The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  We both went back to our magazines.

  The technician called another patient. Again. Sooner or later, my as soon as possible had to come. My headache grew.

  The waiting area didn’t have a clock. I figured it was a psychological ploy. They didn’t want us to know how long we sat there.

  “What time is it?”

  Evelyn looked at her watch.

  “Oh! I need to go get Abby. Will you be okay here alone?”

  “How much trouble can I get into?” It wasn’t like I could run away. She had the car keys. And the car.

  As soon as she left, the technician called my name.

  • • •

  “ARE YOU WEARING any metal? Earrings? Other jewelry?” The tech handed me a hospital gown. There were worse things than green sweats.

  “No.”

  “Put this on. You can leave your clothes in the dressing room.” She unlocked a door and pointed me in.

  I closed the door of the tiny room, and the walls closed in. The floor shifted, tilted, and tipped me into the red. I couldn’t breathe. The red turned black, and I was lost.

  [35]

  Abby

  AT 1:45 WE TAKE OUT OUR geography books, but we do not open them. Ms. Colley is talking. She puts a map of Europe on the wall.

  “Spain is the fifth largest country in Europe,” Ms. Colley says.

  Spain is green on Ms. Colley’s map.

  “Spain is on the Iberian Peninsula.” Ms. Colley changes pictures. The flag of Spain is red and yellow. I do not like red.

  “Yellow looks like fire,” I say.

  Devon writes Abby’s house was yellow on his list.

  “Orange too,” I say.

  “Abby, hush,” Ms. Colley says.

  “No more house for you,” Devon says.

  Twyla pounds her fist on her desk.

  “The Ceiling Man did it,” I say.

  Devon writes The Ceiling Man did it on his list.

  “Class, pay attention.” Ms. Colley is talking about Spain. We are not listening. Spain is in Europe.

  “Abby is wearing her grandmother’s clothes,” Devon says.

  “They are all I have. My clothes burnt up too.”

  Devon writes Abby needs new clothes and a new house on his list.

  Twyla pounds both fists on her desk. I think she is sad. I think it is because my house is burnt down. Maybe she is afraid her house will burn down too.

  “It is okay, Twyla. Your house is made of bricks,” I say.

  “I give up,” Ms. Colley says. “Abby, do you want to tell us about what happened?”

  It is 1:57. It is time for Geography. My house burning down is not Geography. I think Ms. Colley is being flexible.

  “Sami and I were on the porch roof. It was not like the Fire Drill List,” I say.

  “I’ll write you a new Fire Drill List,” Devon says.

  “Thank you. The old one is all burnt up.”

  Twyla pulls on my sleeve. I do not think she likes Gramma Evelyn’s clothes.

  “Twyla, back to your seat,” Ms. Colley says.

  “It is okay,” I say. “When I get new clothes they will fit.”

  Devon makes good lists. He should make the new Fire Drill List better than the old one.

  Twyla does not go back to her seat.

  “Write This is just a drill. There is no fire.”

  When Devon writes it on his list, it is final.

  “Do not mess with the list,” Devon says.

  Twyla pulls my sleeve again. She gives me her red hat and scarf. Her birthday hat and scarf.

  The Ceiling Man comes to Twyla’s birthday party, but I do not let him in. Mrs. Lamb wants to let him in, but I do not let her. Mrs. Lamb is dead.

  “Twyla, that’s very nice of you,” Ms. Colley says. “Abby, I think Twyla is concerned because you lost all of your clothes.”

  Devon writes Everything is lost on his list.

  Mrs. Lamb knits hats and scarves. I hate red. Mrs. Lamb cannot make me a purple hat and scarf. She is dead.

  “Abby, you should say Thank You,” Ms. Colley says.

  “I will make a new list,” Devon says. “One. Spain is big. Two. No more fires. Three. Always say Thank You.”

  Mrs. Livvy makes quilts. I hope Mrs. Livvy’s quilt is not ruined. Maybe she will make a new one. It is her comfort quilt. Mrs. Livvy says, “Everybody needs a little comfort sometimes.”

