothing to them.” He paused but he couldn’t resist finishing his thought. “Perhaps you should consider that you brought this on yourself when you didn’t hesitate to introduce a virtual stranger into their lives.”

  “Kyle didn’t do it,” Ashley hissed. “Not that you care.”

  It was Patrick’s
turn to be incredulous. “You’re actually defending that guy?”

  “No. I can’t afford to do that, not if I want my kids home. I’ll let him rot if they’ll just give me back Pearl and William and Maisie. But I’m just telling you, he didn’t do it.” He heard her inhale audibly and wondered if she was smoking again. “Maybe all that shit you told the cops about me is true, but that isn’t.”

  He might have felt a little guilty if she hadn’t slammed the phone down so hard it hurt his ear. Instead, he walked away wondering what was wrong with her that she was more willing to believe her boyfriend than her own daughter. And if the things he’d told the police officer were true, thank god CPS was investigating her, before the children got seriously hurt.

  That afternoon when he was visiting Lila, he considered telling her that she’d been vindicated, but decided to wait. Before she could get the custody she wanted or even visitation, she would have to be mentally stable—and she was a long way from that now. And even if she did get well, would he be able to stand up in court with her, as though he believed she’d be a good influence on the kids? How could he know that, when he didn’t really know Lila?

  If that hadn’t been clear to him before, it certainly became obvious the next Friday afternoon, when Dr. Kutchins, the psychologist working with Lila, asked for Patrick’s help. She looked to be about thirty, maybe even a researcher fresh from grad school, with an overworked grad student’s disheveled appearance. Her long black hair was coming out of her ponytail, and her clothes were as wrinkled as if she’d been sleeping in them for days. But of course he agreed to help in any way he could. Lila had been there for exactly three weeks and he was desperate to do something.

  The psychologist led him to her office on the other side of the elevators from the patients’ rooms. It was smaller than he expected, and the desk was cluttered with notebooks, articles, and open books piled on top of each other. He took the only seat available, across from her. After she told him to call her Marti, he said, “Why? Is that your name?”

  It was meant to be a joke, but he’d forgotten that only Lila seemed to understand why he always thought it was funny to take statements at their literal value. With everyone else, he had to explain what was already a lame attempt at humor. He watched the psychologist blink as he pointed out that she hadn’t said her name was Marti, she’d just said to call her that.

  “My name is Marti,” she said blandly. “Now, are there any other questions before we proceed?”

  He said no and decided not to confess that he’d only made the stupid joke because he was nervous. He was here to help Lila. He didn’t want anyone psychoanalyzing his feelings.

  Dr. Kutchins—Marti—began by saying she just wanted information about Lila’s background. She opened a notebook where he could see a long list of questions. He hoped they weren’t all for him.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he stumbled on her very first request. “Do you know if your wife ever suffered a head injury as a child? The neurologist noticed an old skull fracture on her MRI and wondered about the cause.”

  “Can’t you talk to Lila about that?”

  “I could, but I haven’t wanted to bring it up in her therapy yet.” She paused. “I take it you don’t know the answer?”

  When Patrick admitted he didn’t, she said it probably wasn’t important. The next question, she said, was much more critical. “Lila has frequently alluded to a violent incident involving her stepfather. Would you mind filling in the details?”

  This time he was even more surprised. A violent incident? What the hell did that mean? Dr. Kutchins must have taken his silence as reluctance to divulge personal information, because she quickly explained that there was no confidentiality issue; Lila had signed a waiver saying they could discuss any aspect of her case with her husband. “She obviously trusts you,” the psychologist said.

  Kutchins clearly meant that, but Patrick suspected she’d have to reassess her opinion after she discovered that he not only couldn’t answer this question, but also couldn’t say much of anything about the kind of home Lila had grown up in or whether she’d had difficulties in school or whether she’d gotten in any trouble as a teenager and so on. Indeed, by the time she’d finished her list of questions, Kutchins seemed positively perplexed, and even more so when Patrick admitted that Lila’s childhood wasn’t the only thing he and his wife had never really discussed; they’d also never talked about his.

  Since the doc had already said something about survivors of childhood abuse being reluctant to speak about their pasts—and Patrick had swallowed his objection at Lila being described as an abuse survivor—Patrick hastened to add that his own parents had not been abusive. He was relieved when Kutchins said this session wasn’t about him so he needn’t worry; he wouldn’t have to volunteer any information about his life unless he chose to. “But I wonder if you have an opinion about why Lila hasn’t shown more curiosity about your experiences as a child?”

