The Distance Between Us

by Noah Bly

  Eric screams again from behind me, and Paul takes another step toward Alex and then stops. He’s only two feet away from the boy, and I don’t know what he’s intending to do.

  “Stop, Paul,” I beg. “Please, stop.”

  He ignores me and leans down toward Alex, reaching out a hand as if to grab him.

  Alex flops to the side to get away from him and kicks at Paul’s legs, but Paul is undeterred. His hand locks on Alex’s forearm, and Alex cries out in panic.

  “No, Paul!” I howl.

  I run forward. There’s a sound of a bell clanging, and the next thing I know Paul is splayed out on the floor in front of me. He’s not moving, and there’s a small pool of blood forming by his head.

  Alex stares up at me in horror.

  My chest is heaving, and I can’t seem to remember how to breathe as I stand there looking down at my son’s prone body. I glance at the old phone in my thin, frail fingers, trying to recall when I picked it up.

  This used to be Paul’s phone, when he lived up here. Then it was Jeremy’s. There’s a clump of scalp on one corner of it, now.

  Eric cries out again downstairs, demanding to know what’s happened. He must be in tremendous pain, but he’s asking if we’re okay.

  I look down at Alex and whisper his name, and I drop the phone on the floor. My eyes fill with tears, and the last thing I see before the room spins out of control and I, too, fall to the floor in a faint, is him reaching up to catch me.

  CHAPTER 23

  I struck my own son.

  The thought keeps repeating itself in my head, over and over, like an ostinato.

  The intern finally finishes stitching up Alex and lets him return to me in the waiting room at the hospital. He walks over, limping, and sits beside me.

  “Hi, Hester,” he says, trying to smile.

  I know he has small cuts all over him, but the worst ones are on his feet. He’s moving gingerly, but he’s dressed again, and he seems all right.

  I take his hand and squeeze it. “Hello, dear. How are you feeling?”

  He shrugs. “I’m okay. You?”

  I give his fingers another squeeze and release him. “I’m fine. The doctor confirmed that I merely fainted at the house. I didn’t even injure myself by falling, thanks to you.”

  I struck my own son.

  He nods. “Really? That’s awesome.” His voice has relief in it. “You really scared the shit out of me when you face-planted on top of me like that. I thought for sure you’d had a stroke or something.”

  We’re alone in the waiting room. A young mother with three toddlers was here when I first arrived, but she left soon after, when her husband was released from an examination. The oldest child was a boy, who clung to his mother’s neck, sleeping, as they walked past me on their way out the door.

  I struck my own son.

  I give an involuntary wince. Alex notices, and studies my face with concern.

  “Thinking about Paul?”

  I blink, and try a feeble joke. “Psychics used to be burned at the stake, you realize. Just like witches.”

  He gives me a sad grin but remains silent.

  I sigh. “Of course I’m thinking about Paul. It’s not every day you almost kill one of your children.”

  His grin vanishes. “Yeah. But if you hadn’t done it, I might be dead, Hester. He was out of his fucking mind.” His voice is shaky. “And who knows what he would have done to you and Eric after he was done with me?”

  I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to tell him that the man who tore up his apartment an hour ago and hurt his friend was once a sweet young boy, just like him, and would have restrained himself in the end from causing further harm. I want to tell him how much Paul had loved his brother, and that losing Jeremy somehow turned all his demons loose, and it was alcohol that was really the main culprit here. I want to tell him these things, but I can’t.

  True or not, they make no difference now.

  I bite my lip. “I still don’t know how Eric came out of that fall with only a broken leg and a few cracked ribs to show for it. He’s a very lucky young man, considering.”

  He makes a face. “Yeah, real lucky.” He nods his head in the direction of the forbidding head nurse, who’s on duty again today. “I asked that lady how long he was going to be unconscious from the drugs they gave him, and she said at least six hours or so. She said his leg was broken in four places, and he was going to be in a lot of pain when he woke up.”

