He reached up, locked the door, and flipped the sign around to read CLOSED.
4
Sylvia hadn’t moved all day. The little square clock she kept on her vanity said it was a quarter past three. She didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. Her mind was still thick from the tranquilizers she’d consumed the night before. She had felt Peter press his lips against her cheek as she pretended to sleep, then heard him leave around late morning. He hadn’t tried to wake her. Lying on her back, propped against her pillow, she looked to her right. The sheer window curtains breathed in and out in the lazy afternoon breeze. She smelled cut grass and saw the tops of the trees at the far side of the property swaying against a hazy blue sky. She heard cicadas buzzing. Cars drove by every so often, their tires sticky on the hot asphalt of the road. The sound made her thirsty.
She blinked slowly, feeling detached, as if her head were a balloon floating away from her body. She turned away from the window and looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes focused on a small brown water spot where the paint was starting to bubble.
If my arm was long enough, I could reach up and peel away that paint with my fingernail, she thought. I could just push the tip of it into that bubble and strip it back. And what would be behind the paint? What would be waiting there for me to see? Something rotten? Gray flesh?
Sylvia put the back of her hand over her mouth, catching a thin roll of flesh between her front teeth. She bit down hard until she tasted blood, then pulled her hand away and looked at the little welt on her skin, indented with her teeth marks. It dripped blood down to her wrist.
This is going to be easy.
She pulled the sheets off her legs. The white silk nightgown she was wearing suddenly felt restricting. She looked down at her toes, saw them wiggle, but didn’t quite understand that they were her feet. She saw them but could not comprehend them. They looked unusual and not her own. In fact, she realized her entire body didn’t seem to belong to her. A divine warmth surged through her, and her mind descended into darkness, as if dragged down from a great below.
Sylvia sat up, turned, and hung her legs off the side of the bed. The balls of her feet brushed the hardwood floor. It was warm, and she could feel tiny granules of grime and dirt hiding in the grain of the wood. But like everything else she was experiencing, it seemed distant.
Sylvia stood and slid the straps off the gown and let it pool at her feet. She stepped out of it. Naked, she walked out of the bedroom and down the hall and into the bathroom, driven by a singular thought. She picked up the glass beside the sink, filled it with water, and returned to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the floor. She started picking at the side of her thumb. An hour passed. Perhaps more.
Eventually she stood and walked to the full-length mirror on the far side of the room. She regarded herself. Her ribs showed. She was pale. Her breasts were perky but starting to sag off to the sides. Gentle slopes with large dark nipples. She ran her hands down her stomach, over her tangles of pubic hair, then around to her buttocks. She did it without thought, as if seeing things from a distance, as if she were looking through the wrong end of a set of binoculars and seeing it all happen from some faraway place.
She turned away from the mirror, went to her bed, and lay down. Staring up at the ceiling, her eyes refocused on the water stain.
5
By the time Peter returned home, it was getting dark and had begun to rain. He’d been gone since ten o’clock that morning. He squinted and checked his watch. It was three minutes of seven, and he was a little drunk. After leaving Gilchrist, he’d stopped off at the Blue Shade Lounge in downtown Concord to celebrate signing the rental contract. A few weeks away at a lake house was just what he and Sylvia needed. He had high hopes that she might even be a little excited about the prospect of getting away for a while. It felt right. This could be the thing to knock them back on track.
He turned off the car and stepped out, eyeing the house. Not a single light was on inside. The screened windows looked like milky eyes. He ran up the driveway, jacket pulled over his head to shield against the rain, and opened the side door on the garage. Sylvia’s car was there. She should be home, unless she’d gone out with a friend. But he had to admit that lately she didn’t have many friends, and the ones she did have didn’t seem to interest her.
He went to the front door, unlocked it, and entered the house. The air was stale and calm; it felt used up.
“Syl, you home?”
