Wakeman said between heaving breaths, “Lucky for you, Mrs. Swain, you failed to kill your husband.”
“The idea,” she said, “wasn’t to kill him. The idea was to kill myself.”
Chapter 20
EONS FLASHED PAST in a wake of foul interplanetary winds to a time when man wasn’t so much the ideal but a sorry solution.
And Kendra folded herself more tightly into a ball, propping her spine against the drywall and tearing at her hair with split fingernails. She would have liked a shower, a cigarette, and absolute darkness. None was possible. Maybe later.
Less than ten feet distant, two police officers erected a human fence, thumbs hooked into belts and shoes tapping the floor with impatience. They didn’t speak to her, a woman no more substantial than a ghost. Yet the nape of her neck tingled with their stares.
Solicitous voices, murmuring downstairs like the whir of an oscillating fan, migrated out to the front porch and spilled onto the street, where the arctic atmosphere amplified their utterances. Emergency lights washed the second-floor windows with melding indigo patterns. The ambulance had left ages ago.
A succession of slamming car doors heralded the arrival of fate. Familiar footsteps reentered the house and climbed the staircase. A disruptive breeze marked the arrival of judge and jury. Kendra buried her face deeper into the cave formed by her bent knees and intertwined arms. The policemen withdrew and went below.
A pair of hands set down a sandwich and a soft drink. She observed both objects from a crack between her arms. She let them sit.
“There are many ways to go,” the voice said. “You can suffocate yourself with a plastic bag. Hang yourself with a belt. Bleed to death at the edge of a razor blade. Starve yourself with stubbornness. Or choke on a plastic fork. But you may as well eat.”
Her lips were twin deserts. Licking failed to rehydrate them. She picked up the iced drink and sipped thirstily. Her initial words were incomprehensible, but when she made another stab at speech, the croaking sounded halfway intelligible. “You must have been a disappointment to your mother.”
“I don’t follow.”
“When you became a cop.”
At his core, Ethan Wakeman was a shy man, wary of confrontation and more unsure of himself than he let on. He squatted before her, his arms jutting forward for counterbalance. Shiny black hairs delineated his broad hands and thick wrists. Like a polar north magnet, he inveigled a fleeting glance from her and held onto it with mental coercion. She lost her nerve and nudged farther back into her private hell. Escape was impossible. “The profession runs in the family,” he said. “Like an infectious disease.”
“The son of a cop?”
“And two brothers.”
“Your family is sicker than mine.” She looked at him through an exhausted blur of dry eyes. “What time is it?”
He slipped off his sports watch and handed it to her. The sweep of the fluorescent secondhand against the ebony face captivated Kendra. She noted the time. Eleven o’clock. Given that the windows emitted a grayish light, it could have been eleven in the morning or eleven at night.
“Is it daylight?”
“Nighttime.”
“Why is it so bright outside?”
“It’s snowing.”
She handed the watch back.
“It’s yours,” he said.
“I couldn’t.”
“Don’t you believe in time, Mrs. Swain?”
“Time is an illusion invented by man to while away boredom. Ask a dog if he believes in time. Or a cockroach. Neither time nor sanity do I believe in. We are all insane. Or none of us are.” She pushed forward the timepiece, but he refused it. “Have it your way. I’ll return it when I get out of here. I mean, get out of wherever you’re sending me. You are sending me someplace.”
He put the watch on for her. The strap dangled from her wrist like a bracelet.
“You still don’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe my husband engineered everything.”
Though physically imposing, Ethan Wakeman was a fumbling teenager. Prom music played, a slow dance cued up, and he wanted to ask her to dance but lacked the courage. “Don’t you want to know? About your husband?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of the dark?”
“No, the dark is my friend.”
He ran his eyes over her. She expected to see pity in their depths but met only concern.
“Joel’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Far from it.”
“Paralyzed.”
“Concussion. Bruised ribs. Smashed ego.”
“You’re guessing.”
“I spoke with the emergency room doc. They’re keeping him overnight for observation.”
Her eyes scratched with fatigue. “I attacked him. Maybe not with a deadly weapon, but good as. Attempted murder. I wanted to kill him.”
“You wanted him to come clean.”
“To something he’s not guilty of?”
“Are you so sure?”
“Oh, Detective. You know not where you tread. Craziness lies on this side of the room.”
“You don’t sound mad to me.”
“What do you know about it?”
“You’re angry, not insane.” Snow-sopped hair formed a corona around his angelic face. She was tempted to believe him.
“Trust me on this. I’m an expert. I’ve lived with madness my entire life. My mother started going whacky the day I was born. My brother inherited the same disease. Or feared he did. It was only a matter of time before I came down with the same sickness.”
“You can’t use your family history as an excuse.”
“Can’t I?” Kendra searched his eyes. Though unreadable, they were nonjudgmental. “You can’t fool me, Doctor.”
“Detective,” he corrected her.
“You better read me my rights, Detective. The psychosis is gone. I’ll go quietly now.”
“You’ll go quietly, but not to jail.” The overhead bulb washed away his public mask. Every fine line had a tale to tell. He was more mature than his adolescent face told.
