Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set)

by Scott Nicholson

  “I’m terribly sorry. How was the marriage going before then?”

  “It wasn’t heaven but we were working on it, for the sake of the children.”

  “I hate to say it, but that’s not the only reason for making a marriage work. You’re not just a mother, you’re also a human being, with wants and needs of your own.”

  “I’m not a mother anymore.” Renee felt the familiar pressure in her chest, swallowed hard, and squeezed the damp tissue.

  “And she wants way more than she needs,” Jacob said.

  “I understand your anger,” Rheinsfeldt said. “You have a right to be angry for such a loss.”

  “Jacob hasn’t been himself lately,” Renee cut in, hating herself for defending him. “He was under a lot of pressure in his business. Jacob never talked much about it, but his partner told me the company was burned by a couple of contractors and—”

  “You don’t know anything about land development,” Jacob said. “All you know is a big house and nice appliances, LL Bean and Nieman Marcus catalogs.”

  “Let’s get back to Christine,” Rheinsfeldt said. “I know you’d rather not talk about it, but—”

  “It was a Tuesday,” Renee said, and her hands grew cold even though the room was as stifling as a coffin in hell. Jacob had never let her talk about Christine, and though Renee and Kim had cried together a dozen times afterwards, she still ached to spill it all again, as if the act of psychological spewing would purge the poison from her system. “I’d just got off the phone with my mother. Christine was down for her afternoon nap, she was as steady as a clock, naps at ten and three. I had soup on. I was trying to save money then, figuring with two children we had a lot of college to pay for one day. The soup was boiling over—”

  “She called me at work that morning to gripe,” Jacob said. “Said she was tired of cutting her fingers to get rid of leftover vegetable scraps and why couldn’t she just put some groceries on the credit card—”

  “Let her finish, Jacob.”

  Renee felt a sick but grateful smile slide across her face. Rheinsfeldt was as tough as any prison warden, and she seemed to be on Renee’s side. “I burned my fingers,” Renee said. “That’s what the medics said when they arrived. I don’t remember much after that, but I took the pot off and then went to check on Christine because it was nearly four and about time for Mattie to get home from school.”

  “That’s when she found her,” Jacob said.

  “What did you see?” Rheinsfeldt asked Renee.

  “You have to keep it a secret, don’t you? I mean, patient-doctor privilege or whatever?”

  “Yes. Everything you say in this room stays in this room. Except the parts you take with you.”

  Renee looked at Jacob, expecting to see hatred in those stranger’s eyes, but he only nodded in resignation. She would tell it the way he wanted. She’d once promised in front of God to honor and obey him.

  “I went in, and Mattie was standing over the crib. I didn’t hear her, but she must have come through the sliding glass doors in back and up the stairs. She was pale and her lips moved but she wasn’t making a sound. And neither was Christine. You have any children? No? Then you probably don’t know babies are never absolutely quiet, no matter what. Even when they’re asleep, they twitch or sigh or wheeze or kick the blankies.”

  “Christine was way too quiet,” Jacob said. “Blue.”

  “It was the blankies,” Renee said, and the words came easy, just as they had when she talked to the rescue squad and then the doctors and then the police. She’s said them so often that the words were a recitation. “There’s this new thing where you’re not supposed to let babies sleep on their stomachs, so I had blankies in there to prop her up on her back. But somehow she turned and got under them. She—”

  “Mattie knew something was wrong right away,” Jacob said. “It was Mattie who called 9-1-1 while Renee tried to revive Christine.”

  “How terrible,” Rheinsfeldt said, and the wrinkled troll-doll face looked almost sad. “Where were you?” she asked Jacob.

  “On a job site. We were clearing for a subdivision. If it wasn’t for the cell phone—”

  “You mean Mattie didn’t call you first?”

  “I told Mattie to call 9-1-1,” Renee said. “What the hell is this? We had enough of that stuff from the police. We’re the victims, remember?”

  “I’m just trying to understand,” Rheinsfeldt said, her eyes seeming to grow a shade darker and more obscure.

