Pyrophobia

by Jack Lance

  Physically, Kayla was still here. Mentally, however, she was not yet her old self.

  When people asked him how she was faring, he always said she was improving, making progress. How she was really doing was something he talked about only with her parents and his father. About the change that had come over her. She was a shell of her former self; still Kayla, but without the sparkle or the soul that had defined who she was – or had been.

  The Kayla in the rehabilitation clinic was reticent, distant, not interested in much of anything or anyone.

  This Kayla Evans just didn’t seem to care.

  She had changed. Drastically.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘I guess.’

  Her attention was drifting already. She gazed out the window at the garden she had all day to stare at, then at the paperback in her lap, then at Jason. The emptiness in her eyes hurt him profoundly, in ways he found hard to articulate.

  He told her what he had been up to since he had last seen her. That had been the night before, so there wasn’t much to tell. He then asked her how she was doing.

  ‘Fine,’ she said with a shrug.

  He pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘When are we going to talk?’

  She gazed at him as if she didn’t understand what he had said.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Kayla.’

  She turned her head away. ‘I don’t feel like talking.’

  He had been nothing but reasonable and understanding until today.

  In the first days after the attack, when he was still being questioned by the Mount Peytha police, her survival had been foremost in his mind. She had hovered near death. The medical team at the Pacific Valley Hospital that had saved her life on the third of August had lost her for a brief interval. Jason had heard about this later from John Havemann, the surgeon who deserved an award for achieving what many had assumed was the impossible. For a minute, all brain activity had ceased and she had been clinically dead on the operating table.

  At first the mere fact that she was still alive had been more than enough. In the days that followed, his fear of her relapsing turned out to be unfounded, and that too had been more than enough. Kayla had been in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages, her eyes closed, her face swollen, but every time he saw her like that, he had also thought: things are going to be all right, the doctors say she will recover and that most of her scars will disappear.

  The most serious problem had been with her legs. Her spinal cord had been injured by a deep thrust of Doug’s knife, and her doctors were unable to tell him if she would ever be able to walk again. Everything depended on her therapy and how much effort she was willing to exert.

  And that was still the problem five weeks after her night of horror. She didn’t seem to want to work hard for it; anything but. Worse, she gave the impression she wasn’t willing to apply herself to anything any more.

  Jason had asked her therapists at the Thurber Institute how he should deal with this. He had had a long talk with Jacob Becerra and Jean Curtius, both of whom felt that it was about time for a less gentle approach. She was stable, there was no danger of relapse, but she wasn’t making any real progress. Kayla was stuck. What exactly she was stuck in remained the question, but if she didn’t achieve some kind of breakthrough soon, Jacob and Jean said it might be wise to contact a psychologist. The longer it took her to flip a mental switch, the greater the odds she would have to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

  Jacob and Jean had given him that message a few days ago. He had promised them that he would try to get through to her. If that didn’t lead anywhere, he said, they could start psychotherapy the week after.

  He had carefully tried to break the ice with her. But all of his efforts had been for naught. The best he had achieved was her promise that she understood and would start soon. Really she would. That had been Friday. He had felt better when he went back home that night. Yesterday he had concluded, however, that she hadn’t meant a word she had said and had just been making false promises to get him off her back.

  Today was a new day, and he decided on a less subtle attempt.

  ‘Don’t feel like it? Well, get over it.’

  It sounded harsher than she had expected. Harsher than he had thought possible himself.

  She turned her head toward him and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You start therapy tomorrow, Kayla.’

  It’s for your own good, he considered adding, but he swallowed the words. She simply had to do this. If he didn’t stop treating her like a child, she would spend the rest of her life in that chair. This was her weakest moment, she wasn’t doing anything herself, and so she needed this slap on the wrist. If he didn’t do it, she would hold it against him forever. He was her husband, for better or for worse.

  ‘Why can’t you leave me alone, Jason?’

  ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘I’m not ready yet.’

  It sounded like a plea.

  ‘So get ready. Is something bothering you? If so, let’s talk about it. I’m ready to listen.’

  There was a spark in her eye at last; a spark of angry fire. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least it was a sign of life.

  ‘How do you expect me to get ready? I’m a mess.’

  ‘You can be your old self again once you start putting in some effort. Jacob and Jean think your chances are excellent … but you’ll have to work for it.’

  ‘No, I can’t. Just forget about it, Jason.’

  ‘If you’re not willing to even try, you’re right: you’d better just forget about it. But why are you giving up on yourself? It’s not like you, and it’s so unnecessary.’

  She considered that. He could see her struggling with herself, and it was a long time before she answered.

  ‘I don’t know if I have the energy. My head feels stuffed with cotton. I don’t care about anything, and I can’t help it.’

  There were dark half-circles beneath Kayla’s eyes, as though she hadn’t slept in a week.

  ‘You could start with a tiny step. That would be something, at least. The rest will come, eventually.’

  ‘Later, not now.’

  This wasn’t Kayla. This wasn’t his wife. Her body may have returned from the dead, but it did so without its soul. It was almost as if she’d left it on the eternal meadows in the afterlife.