  Comfort is not red.

  “Abby, go back to your seat,” Ms. Colley says.

  Twyla’s hat and scarf are red. Mrs. Lamb is dead. I think Jason the EMT is dead too. I think he is red. Dead rhymes with red. I hate red.

  I drop Twyla’s hat and scarf in the wastebasket.

  “Abby, what are you doing?” Ms. Colley says.

  A big jar of blue paint sits on the counter. Art class is in the morning and I am late. Ms. Colley says, “Oh, Abby, you missed art! We’re just about to clean up. But I’m glad you made it to school.” She sets the paint on the counter and talks to Gramma Evelyn. She forgets to put the paint away.

  Art class is my favorite. I should not be late. My house is gone.

  Tempera paint is for art class. Blue is for the sky. Blue is better than red. Sky is better than dead. Blue does not rhyme with red. I open the jar and pour the blue paint in the wastebasket.

  “Four. Abby is in big trouble,” Devon says.

  The blue tempera paint covers Twyla’s hat and scarf. I cannot see the red anymore.

  “Abby! Stop!” Ms. Colley says.

  Twyla is mad. I know she is mad because she screams. She does not talk, but sometimes she screams. Sometimes she screams scared. Sometimes she screams mad. She screams her mad scream.

  “No more fucking red,” I say.

  I think Twyla should scream scared.

  “Abby!” Ms. Colley does not sound like she is being flexible.

  “I will take a time out,” I say.

  • • •

  THERE IS A red pillow in the Quiet Corner. I throw it and it hits Ms. Short. I do not care when she yells.

  “Be flexible,” I say.

  Devon laughs. I do not know why there is so much red.

  “Abby said fucking red,” Devon says. “Abby is in big fucking trouble. I will write it on my fucking list.”

  “Everybody hush,” Ms. Colley says. “Sit at your desks and put your heads down. We will all take a quiet moment.”

  Devon laughs. Twyla screams. I think they are ignoring Ms. Colley.

  I ignore everybody. They hurt my ears.

  Ms. Colley cannot call my mom. My mom’s phone is all burnt up.

  It is 2:09. I will stay in time out for twenty-one minutes. 2:30 means go home.

  The bus driver says, “If you are not in your seat at 2:40, I’m leaving without you.”

  I am not in my seat at 2:40 any more. I do not ride the bus any more.

  My mom does not have her car. My mom cannot pick me up.

  The Ceiling Man laughs. I do not want him near my mom. I think Gramma Evelyn will pick me up.

  Daddy is the Woodsman. My mom does not burn up.

  I do not want to hear the Ceiling Man. I do not want him near my mom.

  The Ceiling Man laughs. I cannot ignore him. I look for the Ceiling Man. I do not want him near my mom.

  “She’s baaaaaack,” says the Ceiling Man’s friend. He is in his box but I hear him anyway.

  I hear everybody. They are all in my ears and in my head. They hurt my ears. I think they will hurt my head too.

  The Ceiling Man ignores his friend. I ignore him too. He should stay in his box and shut up.

  I cannot ignore the Ceiling Man.

  “Stay away from my mom.”

  “Your wall is crumbling, Little Piggy.”

  My wall has a hole where the Ceiling Man tried to push it down. It is a small hole.

  “Leave my mom alone.” I can fix the wall. It is a small hole and I will not let it grow.

  “It won’t work,” the Ceiling Man s
ays. “I found her. She’s mine, Little Piggy. Then, you. Maybe I’ll visit little Miss Twyla too.”

  Twyla screams. She is far away and I cannot tell if she is scared or mad. I think she should be scared.

  “Leave my mom alone.”

  The hole is small. I can fix it.

  I think maybe Twyla needs a wall too. I do not know if I can make two walls. One wall is very hard.

  “A red wall,” the Ceiling Man says.

  Devon laughs.

  My head is full of noise and red. I must fix my mom’s wall. No more red.

  “Leave my mom alone. Leave my mom alone.”

  • • •

  “ABBY, ABBY, ABBY.” Gramma Evelyn is here. She whispers.