  I rub my forehead. “I know. I spoke to her, too, while you were being examined.”

  Her, and the police.

  My son’s room is being guarded by an armed officer. Paul’s unconscious, also, at the moment, with a fractured skull and a severe concussion. But as soon as he’s well enough to travel (which may be several days) he’ll be taken to jail, where he’s being charged with assault and first-degree burglary. And possibly even attempted murder.

  When the ambulance Alex summoned arrived at the house, it came with two police officers in tow, who followed us to the hospital. One of them was waiting for me the instant I was released from the doctor’s custody, and wanted to escort me to the police station to get my statement. But he finally agreed to allow me another half hour here at the hospital. I told him that unless he was prepared to grapple with a seventy-one-year-old woman, I wasn’t going anywhere until I’d had a chance to speak with Arthur and Caitlin in Arthur’s room—and that I would not do that, either, until Alex was finished being patched up and given a clean bill of health. (He said he needed to speak to Alex, too, and suggested he take him “downtown” while I was with my family, but I insisted Alex and I would go to the station together, after I had finished my business.)

  Luckily he was a young officer, and easily intimidated. But he’s keeping an eye on me from down the hall, and he’s been glancing at his watch ever since Alex sat next to me. He’s no doubt expecting me to spring to my feet now and scurry over to Arthur’s room for a quick chat, after which he can cart us off to the police station and have his way with us.

  But he can damn well wait another few minutes while I pull myself together for the conversation with my husband and daughter.

  I can’t bear to speak to them until I’ve had a while longer to prepare myself, even though they’ve already been told what happened. I need to be calm before I face them. If they know how undone I am, I imagine they’ll move in for the kill.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the officer check his watch again and take a step in our direction, but I freeze him with a glare and he halts, cowed.

  I turn back to Alex with grim determination.

  “I have to go speak to Arthur and Caitlin, dear. And then that unhappy-looking policeman over there wants to take both of us to the station for an interview. Can you wait here for me until I return?”

  He nods again. “Of course I’ll wait for you.” He tilts his head and smiles at me. “Just don’t let your family give you any shit, Hester. Don’t let anybody, okay?”

  His blue eyes are surrounded by red—the whites are bloodshot, through and through, and the skin around them is raw and angry looking—and his hair is a dirty red nimbus framing it all. He needs a shower very badly, and a tremendous amount of sleep, and he looks as if a harsh word might be the end of him.

  And yet, when he smiles at me with his exhausted face, my fear and anxiety lessen, and even my guilt at striking Paul abates a little.

  I want to put my arms around him in gratitude, but I don’t, for fear of embarrassing myself if I can’t let go of him.

  This fragile, damaged boy is so much stronger than he knows.

  Arthur is propped up in bed when I walk in the room, with several pillows behind his back, and Martha is seated on the mattress next to him, holding his hand. Caitlin is over by the window, with her back to the door, staring out at the parking lot.

  “So you’re finally awake.” I step to the foot of the bed and disregard the withering glare Martha gives me. Arthur’s face
remains neutral, however, and Caitlin doesn’t even bother to turn around. I straighten my skirt and force a smile. “You were still sound asleep when I came to visit you this morning.”

  Arthur’s voice is weary, but steady. “Yes, Martha told me you stopped by.” He’s pale as death and plugged into several machines, but his eyes are alert. “I’m flattered you found the time for me. I know you’ve been terribly busy, what with bludgeoning our son into a coma and all.”

  I flinch a little, but I keep my eyes on his. “He’s not in a coma, as you well know. He was fully conscious for a few minutes when he arrived at the hospital, and he won’t even require surgery.” I take a deep breath and let it out again. “And you can believe me or not, Arthur, but he left me no choice.”

  Caitlin snorts and looks over her shoulder at me. “Congratulations, Hester. This is sure to win you yet another Mother of the Year Award.”