  “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” Jacob said. “The ME fixed the time of death at around 3:15. Christine must have smothered shortly after Renee put her down.”

  “You know the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind?” Renee saw that Jacob was paying attention now. If only he’d paid that much attention in the immediate aftermath, when depression crushed her like God snuffing a cigarette.

  “What?” Rheinsfeldt asked. The woman didn’t take any kind of notes. Maybe she was arrogant enough to count on memory, but Renee knew that memory could lie. Memory told you all the lies you wanted to hear. You could count on it to deceive you.

  “Because it seems like it happened to somebody else. I mean, I know I was there, I know I had the baby, but she was gone so fast, I can tell myself she was never born. And don’t preach to me about denial, or the value of acceptance. This is how I grieve—by not letting it have happened, at least not to me.”

  Jacob put his head in his hands and spoke to the floor. “I tried not to blame her.”

  “How did you deal with it as a couple?” the doctor asked. “Focus on each other? On Mattie?”

  Renee pondered the different responses. The truth was not an option. “Jacob threw himself into his work. He pulled away from me, but we each drew closer to Mattie. I took her to visit my parents for a week, and then we took a cruise to the Cayman Islands. The water’s so blue there.”

  “Jacob wasn’t with you?”

  “No. That subdivision deal—”

  “The Realtor balked,” Jacob said. He sounded sober now, as if the hard hammers of business considerations had knocked him awake. “We had a nice row of tract houses, half of them pre-sold. The realty company said we were charging too much, that we were cutting our own throats because we were trying to turn over some upscale houses on the other side of town. The company undercut us and siphoned off some of our buyers, and we took a bath on the mortgages. Never build on spec in this town unless you own the bank.”

  “But what about Mattie?” Rheinsfeldt said, nonplussed by Jacob’s passionate diversion. “How did you relate to her after Christine’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob said. “I just felt so helpless. My old man would have told me to pull my balls out of the sand and keep them swinging. When you get a raw deal, you turn it around. So we—me and my partner—decided it was a good time to buy if it looked like prices were dropping. So we went in on a few lots around town, high-end commercial space.”

  “He gave me money instead of himself,” Renee said.

  “I figured the best way to focus on Mattie was to spoil her like crazy,” Jacob said. “And it took money. The cruise, riding lessons, Disney World, shopping trips to Charlotte.”

  Renee didn’t like Rheinsfeldt’s reaction. The counselor’s lips curled as if valuing money was somehow distasteful. She had no comprehension of what it meant to be a Wells.

  “It isn’t unusual to throw yourself into practical pursuits when faced with an emotional tragedy,” Rheinsfeldt said. “But how did you feel on the inside?”

  “Inside?” One of Jacob’s eyelids twitched. “I don’t have any inside anymore.”

  “Please, Jake,” Renee said. “Don’t change into...you know.”

  He stood, paced, stopped at the window. For a moment, it looked as if he were going to snatch up the potted geraniums and hurl them against the wall. He turned, fists clenched. “You could never understand, not in a million goddamned years.”

  Renee wasn�
��t sure whether Jacob was addressing her or Rheinsfeldt, because his eyes kept swiveling in their sockets. She figured the words were meant for her. She’d heard them plenty enough.

  Rheinsfeldt didn’t flinch, just sat in her chair with professional poise. “How did you feel on the inside?” she repeated.

  “Like my guts were on fire. All the time. I had stomach trouble, diarrhea, pain so intense that Tylenol couldn’t touch it.”

  “Guilt, perhaps?” Rheinsfeldt’s tone was that of a game show host whose contestant was coming up short in the final round.

  “No, the guilt was all mine,” Renee said. The tears were hot in her eyes. She didn’t try to hold them back. Damn, she was getting good at this. “I’m the one who put Christine down for the nap, I’m the one who arranged the blankets. I’m the one who brought her into this awful world.”

  “Do you really believe it’s awful? If so, you wouldn’t have had any children in the first place.”

