by John Russo
Bill knew that he wasn’t immune to the freakish fears that had engulfed other people. He didn’t like to believe that he might have a touch of PTSD, but ever since his combat tours, he had endured flashbacks and nightmares in which he was about to die, totally surrounded by enemies armed with machine guns and mortars while he possessed only a rifle with an empty clip. But lately the nightmares had morphed. The beings about to kill him were now heavily armed corpses in varying stages of decay. He would clutch his empty gun and try to run, but he couldn’t. His legs were as heavy as concrete in quicksand. He would wake up drenched in sweat, and Lauren would be shaking him, then soothing him the same way he often had to soothe her, hugging him, terrified by his cries in the night.
He believed that if a second outbreak should ever happen, the little town of Chapel Grove might not be able to withstand it. The living people might vanquish the undead as they had done before. But the psychological damage next time would be even worse. People would be overwhelmed by repetitive terror. They would believe that rebuilding their lives could never work, and they would always feel threatened, no matter what they might do to survive here. Fleeing from Chapel Grove would do them no good either. The plague could strike anywhere, at any time.
Bill spent “quality time” with Jodie as often as he could. He pushed aside thoughts of how futile it might be to teach his child how to play checkers or ride a tricycle on a tree-lined avenue, in the shadow of impending doom. He read her stories and drew pictures for her, even though he didn’t have much art talent. Sometimes the stories were of his own invention, and she liked those best. Her favorite was about her and her imaginary friends, Lucy and Ethel, going on a hike to pick raspberries and having to tame and befriend a purple polka-dotted Raspberry Monster who was trying to take their berries away from them. All the stories Bill made up had lessons to them, and what Jodie was supposed to learn from the Raspberry Monster story was how kindness can combat meanness. Jodie would gleefully color his badly drawn pictures as she sat in his lap, and he would jump up with her in his arms and dance around the room with her and make her giggle, trying to show her how much fun life could be, as opposed to what he felt that Lauren was often teaching her—that life was dangerous and threatening at every moment.
He believed that there were only two things anybody could ever give a child: dreams and wounds. He wanted to be the bearer of dreams, and he hoped he had overcome the wounds of his own childhood so he wouldn’t pass them on. His father had been a brutal alcoholic who made him and his mother live in terror. He would beat her up and rip the phone out of the wall when she would try to call the cops. Sometimes he’d land in jail. Bill’s mother would threaten suicide. His worst memory, worse even than some of his combat memories, was of himself as a terrified six-year-old kid, running down the cellar stairs after his mom, crying and trying to pull the clothesline out of her hands so she couldn’t hang herself.
In first grade, he thought he was the only kid in the room who didn’t have a father like the ones on TV. His dad didn’t show him how to make a birdhouse or take him to feed pigeons in the snow or teach him how to make a kite. His dad beat his mom up so badly she wanted to kill herself.
His parents divorced just before he got out of the army. His father fled to California and never kept in touch, and his mother moved to Alabama with her second husband, and Bill didn’t blame her for getting away from Chapel Grove and its bitter memories. But he was glad when, as soon as she found out that Jodie was born, she rushed up to see her in the hospital and was as delighted as any other woman with a brand-new grandchild.
Bill and Lauren both had gone through unhappy childhoods. Lauren’s parents were congenitally bitter. Her dad was the unchallenged boss of the family, gruff and reluctant to show affection. Her mom never questioned him, just cooked and cleaned and meekly did his bidding. He made Lauren take over his wife’s chores after she died of pneumonia. He also made Lauren start working at the Quik-Mart at age thirteen, as soon as he inherited it from his more clever brother. But the store did not do so well under his bean-counting stewardship, so he bullied Lauren more and more, as if it were her fault. When Bill first started dating her, she was still working there. Because he made her feel safe, cherished, and protected, he brought her out of her shell. She revealed a verve and a sense of humor that she never showed to her father. But nowadays those special qualities were lying dormant under a blanket of fear, and he wished he could revive them again.