  I’m suddenly so tired I can barely stay on my feet. “What should I have done instead, Caitlin? Given him a spanking? Sent him to his room without supper?” I sigh. “Trust me when I tell you this, please. He was no longer Paul. He was a monster.”

  She looks away. “Fine,” she mutters. “But all the same, would you mind keeping your distance from the telephone? I neglected to wear my helmet this morning.”

  I look around for a chair. “May I sit? I’m very tired.”

  Arthur is studying me, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a great deal of concern in his face. For some reason, though, I’m having more difficulty than usual reading him.

  “Of course,” he says gruffly. He points to a chair by the bed. “Sit.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Martha butts in. “Arthur needs his rest, Hester, and you being here isn’t good for him.”

  Arthur pats her hand. “It’s okay, sweetheart. She’ll leave in a moment, but I think the two of us need to discuss a few things first.” He hesitates. “Would you mind?”

  She stares at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious. You can’t possibly be asking me to leave you alone with her.”

  He nods and adjusts his hospital gown. “Only for a minute, darling. I promise.” He glances over at Caitlin. “You too, Caitlin. Please? I need to speak with your mother in private.”

  She turns to face us. “If you’re going to discuss Paul, I’d like to be here, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Arthur glances at me. “It’s not about Paul, is it?”

  I shake my head. “No.” I clear my throat. “It’s not.” I make my way to the chair and collapse into it. “Although the three of us will need to talk about him eventually, of course.”

  Grief is rising up inside of me, like rainwater in a pothole. I look over at Caitlin and struggle to say what needs to be said before it overwhelms me. “But there’s not much we can do for your brother, I’m afraid. I’ve been told he’s facing as much as twenty-five years in jail, even if the boys and I refuse to press charges.”

  She closes her eyes for a long time, and when she opens them again, they’re brimming with tears. “Twenty-five years? Dear God. That’s …” She makes a queer little gesture with her hands. “… that’s the rest of his life.” Her voice breaks. “Will you press charges?”

  When I first walked in the room, she was every inch the famous Dr. Caitlin Donovan, chair of the English Department at Pritchard University. Now she’s just Caitlin, my brittle and heartsick child.

  My throat closes. The only other time I’ve ever seen her this vulnerable was after Jeremy’s suicide.

  “I don’t want to,” I whisper. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

  I’m certain she’s going to argue, but all she does is nod after a moment, and wipe her face. She stares off into space, and a shudder runs through her body. “What happened to him, Mother?” she blurts, crumbling. “What happened to all of us?”

  Arthur is crying, as well. He says her name, but then falls silent, and looks at me for help.

  And I have none to offer. I look back at him, equally helpless, my own eyes burning with sadness. Our daughter searches both our faces, as if trying to grasp a dialect she’s never heard before, but her shoulders eventually sag in failure.

  She takes a few deep breaths and composes herself. “I’ll be nearby if you need me,” she says quietly.

  I don’t know which of us she’s speaking to, but on her way out the door, she touches my shoulder, and I swallow convulsively. I don’t even remember the last time she did something like that.

  Martha pauses before stepping after her into the hallway. She shakes a finger at me. “I swear to God, Hester, if you upset him, I’ll kill you. He’s in no condition for another one of your outbursts.”

  I stare over at her blankly, feeling no need to respond. At the moment, she’s only a cipher to me, a nothing, and for all the reaction I give her, I could be a statue—perhaps a distant cousin of St. Booger’s, lifeless and weather-beaten.

  She begins to squirm under my gaze, but her pride won’t let her leave without some kind of acknowledgment. I suppose I can’t blame her for that, but I’m at a loss as to what I can do to pacify her.

  Arthur speaks up, sparing me the task of breaking the stalemate.

  “I’ll be fine, Martha.” He attempts a reassuring smile, but there’s a hint of impatience in it. “Now will you please close the door, and leave us alone for a few minutes?”

  “Fine,” she huffs. “But I’ll be right outside.” She pulls the door shut behind her with an angry bang.

  Arthur and I study each other for a moment in the stillness.