  Gramma Evelyn never whispers. I am wrong. Never is zero. Gramma whispers now and that is one time not zero, but she does not say breathe.

  “The wall is almost fixed,” I say. “Almost is not good enough.”

  “I’ll huff and I’ll puff, Little Piggy. I’ll get Grandma too.”

  “Too many stories,” I say.

  “Time to go,” Gramma says.

  “I need to fix the wall.”

  “We need to go get your mom,” Gramma says.

  “Okay.” I say. “I will fix the wall and my mom will be safe.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gramma says. I do not know if she is scared or tired or mad. Her voice is slippery.

  “Idunno.”

  Everyone is gone except Ms. Colley. The room is quiet, but my head is not quiet. The Ceiling Man laughs.

  “Leave my mom alone.”

  “. . .appointment with the psychologist,” Ms. Colley says.

  I do not hear what Gramma says. She is whispering.

  “No more never,” I say.

  Gramma has my coat. It is not my coat. I do not have a coat. Gramma Evelyn has her coat that I am borrowing. My coat is burnt up.

  “We need to go get my mom,” I say and put on Gramma Evelyn’s coat.

  The Ceiling Man laughs.

  “And Mrs. Livvy’s quilt.” Mrs. Livvy says it is a comfort quilt. I think I need a comfort quilt. I think my mom does too.

  “We will,” Gramma says.

  I think her slippery voice means she needs a comfort quilt too.

  “Little Piggy, Little Piggy, I’m going to get in,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “Leave my mom alone.”

  “Oh, honey,” Gramma says, but she does not say oh-honey-what and I do not ask.

  I must fix the wall.

  [36]

  Carole

  POUNDING. NOT MY HEAD. THE DOOR.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay in there?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while. You need to put on the gown so we can get this taken care of.”

  I wore the thin gown, but I couldn’t remember putting it on. Another blackout. Another hole in my memory. You went downstairs. Had I? Why would Jim say that if it wasn’t true? My hands shook. For the first time since the fire, I felt something. Fear. What had I done?

  “Ma’am?”

  I couldn’t find the words to answer her. Breathe. Breathe. When I opened the door, the tech’s expression shifted from annoyed to perky.

  “No need to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is lie still. In here.” She led me into the MRI room.

  One foot in front of the other, with each step I concentrated on building a façade, locking my fear inside. The tech dealt with medical fears all the time. She didn’t know that I hurt my daughter. That maybe I’d come close to killing my family and myself.

  “Up on the table, please. Lie on your back. Arms at your sides.”

  I can do this. I stretched out and willed both my trembling body and my racing mind to still.

  My attempt at composure failed when the tech approached me with what looked like a giant hypodermic. The room blurred and my head throbbed, but the red stayed away.

  I wrapped both of my arms around my chest. “Dr. Yates said no dye. No needles.”

  “I’ll check again, but I don’t think that’s what the orders say.”

  “Do that.”

  I could get dressed and leave.

  The tech returned. “Orders say contrast. If you want, you can talk to your doctor and try another time.”

  She didn’t say with an appointment, but the message was there.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” I said. The pressure in my head increased. I wondered if it would show on the MRI, if it was physical or mental. Either way, the pain was real.

  It probably wasn’t intentional that it took her six tries to hit a vein. Maybe it was. I couldn’t look at her or the needle. I closed my eyes and fought the headache and the red.

  “Stay still.”

  Breathe. Breathe.

  “Ma’am? Carole? We’re finished. You can get up now.”

  I must have dozed off. Or passed out. Or something. Another blank spot, but my headache along with everything else—panic, worry, fear—was gone. I’d returned to numb. The tech could have come at me with a six-foot needle, and I wouldn’t have cared.

  Instead she said, “All done. You can go get dressed.”

  “What’s it look like in there?”

  “All I can confirm is that, yes, you do have a brain.” A rote response. She probably made the same joke every day. “Your doctor will call you as soon as she looks them over.”

  I got dressed without another panic attack or blackout or whatever it was.