Kendra’s hearing registered a car pulling in front of the house. She nosed her face toward the windows, wordlessly questioning. Headlights scrubbed the panes before flicking off and returning the room to dungeon blackness. A car door opened but did not slam shut. The engine idled.
Wakeman said, “Your husband refuses to press charges.”
“Does he?”
“As for myself,” he said, sighing, “I was too late to witness the event.”
“Were you?”
“He insists he tripped and fell.”
“That was kind of him. But at what price?” The glib smile hurt her cheeks. She answered the question herself. “Of course. The herald arrives to announce my fate.”
Someone tiptoed about the bedroom below, opening dresser drawers, shuffling hangers, bringing down a suitcase, and collecting things in the bathroom. The woman spoke to herself as she toiled. Her voice dripped like ice melting from a springtime gutter.
“Curious. Am I going on an extended holiday? I’ll need my jammies. And a toothbrush.”
“You feared it would come to this.”
“Dreaded it like winter.”
“You can always come in by the fire and warm yourself.” He held out a hand, palm up.
The trapped animal inside her recoiled. It was a very nice hand. Strong and steady. But was the gesture meant as kindness? And even if it was, should she take it? “What do they call it these days? Voluntary commitment?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
“Oh no? It’s the first step, don’t you see?”
“Of what?”
“Of Joel getting exactly what he wants.”
“Which is?”
“A wife standing on the lunatic fringe.”
“Why should he want that?”
“To push her over the edge, of course.”
The hand pressed forward, insistent.
<
br /> “You’re a naïve man, Detective Wakeman.”
“Optimistic.”
A thunderclap—not of nature but of mind—accompanied the handclasp. He helped her to stand. Her legs were made of the same stuff as her head: a snarl of dim nightmares held together by distant dreams. “Intriguing name, Wakeman. Are you part of the dream?” She released his hand and relied on her own strength to go downstairs.
A fussy woman of compact proportions met her in the foyer. She was familiar yet not. The resolve was there, to be sure, but also a compassion Kendra had never before encountered. “Mrs. Jellinek.”
“You needn’t appeal to my better side, Kendra McSweeney. I have no better side. But I do have a sense of justice. I also care what happens to you.” She held out Kendra’s parka. “Here, put this on. It’s cold outside.”
As they stepped onto the stoop, Birdie Jellinek wrapped her inside a supportive arm. Without her father’s mistress to brace her, she never would have made it down the snow-covered steps. “Now don’t you worry. Judge Hoffman is an old friend. He let Detective Wakeman off the hook and squared it with his captain. Everyone is on your side, including your husband.” She handed the detective a manila envelope. “I think you’ll find everything in order.”
On both sides of the street, artificial icicles dripped from rooftops and electrified reindeer sought fodder. The stabbing lights blinded Kendra, but if she listened closely, she could hear sleigh bells jingling in the distance. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you a present, Mrs. Jellinek.”
“After all these years, can’t you call me Birdie? Besides which, this isn’t a gift.”
“A sense of duty, then.”
“Not even that.” They picked their way through drifting snow. Wakeman brought along the suitcase. The car wasn’t a city vehicle but Birdie’s own sedan. “I love Kendra McSweeney just as I loved her father. To me, even if the one is gone, the two are inseparable.”
“You have daughters of your own. It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Right this minute, you are my only—my best—child.”
“But why?” Kendra had to know. “Why involve yourself?”
“Why do you think Mac singled me out? For my beauty? I should say not. I was once a psychiatric nurse. If anything, Mac was a practical man. I already spoke to Doctor Silverstein. Evelyn Silverstein. She’s agreed to take you on as a personal favor. You’ll warm up to her. Unlike most psychiatrists, she isn’t the least bit crazy. Her patient roster is full, but she’ll meet with you first thing in the morning. You’ll be in and out of the hospital in no time.”
Birdie slammed the door shut and hustled around to the driver’s side. Kendra lowered the window. Ethan Wakeman stood on the parkway, shoes snow-deep. She spoke through the window, her breath billowing condensation. “Why were you following me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“But it’ll have to do for now. Goodbye, Mrs. Swain.”
As Birdie pulled away from the bungalow on Marshfield Avenue, the last sight Kendra saw was of Detective Ethan Wakeman, shivering in the cold and gesturing a respectful salute.
By the time Kendra arrived at the hospital, midnight had already struck. It was Christmas Day.
Separated from the main hospital, the psychiatric facility occupied a pavilion connected by glass-enclosed passageways and lower concourse elevators. When Birdie and Kendra arrived on the thirteenth floor, the number ominous of itself, a patient representative greeted them in the name of making a psych ward seem less scary than it sounded.
Mrs. Jellinek turned over her charge with presumptive authority and left behind strict instructions, which were noted on Kendra’s admissions chart. She hugged the daughter of her longtime companion and told her she’d be home sooner than she could say jackrabbit. Kendra felt like putty in her arms: boneless, cheerless, and hopeless. The farewell meant nothing to her. She entered this world alone and would leave it the same way. Human greetings and farewells were merely the doorways of entry and exit.