CHAPTER 14
On Christmas morning, when Jodie Curtis was only four years old, she was playing under the tree when she bit into a piece of store-bought fudge—and immediately started choking. Forcing himself to remain calm, Bill applied the Heimlich maneuver, but it didn’t work. He thought of CPR, but was afraid he might force the gooey fudge farther into her windpipe. Frantic to save her from choking to death, he probed with his index finger inside her mouth and couldn’t feel any fudge lodged in her throat. While Lauren panicked, paralyzed with fear, he bundled the child into a quilt and broke all speed limits driving her to the hospital, with Lauren in the back seat, cradling Jodie, whimpering and shaking. Luckily, Bill found a drugstore that was open on Christmas, flung a twenty-dollar bill on the counter to pay for an over-the-counter antihistamine, then jumped back into the car and yelled at Lauren to make Jodie swallow some of it while he continued to drive like a crazed parent.
Jodie was wheeled into an operating room while Bill sweated it out, along with Lauren, in the waiting room. He was more scared than he had ever been, even in combat. Lauren had gone into the hospital’s little chapel and knelt and prayed. But he could not. Even though he was under a desperate agony of despair mixed with hope, he wanted to stick to his principles and not surrender to what he felt was a useless belief in divine intervention. He just sat there with his arm around his wife’s shoulders, comforting her the best he could, while he himself felt no spiritual comfort. Finally a doctor came out and gave them the good news that Jodie’s life was saved by a tracheotomy. Bill felt relief flood his mind and body as he hugged Lauren and they both cried, wetting each other’s clothing with their tears.
The doctor explained that Jodie had suddenly developed life-threatening allergies. Of the long list of potential culprits, tree nuts were the worst, but she was also highly allergic to peanuts, almonds, milk, wheat, and many other normally harmless and nutritious foods. There had been walnuts in the fudge, and that is what had sent her nearly all the way into anaphylactic shock. The medicine Bill had thought to grab on the way to the hospital had partly opened her breathing passages, or else they would have closed up tight and she would have died. From now on she must avoid the many, many foods she had become allergic to. According to several allergists, there were no sound medical explanations for her sudden sensitivity to substances that had previously caused her no problems. Now she must always carry an epinephrine pen and be ready to inject herself to save her own life.
Bill was proud, as was Lauren, of the bravery Jodie had shown at the hospital. But in the weeks following the incident, she began suffering panic attacks and flashbacks that morphed into agoraphobia, separation anxiety, and fear of being abandoned. She wouldn’t play in her room by herself anymore; she always had to be at Bill’s or Lauren’s feet. If they went out into the yard or onto the patio, she would run after them as soon as she noticed their absence.
She threw tantrums everywhere and anywhere, even at the American Legion picnics that should’ve been a lot of fun for her because there were all kinds of games for kids, with prizes and even pony rides. Everybody thought that Jodie was a brat and Bill and Lauren were terrible parents. People would stare at them, shake their heads, and mutter disparaging things, not caring if they were overheard.
A child psychologist told them they needed to set limits, establish a consistent daily routine, and create a pleasant and orderly home life for Jodie. But Lauren, in Bill’s judgment, was part of the problem, not the solution. When Jodie threw a tantrum, Lauren appeased h
er. Bill kept trying to make her see that she was placating, not parenting, but she insisted she was doing it right and refused to make any changes. She argued that she should be able to tell Jodie what to do and Jodie should obey, and if Jodie did not, then it was Jodie, not she, who was to blame. She blamed Bill, saying that if he would back her up, Jodie would be easier to handle.
“Fathers are supposed to support mothers,” she said.
She bristled when he said, “I can’t back you up when you’re wrong, because it’ll make her feel that both parents are ganging up on her.”
When things didn’t improve, Jodie was given a psychiatric examination that led to a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder, and counseling and prescription medication were recommended. Bill had always associated PTSD with the suppressed fears of combat, and had dreaded the thought that maybe it would hit him when he came home from the Middle East. It used to be called “combat fatigue” or “shell shock.” But because of what his daughter was going through, he had to realize that not just the trauma of war could cause PTSD, but also some of the fears and dangers of civilian life.