  ‘Do you want to get well, Kayla?’

  She stared at the floor. Then, weakly, she shrugged.

  ‘I want you to, and so do Jacob and Jean. We’re all encouraging you. But still you do nothing.’

  Kayla kept her silence.

  He decided on a different approach. If the gentle method didn’t work, he’d have to go for something stronger. He hated to, and she would curse him for it, but he was running out of options.

  He hoped he was doing the right thing.

  ‘You love no one.’

  ‘Huh? What?’

  Now she looked at him, her eyes wide.

  ‘We’re all trying to get through to you, but you’re deaf to us. How long do you think we’ll keep on talking to a wall?’

  ‘Why are you treating me this way?’

  Her eyes welled with tears. He couldn’t stop now. He had to use a crowbar to pry open her passivity, for her own good.

  ‘If you won’t fight to get well, Kayla, then you’re not worth fighting for,’ Jason said coldly.

  She stared at him like an innocent child that doesn’t understand why it has been smacked around the ear. Jason tried to remain steadfast, but he felt himself deflate like a balloon filling with a fresh infusion of guilt.

  He had done this – he alone was responsible for his wife’s undoing. In the end, her injuries were the result of a chain of events he had set in motion. And now he was yelling at her, hurting her to the core of her being. Would she forgive him for it, if she ever recovered?

  Kayla remained silent. She just sat there, dejected.

  He didn’t know what else to say.

&
nbsp; Early in the morning, the day after he had told Kayla so bluntly that she wasn’t worth fighting for, Jason received a phone call from Jean. His wife’s therapist – petite, skinny, but with enough Mexican temperament to make one want to avoid an altercation with her – told him Kayla had had a bad night.

  Jason told Brian Anderson that he needed to leave the office and raced toward the Thurber Institute as fast as he could. Jean, it turned out, had given him an accurate accounting. Kayla had destroyed a painting and shattered a vase, and the mirror over her wash basin was in shards on the floor. Two burly men in the night shift had had quite a hard time restraining her. Jean related all this in a calm voice, not at all typical for her.

  He wondered how a woman in a wheelchair could have wreaked so much havoc, but Jean felt that if Kayla was capable of doing all this, therapy should be a piece of cake. His wife was now, after her nocturnal rampage, slouching in her wheelchair, exhausted and free of restraints; but her eyes were roaming restlessly. She still hadn’t fully calmed down. When he covered her hand with his, she started gushing words.

  She had become furious last night. With Doug Shatz who had nearly killed her, and with the evil genius behind it: Mitch Chawkins. She had also been furious with Jason. Not only because of the emotional beating he had given her yesterday, but because of everything since the Polaroid photographs had turned their lives upside-down. And she had been mad at Ralph, because he had died and abandoned her.

  The entire world had let her down, and that had made her act in an insane manner.

  ‘I can see that,’ he remarked, letting his gaze travel around the room.

  After her fit of madness she announced that she was ready to start therapy. He was pleasantly surprised when, in the days that followed, she seemed to mean it this time. Free of the rage inside her, she was starting to apply herself to her exercises.

  Apparently what she had needed was some kind of outlet for her trauma. Doug’s attack, the stress of the last few weeks, the tension she had felt since the moment Ralph Grainger had died – for years she had kept it all pent up, and that night it had reached a tipping point.

  During the days that followed he witnessed her regaining strength in her legs, little by little. The wheelchair was taken away after two weeks and replaced with crutches. After another seven days she was told she could go home soon. Jason was overcome with emotion. He was going to get his wife back.

  On September twenty-seventh she was discharged from the clinic. He drove her back to Fernhill and opened the door for her at Canyon View. She stepped inside hesitantly, as if she were getting a tour of a house she might want to live in. He took her in his arms and said, ‘Welcome home, my love.’

  The wonder of being home quickly dissipated. People came by to congratulate her on her recovery. Family and friends stopped by to wish her their best.

  All’s well that ends well, so the great bard once wrote.

  Kayla found peace within herself during those days after September twenty-seventh. A sense of quiet and calm she had never known settled over her.

  She had been so close to death it had almost been as if she had been able to say goodbye to Ralph. Maybe it was just her imagination, but it had felt like he had whispered a message to her from the afterlife. For her, the message meant she needed to accept the past. Things were what they were. Sometimes they were painful, but apparently that was part of the deal, and it was pointless to dwell on what was now said and done.

  It softened her remorse about not doing enough to prevent Ralph’s cardiac arrest. And it was an answer to the question whether his untimely death had been more or less preordained.

  Death was still a mystery, but she accepted it. She had looked death in the eyes and was less afraid of it now. An era had come to an end.

  What remained, revolved around Jason.

  She brought it up on the last night of September, outside on the porch. Although autumn had been announcing its presence for some days now, tonight there was a balmy Indian summer breeze. Beneath the stars, he held a bottle of beer, she a glass of wine.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’ she asked.

  Jason sipped his Corona and said nothing for a while.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her eyes sought his.

