In the Blood

by Lisa Unger

  I stood among Luke’s legion of blue jeans, chinos and cords, and primary-colored shirts, organized by shade and sleeve length. I snooped through a few of his drawers—underwear, socks, folded Tshirts in soft, scented stacks. Something, a draft, a sound, caused me to look up. And that’s when I saw the attic access door. I reached to pull on the dangling string, and the door came down easily. And a ladder unfolded smoothly with it. I looked up into the dark maw of the attic, and didn’t hesitate a second before I climbed up.

  24

  Do you believe in fate, diary? Do you believe that our whole lives are laid out before us, a path from which we cannot veer, with a predetermined end from which we cannot escape? I never believed in that. I always believed that you created your life. I always thought that all your power lay in your choices. I don’t believe that anymore.

  The choices we made to bring us to Florida, to enroll our son in this new school, to be a family, a real family for maybe the first time? These were the right choices. They were positive and proactive. And it was, for a time, good for everyone, most especially our boy. But were these choices really? Or were they reactions? Reactions to something that life had thrown at us, something we didn’t choose and didn’t want. Is there a difference between reaction and choice? I don’t know the answer.

  The good news is that our years down here have made all the difference for my child. Thanks to the teachers and counselors at his school, the success of a cocktail of medications he has been taking, his behavior has normalized. And the onset of puberty, albeit a much delayed onset, seems to have mostly corrected the hormonal imbalance he’d been suffering from. He’ll always be small. He’ll have little hair growth, and no discernible Adam’s apple. And, even I have to admit, there’s something decidedly feminine about him. But he’s calmer. Of course, he’s calm almost to the point of being flat. That’s the medication, though. He has loving moments, sweet moments. Moments when he seems just like any other kid. And for us, that’s a miracle.

  People sometimes mistake him for a girl, but this doesn’t seem to bother him.

  “I don’t feel like a boy or a girl,” he told me recently. And I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know who to love.”

  “Romantic love is overrated,” I told him. “Love yourself first.”

  He nodded, seemed to understand. But maybe he didn’t. I only meant to say that I didn’t care about his sexual orientation, that he was free to be whoever he was. I just wanted him to find a way to be happy, in spite of his challenges.

  And for the first time ever, I have hope that he might do that. He has attended the school for four years now. And his doctors believe that he is well enough, strong enough, to come home and go to a normal high school. And I agree. I am ready for him to return to us full-time. I only wish he was coming home to happier parents.

  My husband and I have agreed to stay together for the sake of our son. I know: what a cliché. But there we are. Because our child’s mental health is so fragile, and I don’t believe he can handle another blow to his psyche, we have agreed to live our separate lives together. We won’t argue or fight in front of him. We have promised each other not to do that, and I hope we can be true to our word. I am not always great at biting back my feelings, or keeping from goading him when I’m angry. And my husband’s temper, his rage—it’s a force to be reckoned with. Is it any wonder our child has so many problems?

  Whatever renaissance we briefly experienced in our love has waned again. I still have those dates in my calendar, those secret assignations where I pretended that he was my lover. It seems silly now. Any married couple knows that passion might be the pilot light of a successful relationship but it is not nearly enough to sustain you through the years. When hardships befall us, we don’t come together. We break apart.

  He lost his job a while ago, or rather, his job disappeared from underneath him, leaving him in a professional free fall.

  It was the blow to his ego, the loss of pride, the loss of the one thing he knew he could do better than anyone else. That’s what did him in. Because even when he was failing at home—disturbed child, marriage in tatters—he’d always had the work that he loved. The assignments that took him all over the world, the prizes and accolades, the television appearances—they nourished him. Without it all, he was starving.

  Naturally, he blamed me. Because it’s always my fault. I had asked him to spend more time at home, so he took fewer and fewer assignments. We moved from New York, the hub of the universe, to Florida—its armpit according to my husband. Later, he took a position as an editor at his paper’s local field office. It felt to him like being put out to pasture. He was doing less and less of what he loved. At first, he said it was a gift, his opportunity to write the book he’d always wanted to write. But he didn’t do that.

  Initially, our renewed passion distracted him from his career issues. But that proved short-lived. That was always the problem; without the big stuff—the passion, excitement, success—the little stuff was never enough to sustain us. The fighting started up again, the blaming, the accusing. It often got physical. I am ashamed to admit that there was a small, dark place inside me that enjoyed those battles. It was almost as if we craved and needed the drama. It was a welcome distraction from the day-to-day of a job he hated, the bills, the laundry, the house. Sometimes it seems as if, as a couple, we aren’t equipped to handle a normal existence. It’s almost a relief to connect in anger when we can’t connect any other way.