  “Actually, she has. Whenever we visit my father in St. Louis, she spends at least an hour going through another photograph album or watching another home video. And she asks my father a lot of questions. I’m fairly sure she’s not merely being polite.”

  He found himself thinking about the last time they were in St. Louis, to take care of Jason and Doreen’s kids. Not only did Lila spend all of Theo’s nap watching a video on the fascinating theme of Patrick’s first bicycle, but she juggled the grumpy post-nap toddler in her arms as she listened to his father’s long, rambling account of the summer when nine-year-old Patrick had flown off his bike and broken his ankle. Patrick was only halfheartedly paying attention, but he was surprised his father knew so much about this. In most of his memories of that summer—and all of the other summers, too—his mother was with him and his father was at work.

  “So Lila asks your father about you,” the psychologist said.

  It wasn’t a question, but she paused so long that he finally realized what she was waiting for. He sat back. “You mean instead of asking me?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose it could be a defense mechanism, to keep you from asking her questions, but it’s not what we usually encounter with abuse survivors. More typically, they are eager to hear stories from their spouse’s childhood, as long as that childhood seems ‘normal’ in a way theirs was not.”

  He felt put on the spot because the truth was, especially when they were first together, Lila had asked him questions about what he was like when he was a boy, but his answers had always been too short to satisfy her. Usually, he told her it wasn’t interesting, and it wasn’t—to him. But if Dr. Kutchins was right, he’d been selfish to deny Lila these “normal” childhood stories because she had so few of her own. The operative word, though, was “if.”

  “I’m not sure why you keep calling Lila an abuse survivor.” He knew he sounded irritated, so he took a breath. “I mean, we don’t know that that’s true, right?”

  “Not with scientific certainty, no. She could be lying about the things she’s told me, but I hardly think that’s likely. Her memories are so fragmented that she would have to be a very skilled liar to parcel them out this way—and to what end? To convince me of something she won’t even admit to herself yet: that her mother was cruel?”

  He could have mentioned that Lila had lied to him many times, but he didn’t want to personally attack his wife’s honesty, even to her therapist. Yet he did feel he had to address one point. “I’m not sure if this is relevant,” he said slowly, “but I got the distinct impression from Lila’s mother that Lila does believe her mother was cruel.”

  He was thinking of Barbara Duval’s claim that Lila thought of her as a witch, but the psychologist didn’t ask him for an explanation. Instead, she said, clearly surprised, “You’ve spoken with her mother?”

  “Yes. She’s not dead, despite what Lila told you.”

  “Lila never told me that her mother was dead.” Dr. Kutchins gave him a long look. “If I sounded incredulous, it’s
merely because you didn’t bring this up before. You do have some information about her childhood then? At least her mother’s version of it?”

  He admitted he’d only seen her mother once, and only for an hour or less at that; he didn’t really have much information. But the psychologist insisted that whatever he had could be useful, so finally he told her. He didn’t leave anything out, even the part about the “unnatural bond” with Billy, though he emphasized that Barbara Duval maintained she had not let her children have an affair.

  For the first time, Dr. Kutchins seemed like a thirty-year-old recent grad named Marti rather than a hospital staff psychologist. She blurted out that Barbara Duval sounded “horrible,” and then she looked in his eyes. “Are you telling me you seriously wonder if Lila was abused after hearing all this?”

  He ran his hands through his hair, wondering what she was getting at. What had he just said that proved Lila was abused? “Wait,” he said, “I love my wife, but how would I know what happened when she was—”

  “First this woman acts seductively with her own daughter’s husband by telling you about her sex life, and then she calls her daughter a bad seed?” Marti laughed. “I’m sorry, but in all the literature I’ve read and all the patients I’ve seen, I’ve never come across a child that could reasonably be described that way. It has about as much credibility as thinking a child is demon possessed.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean it as a diagnosis,” he said before wondering why he was defending Barbara Duval. The truth was he’d thought she was horrible, too, but then he’d let her get to him, hadn’t he? He’d let her twist his mind to the point that he’d kissed another woman and even walked out on his wife. Which led to Lila’s suicide attempt. Which led to this moment, sitting in the office, still trying to justify himself by bringing up the example of… Columbine?

  “Those Colorado teenagers who shot up the school were clearly not victims. There are bad kids out there, right?” He grew quieter, already feeling embarrassed. “Not that I’m saying Lila killed anyone.”