In the tranquil wee hours, hospital personnel padded around on soft-soled shoes and spoke in whispered sighs. Kendra was guided past dormitory rooms lining both sides of a long corridor. An administrative desk outfitted with computer monitors and ergonomic chairs stretched through the center. The floor’s egg-drop pattern made for mindless monotony while the lemon-lime walls soothed the troubled soul. Banks of fluorescent lights were dialed down to emulate nighttime. Against a far corner, gift-wrapped presents—empty except for wishes—smothered the snow-white skirt of an artificial Christmas tree. A wall clock ticked off the seconds, ironic since time held no value in a place like this, when one hour was exactly like another.
In one of the rooms, a patient softly sobbed.
Kendra was told she could leave at any time and refuse any medication or treatment. During her stay, she would be prescribed a variety of therapies, all geared toward her physical and psychological well-being. Her days would be busy and adhere to a rigorous schedule. She was given every reason to believe that within a week to ten days, she would transition from sickness to health, and leave the facility a new woman. Their assertions sounded false, placating, and overly optimistic. She would never be a new woman. Only the same woman with fresh scars.
She was asked to change into a gown and slippers, evidently the uniform required for her official entry into the hall of madness. From that point forward, never once did they leave the patient alone or unobserved, not even when she had to pee in a cup. She was asked countless questions. Her answers were checked off in neat precision. They drew blood and took down her medical history. When she arose from a routine physical exam, her clothes were returned to her in a plastic bag. She noticed dry bloodstains and speculated if they belonged to Joel or to her. In the final analysis, it didn’t matter one way or another since they had both come out bloodied and damaged.
To help her sleep, she was dispensed a tiny oblong pill and a glass of water. “In that case, can I have ten?”
“Do you want to leave now?” the nurse asked her.
She didn’t have to think about it for long. She would stay, if only for one night. She could always consider alternatives come morning. If morning ever came. If there were any alternatives.
Her admittance evaluation concluded without fanfare. They knew everything about her, down to the brand of tampon she used on light days. A psych ward held no secrets.
Shown her private quarters, she shuffled inside on paper slippers. The room was orderly, clean, and outfitted with minimal furniture, including a single bed, a desk, toilet facilities, and a wall of windows overlooking the lake. The water appeared black against a slate-gray sky. Snowflakes formed random patterns as they drifted aimlessly below and disappeared. She noticed the video camera, discreetly placed in a corner of the room.
The door closed behind her. She went back and tried the handle. It opened. Knowing she could walk out at any time gave her a sense of freedom, except she had nowhere for her to go. Home—her home on Marshfield Avenue—was out of the question. When she left this place, she would return to the Queen Anne. She thought it fitting that the house would be occupied by two madwomen and one caretaker.
Her suitcase sat on a bench beneath the windows. She set the plastic bag of soiled clothes next to it. She wanted to shower but was too tired to make the effort. She changed into clean clothes, keeping her back to the video camera. She brushed her teeth with her own toothbrush. The mirror over the sink wasn’t made of glass. She didn’t want to look into it anyway, afraid of what she might see in the warped reflection.
She settled onto the bed, curled into a fetal position, and waited for daybreak. The detective’s watch was her sole tether to life.
Chapter 21
MORNING DAWNED YET time stood still. Place was a fixed point. Destiny was out of her hands.
Kendra must have dozed off because the next thing she knew, daylight poured into her room. The storm had passed and the sky was azure blue, but
wintry winds churned the lake muddy green.
A shower was followed by breakfast in the cafeteria. Though she was more tired than she could ever remember and wanted to sleep for a week, there was a strict schedule to follow. Group therapy, contemplative downtime, informal activities, calisthenics, psychological tests, questionnaires, and interviews interspersed by scheduled breaks, dietary consultation, and educational classes.
After lunch, she was given a pass to see her doctor. To get to the hospital wing, a jaunt through endless corridors and sterile elevators was required. The outing frightened Kendra. It forced her to mingle with ordinary people facing ordinary problems, like what to order for lunch. Though they paid no mind to a nutcase, for Kendra, the journey proved an epiphany.
Fleeting hours had tripped by since her entry into the twenty-first century version of a madhouse. Already she was deep into separation anxiety as if the entity known as Kendra Swain were an alien apart, not worthy of breathing the same air or thinking the same thoughts as the rest of humankind. She didn’t belong among the sane. They only let her into their amusement park for the price of admission. The ticket was valid for a single hour, but all the good rides were taken.
As the walk migrated around a corner and skirted past a revolving door leading to fresh air and frosty sidewalks, Kendra saw an opportunity to escape. She could have made a run for it but held fast to the mistaken notion that salvation came to those who observed the rules. Later, in the sanctity of her room, when she was able to look back on the choice not taken, Kendra was to see it as a bend in the road leading toward a near fatality. Perhaps nothing could have prevented what was to come. Perhaps the future was preordained, as unvarying as the change of seasons. Because once again, when returning to the ward, she was given another chance to make her getaway and cried off temptation.
Trick of the Mind Page 15