  Now even our son has normalized to the extent that he will. Tomorrow, he’s starting at a well-regarded private high school near home. And my husband has sworn that he intends to hunker down into his novel—which is what all journalists do when they’ve been downsized. But I’m not sure that the quiet work of sitting and writing will agree with him—without the bustle of travel, the pressure of deadlines, the thrill of the interview. He’s just begun and already he is noticeably more cranky, sulky, frustrated.

  And me? What about me? you ask. I suppose I’m all right. I volunteer at a group home for abandoned adolescent girls. Drawing on my distant and none-too-impressive fashion background, I teach them how to dress for success. I teach them about the message they send with their bodies, the clothes they choose, the signals that inadequate hygiene telegraphs to other people. I show them what’s appropriate for school, for job interviews, even for dates.

  It might seem silly and frivolous. Does it? But I can see the girls’ self-esteem improving as they start to take pride in their appearance, maybe for the first time. I pay attention to each of them, helping them with hairstyles, light makeup, bringing clothes from my own closet, buying some things for each of them. I teach them to choose clothes that are appropriate, pretty, but not suggestive. And it’s funny how paying attention to these small things seems to make a big difference in how they feel. And I think I’m helping. And in helping them, I’m helping myself.

  Sometimes my son comes with me. And the girls treat him like a pet, doting on him and telling him how cute he is. He still does have that delicate, doll-like beauty he always had. I have discovered about him that he feels comfortable surrounded by the company of women and girls. Something about him relaxes and grows easy; he smiles with them, even laughs. He fits in with a group of girls struggling to find themselves, to find their way. He lets them dress him, put makeup on him like a doll. And maybe it’s weird. But he seems so happy that I let it be. He wipes the makeup off in the car, before we get home to his father.

  So that is our life right now. And even though I wouldn’t say that we are happy and there are so many things I’d like to change, I don’t see how things could be any different than they are. We have reacted to our circumstances, and those reactions have formed our life.

  I think this will be my last entry, diary. I hope you won’t be offended, but I am not sure I need you anymore. It’s time to move on from navel-gazing and moaning about the hardships in my life. Journaling about my feelings is starting to feel like a waste of
time. There are no answers here with you. And I think it’s time to start the business of accepting my life as it is, and just living every day the best way that I can.

  I have come to believe that all those New Age ideas to which my sister clings, and which sound so nice on paper—all of that stuff about choosing your own destiny and making your life and asking the universe for what you want—that maybe all of it is just bullshit. There’s no divine and mystical force, no karma, no what-you-give-you-get-back kind of balance. No, I no longer believe that we create our lives. I think that maybe life creates us.

  25

  I climbed the ladder and it creaked beneath me. A heavy, musty smell wafted down on a breath of cold air as I emerged into a large, nearly empty space. A milky light washed in from a round window on the far side of the attic, and the effect was to give a misty-gray, nearly ghostly quality to the air.

  It would have been spooky if not for the litter of candy wrappers on the floor. Kid contraband. The type of sweets—Snickers, Milky Way, Mars bar, gummy worms, Swedish Fish—that Rachel would never allow Luke. Sugar turns him into a monster. We both know it and he craves it just the same.

  I followed the trail of crinkled colorful paper to a pile of boxes stacked like a fort at the back end of the room. I wondered briefly how either of them, Rachel and Luke, had managed to get the boxes up here. Both of them were slight and not especially strong. Then I realized that the boxes were empty. Luke must have smuggled them up at some point to construct himself a little hiding spot.

  As I passed the row of boxes, I saw that he’d brought up his beanbag chair, an iPad, three giant bags of candy. There was a stack of magazines and books, a couple of photo albums. I sank into the beanbag and started sifting through the pile. There were library books about the history of The Hollows, some psychology texts. There was an old Vanity Fair magazine that held one of the more in-depth articles about my mother’s murder. Where had he gotten it? It was three years old.

  I imagined him up here, eating candy and reading library books. And I almost felt sorry for him. Was he lonely like I had been? Did he come up here to hide from the stressors in his life, as I did when I disappeared to my spot in the woods? I could envision him, reading, eating candy, feeling that special kind of freedom you have when no one knows where you are. He probably came here while his mother thought he was locked away, and maybe it made him feel like he wasn’t a prisoner after all.