  ‘We’re not done yet,’ she said. ‘We’re about to make a new start, Jason Evans, but first we need closure on our old life. You haven’t received that closure yet.’

  He shrugged. ‘You know what I’ve been through. It’s not so strange that it got to me.’

  She had heard the entire story when she was still in intensive care, but only after the worst of it was behind her.

  Jason had found out that he had a twin brother. This brother, Mitch, had wanted to kill her and him. He was working with a hit man, Doug Shatz. Together they had taken Jason back to St James Cemetery in Mount Peytha City, where Mitch had wanted to bury Jason in his own grave. But first the madman had set fire to her husband. Jason had managed to free himself in the last moment. He had killed Doug with a pickaxe and had struggled with Mitch, causing him to fall into the grave on top of his own torch. Mitch had died a horrible death in the fire.

  The police had held Jason for several days. He had been subjected to lengthy interrogations. But soon after, they had found evidence against Mitch and Doug. Doug’s knife was the first piece of evidence to turn up, with Kayla’s blood on it. The police then discovered hidden bugs inside Canyon View, and in Mitch’s house the police found several tapes with the voices of Kayla and Jason on them. Forensics had been able to prove beyond a doubt that the macabre photographs had been fashioned on Mitch’s computer.

  The police also discovered that Jason’s story about his past was true. His mother was not his real mother, nor was Pete McGray his father. His real parents had died in a burning car wreck, together with him in the official records. He had a grave. He was Mikey Chawkins and his name was on a headstone. Mitch had wanted revenge for the life that had been stolen from him.

  Jason was no longer suspected of murder or any other crime. In fighting for his freedom he had acted in self-defense. Not long after that horrifying incident in the cemetery, he had gotten a visit from an older man, who had introduced himself as Sam Chawkins. He was a brother of Robert, his father; Sam was therefore his uncle. Sam had been appointed by the family to contact their cousin who had been presumed dead. Jason had talked to him and said he was not ready yet for an introduction to a group of people who were strangers to him. Sam had been understanding. He had left it up to Jason to contact them at a later time, when he was ready.

  Her husband’s entire life had been turned upside-down. That was confusing of course, she understood that. But now she was referring to something else.

  ‘What are you still fretting about?’

  He gazed at the stars. ‘I told the police that I freed myself from the ropes. First the one around my wrists, then the one around my ankles. That’s why all my fingernails were torn. But I also had a vision, the strangest one yet …’

  He told Kayla about the image of his mother, of Donna. That he had returned to 1977. And that, for a short while, he had really been Mikey.

  Here was something else she could not comprehend. But it did not make her angry; not any more.

  ‘Then it was love that saved you,’ she said definitively. ‘Donna’s love. The love of your mother.’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah, let’s keep it at that.’

  ‘It’s impossible to understand everything,’ she said.

  ‘That’s true,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes things happen, and you have to accept them for what they are. Sometimes you just need to move on.’

  He leaned over and kissed her. ‘I love you very much, Kayla.’

  She smiled at him. ‘What a happy coincidence. I happen to love you too, Jason.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Illusions

  Fifteen months later, a bleak wind cut through his clothes as he got out of the car and helped Kayla lift Robert from t
he baby seat in the back seat of his LaCrosse. The infant, warmly dressed against the cold, wailed as if some terrible injustice was being done to him.

  ‘Oh dear, is it that bad, sweetheart?’ Kayla said, holding her little boy close. ‘Let’s go inside, then, to grandpa. It’ll be a lot nicer inside than out here.’

  As she walked up the path, Edward opened the door. His face lit up when he saw his grandson. Jason closed the car doors and followed his family.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Dad,’ Kayla said.

  Edward gave his daughter-in-law a kiss. ‘Merry Christmas, and to you too, Jason. And to you of course, Robert. Your very first Christmas!’

  ‘Hi Dad, Merry Christmas,’ Jason said, shaking Edward’s hand.

  ‘Come on in,’ Edward beckoned with animated gestures.

  Robert’s grandfather had decorated the house, making it extra special this year; he had been looking forward to this Christmas, with the four of them, for weeks. The fireplace was lit, and the flames crackling agreeably around the logs.

  Jason glanced at the many presents underneath the Christmas tree. Edward had certainly put a lot of effort into making this holiday special. On the mantle beside the tree, in its familiar place, was a framed picture of Donna. Eternally smiling, she gazed lovingly out at her family.

  Jason stood up and looked around the room. The china cabinet beside the dining room table held more framed portraits. He saw a picture of Uncle Chris, smiling broadly. Jason peered intently at the photograph. For a second it seemed as if Chris was winking at him.

  A smile crossed Jason’s face.

  ‘Merry Christmas to you as well,’ he whispered. ‘Wherever you are. I hope you’ve found her again. I’m sure you have. You’re back together, aren’t you? I’m thinking of you.’

  ‘What are you doing, Jason?’ Kayla asked.

  ‘Nothing, just musing.’

  ‘Well, come muse over here. Your son needs to be fed. I’ll help your father set the table. Make yourself useful.’