  He’s so big. Why do I always forget how big he is? He fills the bed, and his broad shoulders almost extend the entire width of his mattress. It’s hard to believe he had major surgery just yesterday, because even now, wan and exhausted, he still seems indestructible.

  “You look rather well, dear, considering all the stitches and pigskin you’ve got floating about in your ribcage.” I tug at my lower lip, the way I always used to whenever I teased him. “I understand your heart has been replaced with a football.”

  That tickles him, in spite of himself. “You may be right,” he grunts. He brushes his eyes with the back of his hand. “That’s certainly what it feels like.”

  We smile at each other, awkwardly, and become quiet again. We’ve gotten out of the habit of being good to each other.

  He searches for words. “I … don’t blame you for what happened with Paul. I know you only did what you had to do.”

  This startling concession rubs at my conscience.

  “Did I?” I lean forward. “Oh, Arthur. I so much wish I were sure of that.” My worst fear comes tumbling out. “He was absolutely out of control, and that’s the God’s honest truth. But he may not have been meaning to hurt Alex anymore when I struck him. He may have been grabbing the boy only to help him up. But I struck him anyway.”

  I play the nightmare in my mind again, reliving Paul’s last conscious moments in the attic kitchen. What would have happened if I’d simply spoken his name again, and asked him to leave? Would he have somehow turned into my son again?

  I force out the rest of what I’m thinking, knowing that Arthur will have every right to judge me harshly for what I’ve done. My voice quivers. “And now I’ll never know if some of this could have been prevented.”

  Arthur considers this gravely, then shakes his head. “You did what you had to do,” he repeats. “And from the sound of it, I think you made the right call.”

  My lips tremble, and something hard and cold in the center of my body begins to dissolve. I didn’t expect mercy from him, and it may be my undoing.

  I search in my purse for a tissue. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.” I blow my nose and dab at my eyes. “When I first hit him, I thought I’d killed him.”

  He nods and sighs. “I’m sorry to say it, but it might have been better if you had.” He rests his hands on his stomach and turns to look out the window. “Oh, Hester. How did ou
r lives turn out like this?” He lets the question hang in the air for a minute, then swings his head back to me. “Where did we go so wrong?”

  There’s no bitterness in him at the moment. Just shock, and hurt, and confusion. For the first time in what feels like centuries, I abandon my defenses, and answer him with as much honesty and love as I can dredge up.

  “I don’t know, darling. Probably a thousand places, a thousand times.”

  I rise from my chair, on impulse, and step over to the side of his bed. Wordlessly, he shifts to make room for me to sit next to him. I scoot up beside him, ignoring that the mattress is still warm from Martha.

  I lift one of his hands and hold it in my lap. “But we also went right once or twice, didn’t we?” I gaze into his eyes. “And when we went wrong, at least we did it in public, in as humiliating a fashion as possible.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s for damn sure.” He takes a deep breath and grimaces in pain. “Ouch. Remind me not to breathe right now. It stings a bit.”

  “Noted.” I study his fingertips, pressing lightly on the calluses he has from his violin. “No more breathing allowed.”

  This is the first time we’ve touched since the day he told me about his affair with Martha, and his role in Jeremy’s death. We used to be very affectionate, and it seems surreal, and inexpressibly awful, to realize that this is likely the last time we’ll have physical contact.

  He relaxes again and cocks his head, watching me. “There’s something different about you today, Hester.” He grins a little. “I mean, something beyond the fact that you’re not going out of your way to piss me off.”

  I glance up and shrug. “It’s nothing, really. I merely had a lifechanging epiphany on our roof last night, while you were in surgery.”

  He blinks. “You were on the roof?”

  I nod. “The boys and I went up there to stargaze. I needed some distraction.” I notice he’s no longer wearing his wedding ring, of course, but he hasn’t worn it for some time now. Yet the skin where it used to sit is still worn smooth, creating its own semipermanent band. I have one just like it.