SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1

by Christa Wojciechowski

  “Treasure Island,” he said.

  “Okay.” I lugged my body from the comfort of the bed, took the old book from the top of a pile of junk that balanced on one of the chairs, and sat gently beside him. I began reading in the theatrical way he liked, complete with voices and accents. We were working our way through Robert Louis Stevenson, beginning with Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. This ritual began one night when John told me his mother never read to him when he was little. I thought it was tragic, and I started reading all his old books to him. Every evening, after I took his dinner tray away and gave him his medications, I lay next to him propped up on pillows. Once his cocktail of painkillers and muscle relaxers took effect, he would turn his head toward my shoulder and nestle into me with eyes closed and a sweet smile. I’d read until I thought he was asleep, and then I would close the book, anticipating a long, hot shower and mindless TV, but he always woke up. “Don’t stop,” he’d whisper. “Please, don’t stop.” And I would continue reading till my throat became hoarse.

  I paused when I heard John’s breathing slow down, and I looked up from the book. His head leaned forward into the brace. Poor John. He couldn’t sleep on my shoulder like he usually did. The brace prevented him from getting comfortable at all. I quietly closed the book and contemplated my husband, stuck there in his collar like a man fitted in bondage gear or a medieval torture device. He struggled to snore with his little mouth smooshed against the rim of the brace. So many scars crisscrossed his body; with his head immobilized, he looked like the living monster from Frankenstein, except he rarely lived at all anymore.

  I heard some noise down below. Greta, with the soup. I slipped out from the bed and held my breath, tiptoeing down the stairs, praying that none of the old boards would creak. At the bottom, I took a silent gulp of air and entered the kitchen. “Greta?” I called softly.

  “Are you ready to eat? It’s still hot.” She pointed to the stove and then continued stacking plates carefully and efficiently in the dish rack.

  “Thank you so much.” I ladled the soup into a shallow bowl and slumped into the chair at the table.

  “I have to get back,” she said, wiping her hands with a dingy dish towel. “We’re serving dinner.”

  “Please, go. I’m fine,” I said.

  “How is he?”

  “You know …” I said. She nodded knowingly and quietly left the kitchen. I heard the rush of the wind for a moment as she opened and shut the door. Finally, alone.

  I poured a glass of red wine, the cheap kind that doesn’t designate what kind of grape it’s made from. The house was too quiet, and I didn’t want to hear myself eating. I turned on the TV for some background noise and to have a place to rest my eyes. I hunched over my soup, a briny plasma full of potatoes, cabbage, and Portuguese chorizo. The first taste triggered a ravenous hunger. I drank it up as quickly as I could. I had been ignoring my body for so long to take care of John’s. I gulped the wine, and a euphoric warmth spread beneath my rib cage. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a minute to myself, and I tried to acknowledge it, to make sure I remembered what it felt like for those times when I thought I would never rest again.

  A marriage made in medicine, John’s and mine. He was the victim, and I, the slave to his diseases. Medications to give, wounds to clean, bed pans to empty, and food to serve. I wondered how long we could endure like this. Surely, it couldn’t go on forever. One day, things would have to change.

  I jumped at a knock at the door. It wasn’t Greta. She would’ve just walked in. I launched from the table before the knocking could wake John.

  I yanked open the door. Behind it was the slumped old man, bristly and gray. Age had carved deep lines into his face, and his mouth was turned down into a permanent frown. Old Pete.

  Pete was John’s late father’s oldest employee, and had the keys to every door and gate on the property. The Arabs didn’t seem to mind this, as they were accustomed to having help in the house, but I found it unnerving. I never trusted Pete. There was something secretive in his hunched posture and in the heaviness of his bushy, gray eyebrows. Once when we were at the hospital—an emergency room visit for John’s broken foot—I came home and caught Pete on the top of the stairs in front of our open bedroom. He claimed to have been inspecting the walls and ceiling for signs of mold damage after some was discovered in the basement of the mother house, but later that day, I had discovered my dresser drawer was left open and my things looked like they had been rifled through. I was alarmed and had been uneasy about Old Pete ever since.