The only sound he heard was a lonesome slow drip of water coming from the back of the house. He knew it immediately. He went across the dining room, into the kitchen, and shut off the faucet. It did that sometimes, if the cold-water valve wasn’t shut off all the way.
The sink was full of dirty dishes. That had been happening a lot lately. There had been a time when his wife would have sooner died than let the house fall into disarray. But that version of her had all but vanished the day their son died. He understood, but he missed that Sylvia sometimes.
“What the hell did she do all day?” Peter said under his breath, annoyed. He reached into his pocket and felt the keys to the lake house. That calmed him some. It was a source of change, an escape. He looked around, didn’t want to see the mess anymore, and went upstairs to take a shower.
Standing on the landing at the top of the steps, he stared down the hall. The bedroom door was partly closed, the way his wife kept it when she was napping. Peter sighed. Sylvia was still sleeping, probably hadn’t even been out of bed yet. Don’t be upset with her, he thought. This isn’t her fault. You’re both in this together.
The hallway was silent. “Sylvia, you up? I have a surprise,” he said, starting toward the bedroom.
When he got to the door, he caught a glimpse through the three-inch crack. He could only see the foot of the bed. His wife’s bare legs were side by side, pencil straight, and on top of the quilt. They were still. Everything was still. It was too silent. Something was wrong, and a cold shiver ran up his spine.
(something wrong something wrong)
Peter opened the door and went into the room. “Sylvia? You awake—”
The first thing that registered with him was that she was naked. Instinctively, his eyes scanned the room, searching for more that was out of the ordinary. Her nightgown lay on the floor… beside the bottle of pills. The cap was on the nightstand next to an empty glass. A few small things that added up to a quick understanding. He covered the remaining distance to the bed in a panic and picked up the bottle of Equanil.
It was empty.
“Oh no, Jesus Christ. What’d you do, Syl?” He sat beside her on the bed and tried lifting her up, his forearm behind the neck. He slapped her cheek softly but firmly. Her head lolled back, limp. Her lips parted, mouth slacked open. A small gasp of breath croaked in her throat.
He let her fall back against the pillow. With his thumb, he pushed open her eyelids—first the right, then the left. They stared blankly into space. He didn’t know what to do. His entire life, he’d been certain he was a person who could act with a level head under intense pressure, but he found that he was useless. He was searching his mind for the next move, the proper thing to do, but it simply would not come.
He stood up, needing some kind of an abrupt physical action to ground himself. He was standing with his hands on his hips, looking down at his wife, when it struck him in a morbid way that for the first time in a long while, she looked at peace. He wanted to curl up next to her in bed and hold her, smell the sweet skin of her neck. But he just stood there, staring, vision blurring as hot tears began to well in his eyes.
Check her pulse, dammit, an internal voice spoke up.
He sat back down and pressed two fingers against her neck. He found nothing and tried a different spot, looking for her main artery. Nothing again. He continued moving his fingers around the curves of her neck, searching for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. He realized he didn’t have a clue where the heck the artery was. Sure,
he knew it from having a rough idea of his own body, but that was different. With Sylvia, he was searching blindly. Then a sickening realization struck him clear and sharp like glass: Either I can’t find her pulse, or there isn’t one.
“No, come on, Syl, wake up!” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, angry that she would try to abandon him. Her teeth knocked together, making a horrible chattering sound. He picked up her hand, held it tightly in his, then slid his fingers to her wrist and searched there. “Please, you can’t leave me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”
And as he felt his entire world slipping away from him, a faint beat touched the tips of his fingers at her wrist. It was hardly anything, but it was there. It was a soft, slow stroke: tap… tap… tap.
But it was there.
6
Peter stood outside the door to his bedroom as Charles Zaeder, the Martells’ family physician, took Sylvia’s blood pressure for the third time in an hour. His leather medical bag sat open at the foot of the bed. Sylvia hadn’t yet awoken, but she had shown promising signs of responsiveness, which Charles had said was a good indication she would make it out of the woods okay. He had, however, recommended she go to the hospital, but Peter had declined unless it was absolutely necessary. Charles, with a great deal of reluctance and disapproval, finally backed off.