One day when he was about to punish Jodie, she said, “Daddy, I’d rather have people think I’m a brat instead of letting them know I’m scared.” What she said opened his eyes all of a sudden, and at that moment he finally grasped the reason for her terrible tantrums. Because she had behaved so well in the emergency room, he had wanted to believe that she had overcome her near-death experience, but now it was clear to him that it had traumatized her more severely than he had thought. It had festered inside her and had led to her multiple stresses and fears. As a defensive measure, she was always trying to avoid the things that scared her the most, and she would scream, kick, and throw things if that’s what it took.
Bill tried to explain this insight to Lauren, but she refused to accept its direct cause-and-effect explanation. “That’s not it!” she snapped back at him. “You give in to her instead of taking my side, so she knows she can work one of us against the other!”
“That’s absolutely not true. That’s not what is really going on.”
Lauren ran up to their bedroom, slammed the door, then sulked for the rest of the day. He almost felt that he was dealing with two children instead of one. He felt that he was the only one of the two parents who truly understood their child. Since Jodie’s tantrums were not her fault, it would do no good to punish her for them, and so he resolved to listen to her with patience and kindness. But Lauren wouldn’t buy into that. She thought he was coddling Jodie instead of disciplining her like a father should, and worse, he was turning Jodie against her by being the easier parent, the one she could always run to.
It worried Bill that disagreements over how to raise children was one of the main reasons for divorce. As discouraging as his marriage got, he felt that he couldn’t consider that option because one of Jodie’s worst manifestations was separation anxiety, which a divorce would only reinforce and make worse. Lauren was in denial and wouldn’t acquiesce to family counseling when Bill got the nerve to suggest it. He wished she would go back to being the cheerful, loving person she used to be, but that person seemed to be gone now.
CHAPTER 15
Jodie was six years old, playing in a sandbox while her mom kept a close eye on her. Lauren had brought a book to the playground, but it was useless because her eyes kept going over and over the same paragraph. How could she concentrate when she didn’t know what Jodie might be getting into?
She was annoyed with Bill for always harping on her to “give the kid more space.” Well, how could she do that? Weren’t little children always in need of a mother’s love and protection? When little birdies learned to fly, the mother bird watched over them. Didn’t she have a right to feel worried and upset? How could Bill forget what a close call she had had in the Quik-Mart? She had watched her own father being torn apart and she herself had almost been bitten and turned into something unspeakable. Her constant nightmares, jolting both of them awake in the middle of the night, should be enough to remind him of what she had been through.
She had badly wanted to have a child and had been sure that if she could only have one, she’d be a good mother. But now, no matter what she did or how hard she tried, it never seemed to be enough for the two most important people in her life. She only wanted them to return her love and make her happy, but Bill told her that nobody could “make” another person happy, it had to come from within. He said she had to love herself before she could love anyone else, and she had to put her troubled childhood behind her. But she did love him and Jodie, she really did. She thought he was just too critical of her. He wouldn’t even let her put away Jodie’s toys. But if she didn’t put them away for her, who would? Same with Jodie’s clothes. Lauren always put them away for her after she washed them, but Bill said Jodie needed to learn how to take care of them herself and pick up after herself, not leave her clothes on her bed or on the floor and go to the drawer for fresh ones even when the ones she already wore weren’t dirty. Lauren did actually agree with Bill that Jodie made too much work for her, so much that she couldn’t attend to her own wants and desires.
In Cosmo she had read that the purpose of marriage is to keep people together during the times when they’re not in love with each other. It rang true to her. Every marriage waxes and wanes, but Lauren always loved Bill even when her love for him wasn’t at the top of her mind. She didn’t think he completely understood her, even though they still had their moments of tenderness. She wistfully remembered how they had felt closest when they were standing over Jodie in her crib, looking down at the innocent little miracle they both had wrought.