  The man was more than eighty, and I thought perhaps dementia was making him strange. He always seemed distracted and suspicious, and although he been there since John was a boy, he avoided John and only paused to speak to me when I was alone to ask me absurd questions. Where were his vice grips? Why was the hydrochloric acid missing? He bought a new box of rat poison. Did I take it?

  I had no involvement with the running of the house and its grounds, but for some reason he always suspected me whenever he lost something. Just because John and I were broke didn’t mean we’d resort to stealing.

  “What is it, Mr. Peter?” I asked.

  “I have a question for ya.” His jaw kept working in shaky circles even after he finished talking.

  “John is sleeping right now. We must not disturb him for the next few days.” I spoke quietly to try to hint to him to do the same. “You realize he just had his neck fused together.”

  “Well, I can’t find my …” then he squinted at me sideways. “Wait, how did he hurt his neck?”

  “He fell down the stairs.”

  He shook his head and then said, “You notice that boy falls down the stairs an awful lot.”

  “Are you suggesting I don’t take proper care of him?”

  He drew back, surprised. His jaw gyrated a few more times. “No ma’am. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

  “Then what are you saying, Peter?”

  He stood there with a blank look on his face.

  “Look, we preserved your job. Now go bother your new boss and leave John and me alone. He needs to rest.”

  I was unjustifiably annoyed. Pete’s decrepit and bemused face irritated me to no end. I restrained myself from slamming the door. What was happening to me? Just tired. I’m just tired, I told myself, but something in the old man’s eyes made suppressed thoughts clamber to the surface of my consciousness; I sensed them pounding against an invisible barrier.

  “Suze?” John was awake again.

  “Be right there!” My soup was cold, but my appetite had disappeared anyway. I put the bowl of soup in the fridge. Funny, I always wanted to be skinny. I thought if I lost my chubby thighs and wide backside, that it would be the key to my happiness. Now I was thin, and life wasn’t happy after all.

  *

  The days passed, and John seemed to be healing well for a change. A physical therapist came a few times a week, and John was cooperative, as usual. Of course, the extra movement made him stiff and sore, and I had to increase his medication.

  His doctor sent him home with oral painkillers. They weren’t strong enough. So for occasions when John was inconsolable, I injected him with Demerol from a vial I stole from work. John would be comfortable, itchy, and drowsy; and I, for once, would sleep peacefully through the night. I knew I could lose my license if I was caught, but at this point, it was worth the risk. The sleep deprivation was to the point where I felt I might lose my mind.

  A week after our return from the hospital, the weather had flipped and become sickeningly warm and balmy, a temperature that maintains the body at that irritating point just before sweating. The sun had set, but the heat of the day was still trapped inside the house.

  I went downstairs to put on a record, squeezing through the towers of junk. John requested Judy Garland, his mother’s favorite. The album John liked was a live recording made near the end of the singer’s life. Her voice was textured and colored with a pain, contrasti
ng with the happy horns and violins. Her vocal chords vibrated like wobbly plates spinning on sticks, and she annunciated with jaw-clenching desperation. I didn’t mind the older recordings when she was young and untroubled, but this version made me feel nervous and depressed, as if someone was clutching onto me as they were sinking into a pit of despair.

  We tried to save money by turning off the air conditioner at night. I made sure all the windows were open before I went back upstairs. I checked John’s temperature. He was wet and sticky, and his undershirt and boxer shorts were glued to his body.

  “Sweetie, let’s get you into the shower,” I said.

  “I don’t think I’m up to it, Suze.”

  “You need to bathe.” I offered him my hands to pull him up.

  “Can’t you sponge bathe me?” he asked.

  I knew he could stand and walk. Sometimes I wondered if he was testing me, or punishing me for something. “I have work tomorrow,” I said. “I want you all washed up before I go.”