Charles released the blood pressure cuff and put it back in his bag. His stethoscope, he wrapped loosely around his hand and stuffed in the pocket of his coat. He ran a hand over his tightly cropped white beard, looked down at Sylvia for a pensive moment, then picked up his bag and headed out into the hallway, where Peter was waiting.
“Will she be all right?” Peter asked, glancing past Charles to Sylvia. He had dressed her in her nightgown before the doctor arrived. Looking at her brought up a rush of grief. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head.
“She should be okay. I pumped her stomach before she could digest it all,” Charles said. “Her blood pressure is low but stable, and all her other vitals are normal, but you need to keep an eye on her.” He hesitated. “I’m far more concerned with her mental state, to be honest. I would like to reiterate that it’s my professional medical opinion that you have her admitted, Peter. I really think it would be for the best. Just for a few days. It’s no mystery what happened here. She should be taken in for observa—”
“Please, Charles, we went over this already. I don’t need to hear it again. I know you’re right, but I can’t put her in a hospital. I don’t want her to wake up in a place like that. She’s been through enough already. She made a mistake. That’s all it was.”
He cringed hearing himself try to sell that lie. No mistake had been made.
“You do need to hear this. It could have been a lot worse. I don’t know what dosage she ingested, but lucky for her, it wasn’t enough to kill her… it was close, though. Next time it most likely will be, if she really wants it. And there could very well be a next time.” Charles dialed it back. “Look, I know you and Sylvia have been through a lot, and clearly it’s taken its toll. But this isn’t something you should try to sweep under the rug. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Do you actually think I don’t know that? No one is sweeping anything under the damn rug.”
“I’m only giving you my honest opinion.”
“Okay. I’ll note it, but can we please just…” Peter bit his lip, shaking his head. “Listen, I just rented a quiet little place on a lake about fifty miles from here. I had been planning on surprising her tonight. I think it’s exactly what she needs. And there I’ll be able to watch her. I know it’s not a hospital, but I think it’s what’s best for her.”
There was a pause, and in it, Peter and Charles looked at each other, eyes searching.
“She could be a real danger to herself.”
Peter squeezed his temples, losing patience. “Charles…”
“All right, all right, I won’t mention it again. Just promise me you’ll keep a close eye on her. You have to, Peter.”
“You don’t have to keep telling me that. She’s my wife. Don’t you think I want what’s best for her? You need to trust me. Sending her to a hospital would only make things worse. She needs a break, not a hospital stay. She’s seen enough doctors to last her a lifetime.”
“I know. You and Sylvia are friends, and I only want what’s best for you both. And it’s clear I’m not going to convince you otherwise. So if you say this is what she needs, I’ll trust you,” Charles said earnestly, putting up a hand and surrendering the point he was trying to make. Then, changing gears, he asked, “How have things been going with Dr. Carlson? Have you and Sylvia seen him recently?”
Peter glanced at Sylvia, then back to the doctor. “Yes. To be honest, I get the feeling that’s why this happened, actually.”
“What do you mean?” Charles folded his arms.
“We had an appointment yesterday, and things didn’t go well.”
“What happened?”
“He said he doesn’t know what’s wrong, only that one of us might be infertile. Or both of us. Or neither,” Peter said. “He doesn’t really seem to know much beyond the fact that we can’t conceive at the moment. So we’re no better off than we were six months ago.”
“That’s what he said?”
“He said he can’t find anything wrong with either of us and that we should continue to try, but that after this long, there could be an underlying reason. But it’s a reason he doesn’t know, so a lot of help that is.”
“I understand how frustrating it can be to have more questions than answers. But yours is not entirely bad news, if you want my opinion. Sometimes no news is good news.”