She kept hoping that this terrible stage Jodie was going through would play itself out. Maybe then their family life would stabilize. She hoped she and Bill would find each other again, and grow old together, and have grandchildren.
She looked up from her novel with a tremor of anxiety when a little boy named Darius Hornsby got into the sandbox with Jodie. They were both six years old, both wearing sandals, shorts, and T-shirts. To strangers they might appear to be two cute little blond-headed kids—but Lauren knew that Darius was a brat, and by that she didn’t mean that he misbehaved once in a while like Jodie or any other kid, she meant that he really was a “problem child.” She had to be on guard in case Darius acted up and did something bad to Jodie, so she moved closer to the sandbox. She didn’t see Darius’s mother around; she let the brat do whatever he pleased most of the time. That was why he was so spoiled, in Lauren’s estimation.
So far, the two kids seemed to be getting along fine—but still Lauren glanced around and tried to spot Mrs. Hornsby by the swings or coming out of the ladies’ room or something. Then suddenly Jodie let out a scream. Lauren jumped up and saw that Darius was trying to take her little tin shovel away from her. She wouldn’t let go, so Darius bit her on her arm. His mother appeared from somewhere and shrieked, “Darius!” And Lauren ran over, yelling, “Oh my God! Jodie!”
The two moms grabbed at their kids, trying desperately to pull them apart, mortified by their children’s failure to “play nice.” Darius was unhurt, while Jodie’s arm was bleeding. Lauren freaked when she saw a fleck of blood on Darius’s lips. It seemed to her that the little brat was defiantly leering at her even as his mother yanked him by his arm and started scolding him. Jodie continued to wail. Lauren grabbed tissues from her purse and tried to stop the wound from bleeding. She was so upset that she bit her own lip, and it bled a bit too.
Mrs. Hornsby, a tall, bony, gray-haired woman in a limp housedress, kept apologizing all over herself and saying that she was going to take Darius home and punish him. This didn’t seem to faze him. He kept staring at Lauren and Jodie with a snotty expression on his face, even as his mom dragged him toward her SUV.
Lauren immediately took Jodie to her pediatrician, Dr. Miller, who was considered by most parents to be tops in his field, partly evidenced by his being on the board of the Chapel Grove Medical R
esearch Institute. She figured that the bill from him would help document the incident in case Bill wanted to sue for medical costs, or in case the wound got worse, festered, and developed complications. Fortunately, after examining Jodie’s sore arm and applying salve and a gauze bandage, Dr. Miller said, “There isn’t any sign of infection. Nothing to worry about.”
“Will she have a scar?” Lauren asked anxiously.
“I don’t think so. Not much of one anyhow. Children heal marvelously at her age.”
“That little Darius is a brat,” Lauren said. “Why do some children bite other children?”
“It’s a form of aggression that they lose as they get older. It’s pretty common, actually. Teeth are a natural weapon, and children can readily figure that out.”
“Well, I think his mother could curb his behavior if she tried harder,” Lauren said adamantly.
That afternoon, when Dr. Miller reported to Dr. Traeger that the Curtis girl, Jodie, age six, had been bitten by Darius Hornsby, the director of the Chapel Grove Medical Research Institute was deeply concerned. Little Darius was one of her special children, and Dr. Miller was aware of it since he was one of the HSD plants in the Chapel Grove community.
Dr. Traeger needed to find out what might be at the root of little Darius’s impulse to bite another child. She had to somehow figure out if it could be a trait inherited from Darius’s infected mother, because there was no doubting what she would have turned into if she had been allowed to survive and become transformed. But on the other hand, many children threw tantrums and bit their playmates when they were too young to control their angry impulses, and eventually they realized it was unacceptable behavior and simply outgrew it. Dr. Traeger wanted to believe that Darius’s “acting out” would follow this same pattern. She clung to her knowledge that her intensive studies of the Foster Project children, including brain scans, blood and tissue samples, and every other advanced scientific procedure that federal money could provide, hadn’t revealed anything in the least abnormal.