  “Mattie was an accident,” Renee said, and Jacob stopped pacing by the window.

  “An accident?” Rheinsfeldt sniffed blood in the psychological pool. “So perhaps that contributed to Jacob’s desire to spoil her. Maybe he didn’t think—”

  “He didn’t think. That’s the point. We had it all planned, get the business going and get settled, accumulate some wealth, and then talk about having a family.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Twenty-two,” Jacob said.

  “Twenty-one,” Renee said. “We know which night we got pregnant.” She looked at Jacob and the pain in his face was worth millions. “Tell her, Jakie.”

  He turned to the window again. The sky was dull and blue, limitless, like her love.

  “We always used condoms, even after we were married,” she told Rheinsfeldt, though she was really talking to Jacob, delivering the words as if they were nails in flesh. “The pill gave me migraines, and the diaphragm and foam were so messy. One night in August, Jacob had gone out for drinks with one of his old college classmates—yes, he’d started drinking again around that time. I think it was the fear of success, but that’s a whole other story. Anyway, I don’t even know who these classmates were, but it must have been some party, because Jake came in at about four in the morning. It was dark and I was half asleep, but he crawled on me like an animal. I tried to push him away. I’m no prude but I like a little foreplay, plus he didn’t put on a condom. He forced himself in.”

  “Jacob?” Rheinsfeldt interrupted, as if fearing that Renee was gaining control of the session.

  “She liked it,” Jacob said to the window. “It was probably the best night of her life.”

  Renee squirmed. Jacob had been more passionate that night than any other, almost as if he knew he was planting a baby inside her. Almost as if he wanted a child. And some small part of her had accepted it, had pulled him more deeply into her.

  The sex hadn’t been as intense even when they were deliberately trying for the one that would be Christine. Stinking of whiskey and sweat, tongue like an attacking viper, and body like a weapon, his excitement had swept her up and over the edge of the universe. And she hated his causing her loss of control.

  And here he was, about to do it again: make her lose control. She forced herself to think of Christine, small and blue-skinned against the blanket. And Mattie, lost amid the big fire that had burned away the last bridge that connected her to their happy past.

  “Three times,” Renee said. “You wanted to make sure, didn’t you, Jake?”

  “You didn’t fight it,” he said.

  “I’m not supposed to fight it,” she said. “You married me, remember?”

  “Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “We made them together.”

  “A Wells never fails.”

  Renee swallowed hard, trying to push the anger down her throat. It lodged there, making each breath an effort. The sudden silence in the room was thick and oppressive. Rheinsfeldt edged forward with serpentine ease.

  “Obviously, you loved each other enough to carry the baby to term,” the doctor said. “And Jacob is a successful businessman. It sounds like you two were getting everything you wanted. What part of your common dream didn’t work out?”

  “After that encounter, Jacob wouldn’t touch me for weeks,” Renee said. “Like I was the dirty one, or maybe he was embarrassed by his passion. He was gone when I woke up and didn’t come home until the afternoon. We fought a few times, threw things, nothing too physical, mostly yelling, then him storming out.”

  The doctor nodded as if such behavior were perfectly normal. “Why did you behave that way, Jacob?”

  “I was afraid she was pregnant.”

  “Why was that so frightening? Was it the responsibility?”

  “No. The bloodline. I was afraid I would be a lousy father, just like I was taught.”

  “Taught?”

  “By my own lousy father.”

  “Jacob, this sounds like an issue we’ll need to work on privately. But for today, let’s see if we can understand this one little piece of the puzzle.”

  “He sobered up when I missed my period and we got the test results,” Renee said. “He was the perfect husband, worked hard all day, phoned me before and after lunch, showered me with attention when he got home. It was like being newlyweds again.”

  “And the honeymoon ended?”

  “Mattie was a quick delivery. She looked so much like Jacob. Not in the features, maybe, since she got my eyes, but in the way she smiled and laughed. The way her eyebrows scrunched when she was upset.”