“That’s what the other guy said.” Peter let out a long sigh. “This is killing her, and I don’t know what to do. Noah was everything to her. Now he’s gone, and all she wants is to try again—to start another family—but it isn’t working. Nothing is working, and she thinks God is blaming us for letting our son die. She thinks we’re being punished.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense. She must know—”
“I know, I know, she has to know that it’s no one’s fault. It was an accident. The stars just aligned perfectly that night to take our son,” Peter said with a parroting tone, not meaning to come off as rude; or maybe he did. He was exhausted, and the alcohol buzz he had tied on earlier had since fallen away to a dull, throbbing headache. “Sorry. I’m a little overtired. It’s been a hell of a day, to say the least. I think I might make some coffee, if you’re interested.”
Charles checked his watch. “A little too late for me, thanks. It’d keep me up, I’m afraid.”
“She’ll be okay,” Peter said abruptly. “I’ll keep a close eye on her. You have my word. I’ve already taken her medications and hidden them.” He hadn’t, but he reminded himself to do it once Charles left. “I’ll talk to her in the morning. You’ll see, this whole thing will blow over. And I’ll call you in a few days and give you an update. I think a few weeks away from this place is all she needs. We both need it.”
“Well, let’s hope you’re right,” Charles said without enthusiasm.
Peter put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder and began leading him away. “I’m sure you want to get home now. It’s late.”
Charles stopped and looked at him, eyes narrowed. “How about you, Peter? Do you feel okay?”
“I feel fine. Why? Do I not look it?”
“Just thought I’d ask and make sure,” he said, seeming to study Peter.
“Been a long day, Doc. That’s all,” Peter said. “Maybe I’ll skip the coffee and just go to bed.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.”
The two of them descended the stairs, and a few moments later, Peter was waving from the front door as the doctor’s black Buick backed down the driveway, headlights making little prismatic halos in the low fog rising up off the road. He stayed and watched the car’s taillights stop and hesitate at the intersection at the end of Preble Avenue. They flickered a fe
w times, then turned left and were gone, swallowed by the night. The rain had slowed to mist. The night was somehow cool and warm at the same time. He reached into his pocket and felt the keys to the lake house.
Peter went inside and up to his office. He needed make a call. But first, he stopped to check on Sylvia. She was sleeping soundly, snoring lightly, wrist bent beside her head on the pillow.
7
After what might’ve been the fifth ring—Peter wasn’t entirely sure; he’d lost count midway through the second—there was a click, then the sound of someone clearing their throat. “It’s late. Somebody better be dead or trying to give me money,” the voice said.
It was a tough voice. Thick and unapologetic. Tom Landau spoke in much the same way a bulldozer toppled trees. And that was, perhaps, the reason Peter had liked the man so much after meeting him only once and for but a brief moment during a dinner party a friend had been hosting. Tom was honest in the most basic way: he didn’t know how to lie even if he’d wanted to. There was never any bullshit to see through with him. And that was why Peter had contacted him the day after their first encounter and asked Tom to read his first novel and, if he liked it, to represent him. Three weeks later, Peter had himself an agent.
“Tom, it’s me,” Peter said.
“Pete? You were supposed to call me hours ago. I figured we’d talk tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I know. I apologize. I got sidetracked,” Peter said. But what he was thinking was: Isn’t that just about the biggest fucking understatement of the year.
“Well, anyway, how’d the meeting go?” Tom asked. Then more quietly, he said to someone else: “Everything’s fine, Joan. It’s Pete.”
“It went as expected,” Peter said. “Everything got signed, if that’s what you mean.”
“Those greedy bastards didn’t change anything on the contracts, did they? We had them just the way we wanted them. Everything was perfect and agreed upon. But I wouldn’t put it past those shyster pricks to go ahead and try to sneak something in last minute. That’s why I should’ve been there. Dammit, I knew it.”
Gilchrist: A Novel Page 5