  “You’re going back? But what will I do without you?”

  “I’ll ask Greta to come check on you.”

  He pouted for a second. I didn’t understand why he was so worried about being alone. The past week I’d spent with him at home, he had been doing better than ever. No new bruising. No fractures or other injuries. He was gaining weight and muscle. He looked so much better that I even contemplated making love to him. I never asked for sex as a rule. I didn’t want to make him feel inadequate if he couldn’t perform, but I was sure we could try. I noticed his erections when I woke up in the morning. Maybe he was taking a turn for the better. “Let’s go to the bathroom, sweetie,” I said. “We should do this now. Then we can start the week fresh and clean.”

  “No, I don’t want to. The staples.”

  “John, the staples are on your neck and are covered by the brace. I can easily bathe the rest of your body without getting them wet.”

  He lay there like a fussy toddler.

  “Get up.” I wrapped his arms around me and readied to hoist him. There were some days when my reserves of patience were at a critical level. Today was one of those days when my thoughts dwelled on the negative, on the fact that all I did was work and live for him. I never dared to dream of anything for myself because I couldn’t. There were no options. There was no way out. My Bible-abiding parents would tell me to love in sickness, even if the sickness never passed. But after ten years, I sometimes wanted to scream. Somebody, something had to save us. “John, help me. I know you can.”

  He sighed over me. His arms weighed heavily on my shoulders. “You’re mad at me.”

  “No, I’m not. I just want to get you clean so we can eat and go to sleep.”

  “You never call me ‘John.’ Only when you’re mad.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He shook his head. His small, red lips parted in a smile. His teeth were small and slightly crooked, giving a childlike quality to his otherwise manly face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being a real bear, aren’t I, Suze?”

  I wondered if this was a trap. If I said yes, I may be subjected to tenfold guilt trips. I decided not to reply and tried to arrange myself within his limbs so I would have the most leverage. Judy Garland was beating me down with her persistent, fake cheerfulness, and I was breaking into a sweat.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s take a shower.”

  I examined his expression for any trace of spite, but there was none. He squeezed his arms around me and used his strength to help me lift him up.

  I led him to the bathroom. The shower was neglected and covered in a layer of soapy slime. Body hairs lay deposited in the corners. I prayed he wouldn’t slip. We couldn’t afford another broken bone.

  “You have to get in with me, you know.” The timbre of his voice lowered. I looked up and was startled by the change in his face. Dark and suggestive, it was as though I was being stared at by a stranger. His eyes were shadowed by his brow, and I only saw reflected light against their blackness. Those eyes were what had captivated me from the start. There was a keen intelligence behind them, a part of him that was beyond my comprehension or reach. With his Ivy-League education, his worldly confidence borne from being the progeny of old money, I was sure one day he would get tired of me, dull Susan, but he had done nothing but adore me. He acted like I was the most extraordinary woman in the world. That to me was priceless, and I spent every day repaying him with my care.

  I undressed him slowly, carefully. His body was a landscape of scents: waxy at the ears, pungent in the crook of his neck, acrid at his armpits, and even more acrid near his pubic hair. I rarely saw him standing naked, and was awed at the amount of red and purple scars tracing his body. They stirred some repulsive curiosity within me. I wanted to trace them with my fingers.

  I helped him to sit on the toilet seat and removed his socks, made of white cotton and stretched threadbare. His feet were large, smooth, and translucent with new skin. Their vinegary smell reached my nose. John rarely wore shoes because he rarely was out of bed, and being I dealt with the most disgusting podiatric conditions at work, I appreciated the beauty of John’s flawless, silky feet. “We have to cut those toenails, sweetie,” I said.

  When I glanced upward, he was looking down on me with a rapt expression. I noticed that, between his legs, his naked penis was hardening.