  In the waiting room, Evelyn flipped through another magazine. Abby sat beside her and rocked. She held her hands at chin level and fluttered her fingers. Her lips moved as if she was deep in conversation, but she was silent.

  “I’m all done,” I said.

  “I don’t think we’re going shopping today,” Evelyn said.

  The magazine she held vibrated. Her voice shook as much as her hands.

  “Hi Mom.” Abby returned from wherever she’d been.

  “Shopping can wait until tomorrow,” I said. Somebody flipped my off switch, and exhaustion settled over me like one of Abby’s blankets. “Let’s just go home. To your house. Wherever.”

  In the parking lot, I saw Blevins. Or didn’t. A glimpse, and then he was gone. His presence, real or imagined, affected me no more than the cars in the parking lot.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I fixed the hole.” Abby said.

  “I like grapes.”

  “And bananas,” she said.

  “I think you both need a doctor,” Evelyn said.

  “We should go to the laundromat,” Abby said. “We need to get Livvy’s quilt.”

  I didn’t care where we went. I was just along for the ride.

  • • •

  I FELL ASLEEP on the couch and woke up covered by Livvy’s quilt, clean and smelling of lavender. Abby and Evelyn sat on the love-seat, watching television.

  “Gramma says we will order pizza for dinner,” Abby said.

  “Sounds good.” Still swaddled in my weird cocoon, I didn’t have any appetite. I would have liked to stay where I was, wrapped in the quilt, but when Jim came home, he motioned me into the kitchen.

  I draped the quilt over Abby. She stood and wrapped herself in it.

  “I like Livvy’s quilt,” she said.

  I did too.

  Jim filled me in on the situation at the house. It was a loss—big surprise. The investigators hadn’t yet found the cause and were still looking.

  “Blevins was there watching,” I said.

  “No one else saw him.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I told George. They’re looking into it.”

  At least that was something. I didn’t tell him about seeing Blevins again.

  “What did Dr. Yates say?” I knew he’d get around to asking sooner or later.

  “She said I was holding up well.”

  “And?”

  “I might have migraines. Like my mom.”

  “Did yo
u tell her about the blackouts?”

  “I assumed you did that.” Not an accusation, simply a statement.

  “You had some tests?” He didn’t admit to anything.

  “Blood work tomorrow. An MRI this afternoon. She just wants to check on things before she gives me migraine drugs.”

  “How’d the MRI go?”

  “The doctor hasn’t seen it. Or hasn’t called me about it. The technician confirmed I have a brain, but couldn’t confirm it’s functional.”

  “Did you talk to Abby’s teacher?” He ignored my attempt to lighten the mood. His mood. Mine was still anesthetized.

  “Your mom talked to her this morning. I haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “I heard there was some trouble this afternoon. I told you she should have stayed home.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What happened? And who told you?”

  “Mom called. Ms. Colley wants Abby to see the psychologist.”

  “She didn’t say anything to me.” The twinge of annoyance I felt at my mother-in-law was more habit than my usual irritation. If anything, my emotional stupor was getting worse.

  “Frankly, I think you both should—”

  “Jim! Something’s wrong with Abby!”

  He jumped and ran at his mother’s shout. I followed, sure Evelyn was over-reacting to some typical Abby quirk—until Abby screamed.

  [37]

  The Ceiling Man

  “YOU KNOW, IT’S NOT LEAVING the spare key in the garage that’s stupid. Okay, it kind of is. But really, with all the places to hide it out there, why in the world did you make it so easy to find?”

  The woman strapped to the chair didn’t answer him. He supposed the duct tape over her mouth made it hard to speak. The broken arm probably distracted her too.

  “It’s your own fault. You could have let me in. I really didn’t expect you to be so resistant to my charms. I have a way with grandmotherly types.”

  “Maybe you used to,” Blevins said.

  «Shut up. Remember our deal. Chuckles awaits.» It was more threat than deal, but it made Blevins agree to stay quiet while he worked.

  He opened the red toolbox he’d found in the basement, removed screwdrivers and pliers, lined them up on the coffee table next to the power tools from the garage, stood up, and admired his work.