  “She was beautiful,” Jacob said, heading toward the door. “Better than we deserved. I’m done.”

  “I hate you,” Renee said.

  Jacob kept walking.

  “We need something for you guys to work on,” Rheinsfeldt said to Jacob’s back. “Something to build on for the next session.”

  Jacob went around the corner and was gone.

  “See?” Renee said. “It’s impossible.”

  Rheinsfeldt pulled a tissue from the box on the table and held it out to her. Renee took it but didn’t wipe the tears away, didn’t stanch the thin streams of mucus running down her nostrils. She knew she looked a wreck, cheeks blotched, eyelids swollen.

  Rheinsfeldt put a reassuring hand on her knee. “Considering Jacob’s history, you might be forced to commit him involuntarily.”

  “History?”

  Rheinsfeldt’s compassionate expression melded into an impenetrable mask. “You didn’t know.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jacob left the building and hurried past the playground, afraid he would see the vision of Mattie again. If the hallucinations started, the carefully constructed wall inside his head might crumble, brick by brick. Already, darkness broke through the chinks. And the things inside the darkness might slither out if the gap widened.

  The session was a mistake. Nothing had changed since his teens. You couldn’t trust them. You couldn’t trust her.

  He turned the corner and headed down Buffalo Trace Lane. The county historical society said the street had once been a path where buffalo traveled to the high grazing lands in the summer. The Cherokee and Catawba hunted there, put up temporary meat camps, and moved into the valleys when the frost came. Now all the buffalo were gone, slaughtered in order to build the roads that bore their name.

  Jacob’s throat was raw from the bout of vomiting. The air of the town tasted like old coins. A bank’s neon clock said 4:37. Back in his old life, Jacob would probably have an appointment somewhere, with a developer or tenant or maybe a loan officer. In his old life, he would be running late.

  Back in Rheinsfeldt’s office, Renee was probably crying. Rheinsfeldt would swallow it all in her eagerness to help, and Jacob would be “the problem child” again. Now that he was gone, they could conspire against him. Just like always.

  Renee loved that story about the night Mattie was conceived. He’d been drunk. He wouldn’t have remembered it at all witho
ut her help. But once she’d reminded him, it had been burned into his mind forever. And Mattie was the result, and she was also burned.

  Forever.

  He needed some cash. The credit card was nearly topped out. He didn’t have a postal address so he couldn’t apply for another. The way all the financial and credit institutions were tied together, you couldn’t slip through the net if you were carrying heavy debt.

  He moved like muddy water down the sidewalk as Kingsboro dragged him toward its heart. The town his father had helped nurture now bristled with concrete menace, the old three-story buildings blocking the surrounding mountains. The hardware store where his grandfather bought cut nails and hand tools now sold polyvinyl bird baths and plastic signs that said things like “Forget the dog . . . beware of the OWNER.” A girl sat on a bench by the door, Kingsboro’s version of a Goth, tiny swells of adolescence on her chest and black lipstick smeared by the cell phone she was holding. She rolled her eyes at Jacob as if he were of a different, dangerous species.

  He was.

  Three men stood outside the drugstore, one of them smoking. They laughed at the idle afternoon, fingering their pockets in the shade. Jacob recognized the middle one as a roofer who had held some M & W contracts. The man’s left arm was in a sling, and Jacob wondered if the injury was accompanied by a workman’s compensation claim against one of his fellow developers.

  “Howdy, Jacob,” the roofer said. Jacob ran through a mental list of names, trying to match one with the face. His father had taught him that showing interest in workers as human beings made them more productive. That meant better profit margins. Warren Wells’ philosophy was built on the idea that every person had a role in his empire.

  “Hi, fellows,” Jacob said, deciding to include them all. He used their native tongue, that of the Southern mountain boy. He’d perfected it as a youngster, though it never came as naturally to him as it did to Joshua. “Nice afternoon, ain’t it?”

  “Yep,” the man in the sling said. “We been missing you at church.”