  In the shower, we made love. It was the first time in six months, maybe more. The tepid water glided over our skin in slick, shining sheets. His slashes of purple and red scars glistened with soap and water. I put my back to him, bent over, and braced my hands against the tile, feeling the chalky soap scum under my palms. John was a tall, long-legged man, and I stood on my toes so he could enter from behind without straining. My insides stretched to the point of feeling torn. It had been so long that I had returned to an almost virginal state.

  John’s large hands closed around my hips. He pulled me against his pelvis with very small, slow movements.

  I was frustrated. I needed more of him. Harder and deeper, but no. He couldn’t. He gently rocked me against his hips. Judy’s voice could be heard over the rush of the water, singing Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart. “Oh, sweetie,” he said. “Oh, sweetie.” Then he tensed up and, with a delicate sigh, pulled out and unloaded onto my lower back. He never ejaculated inside me, not since we married. He was terrified I would get pregnant, and I stopped bringing it up long ago. We both knew there was no room in our lives for children.

  Still gripping my hips to support his weight, he caught his breath. I waited, wholly unsatisfied in a physical sense, but I was fulfilled because I pleased him. I turned around and reached up to kiss him. “Good boy,” I said.

  “I’m sorry it was so fast … it’s been so long.”

  “It’s okay. It was amazing.” I looked away from his face, reddened from exertion, the brace preventing the blood from draining back down.

  I dried him off, gently patting his entire body. Now he smelled of clean, wet skin. I dressed him and tucked him into bed. Judy finally stopped her mad singing. The needle made its linty sound before the record mercifully ended. I pictured the arm of the record player quietly returning to its place. The turntable would silently spin throughout the night because I wasn’t going to go back downstairs to turn it off.

  I gave John his shot of Demerol. He nodded out and snored in his collar. I was still aroused and restless, and while he was completely sedated I slipped my hand into his boxers and masturbated while holding his limp penis. This was something I did routinely. Sometimes I would also put his fingers to my lips or insert his fingertips into my mouth.

  At first I felt like a degenerate and wondered what he’d do if he woke up, but it came to a point where I hoped he would catch me. The thought of him knowing my depravity excited me, and I sensed it would give me a power over him, but he never woke up. It wouldn’t happen tonight either, but this evening had been special. I knew he still wanted me, and I hoped, as I have often done
, that maybe John would get better.

  *

  I remembered the first day I saw him. I was a Certified Nursing Assistant then, working for an orthopedic surgeon. I was in charge of doing all the preliminary work for the patients before the doctor came in. I was saving up for my next round of schooling to become a Registered Nurse.

  One day, I opened the door to find this man sitting on the table, swinging his long legs. His eyes were large, expressive, and closely set. The corners of his mouth seemed to strain against his cheeks, his smile almost too dainty to part his overly large face. He wasn’t an attractive man in the usual sense, but he had an aristocratic boyishness that was very appealing.

  I checked the chart. He was in his mid-twenties, like me, but had the longest list of medical conditions I had ever seen. I was told he was there because of a broken elbow, but he looked too cheerful for someone suffering a fracture. “What are you here for?” I asked.

  “He broke it.” I turned to see a silver-haired woman, dressed like the first lady in a navy skirt suit with a collar of white pearls around her sagging neck.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I said.

  “That’s my mother,” he said cheerfully.

  “How nice,” I said. “Now, how did this happen?”

  “He fell,” she said. “Again.”

  “I slipped in the kitchen,” he said. “The servants spilled something on the floor, Mommy.”

  The woman’s face was set in annoyance. “I saw nothing on the floor, John. I’m sick of your excuses. It was your clumsiness.”

  I was shocked by her coldness. I flashed her a look, but she had folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. She stared at the wall to her right as if she couldn’t bear to lay eyes on her son.

  Then I turned to approach him and was knocked off balance, like a blow, by his darling smile. He seemed so pleased despite his mother. His eyes sort of glittered beneath their depth. Mysterious they were, his eyes. There was something lurking within them, like a secret, the shiny object at the bottom of a lake, its image distorted by the waves on the surface of the water. I would never know their color until the first time he kissed me.