  I picked up a slim book from the stack. It was heavy, in spite of being a paperback: Mines and Tunnels of Upstate New York. It was a photography book and trail guide to various sites around the areas where hikers, spelunkers, and cavers could go beneath the earth and explore the natural caves, crevices, and tunnels, as well as those blasted by the iron miners that helped settle some of the area, including The Hollows.

  In fact, the largest section of the book was about The Hollows and some of the neighboring areas. I felt a catch in my throat as I started flipping through the chapters and came to a dog-eared page. It talked about a site about a mile into The Hollows Wood, not far from where Beck and I had been that night. There was a brief passage about the woods, and how it was known by area residents as the Black Forest because of the resemblance of its flora and fauna to the forest in Germany by the same name. It is the haunted forest of fairy tales and nightmares, declared the author, so creepy and quiet that one could almost believe it was home to the witch’s cabin and the Big Bad Wolf, and populated by the restless spirits of the forest. Something about the area confounds cell signals. So make sure you take your old-school compass with you and that you let someone know where you’re going.

  The wind was picking up, and I rose to look outside again. I was alone, and no one knew where I was. Suddenly that didn’t seem like such a good thing. We need other people, we really do. As much as I’d always liked to think that I was better off on my own, I wondered if it was true. There were people who wanted to help me, who cared about me in spite of everything. I thought about Bridgette, who was probably having a cow. In that moment, feeling my isolation in a way I never had before, I thought about calling her. But I didn’t want to hear the fear and disappointment in her voice. I didn’t want to deal with her expectations of me. Maybe that’s why we choose to isolate ourselves, those of us who do. Because in so many ways, it’s just easier.

  I went back to Luke’s depressing little hideout and picked up the book again. It meant something. Why had he marked off that page? Was it the next clue in the scavenger hunt? The last poem hadn’t ended with anything that led me to another place. It was angry, as if he’d lost his focus. It wasn’t like the other clues, which was why I suspected someone else had written it. But what if I was wrong? What was I supposed to take away from it? Had he known I’d be lost, that I’d come here for answers and find his aerie? No, that was giving him too much credit. I was certain that he would be furious at me for being here.

  I’d come to see who he might have been communicating with, and quickly discovered that he really didn’t have his own e-mail account, just as Rachel had told me. Maybe he had access to another computer somewhere. But where? At school? At the library? I sank back into the beanbag and closed my eyes. I felt just like I did when I was playing chess with him, five moves behind, certain he had a master plan for my destruction, though I had no idea what it was. And, there was some kind of clock ticking, apparently. But only he knew when time ran out.

  I got up from where I lay beside Beck and awkwardly started pulling myself together.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I’m freezing,” I said. “It’s thirty degrees.”

  I was shivering but not from the cold. I was afraid, angry. Passion and desire had abandoned me, and I felt myself shutting down. Even though I could still smell her on me—her skin, her hair, her perfume. Even though I knew I loved her and maybe had for a while, I wanted to be as far from her as I could be. She knew too much. She’d seen too much. What had I been thinking? I remember the simmer of a terrible rage, the rage of the liar discovered.

  “Are you mad at me?” she said. “You can’t be.”

  She’d pulled her pants up, sat down, and curled herself into a ball, her arms locked around her legs. Her eyes were big, looking up at me. She had dropped her usual mask of indifference. I saw her in all her sadness and vulnerability; she was my mirror. She was as lost, alone, and in need of love as I was. I almost sank down to her and wrapped her up in my arms. But I didn’t. I was that selfish, that cruel. That’s the problem with damaged, broken people. We’re unpredictable. We’ll draw you close, then shove you away. It’s nothing personal. Emotions are painful, frightening. It’s so much better to be dull and blank. There’s less risk. Don’t open yourself wide; they can’t hurt you if you don’t.

  “I want to go,” I said. I fastened up my coat. When I looked at her again, she was crying.

  “You felt it,” she said. “I know you did. You love me.”

  She stood and brushed herself off. The look on her face—it was a grimace of disappointment and disbelief.

  “Give me a break,” I said. “It was sex.”

  That’s when she yelled at me, when her voice rang out into the night, angry and sad. How can you be so cold?

  The anger inside me, the twisted thing that wanted to hurt and strike out, that wanted to say cruel things and wreak destruction … it was so powerful. I hadn’t felt it in so long, I had to marshal all my resources to control it. It frightened me, the things I wanted to do to her, the things I wanted to say. I imagined striking her hard in the face. I saw myself digging her grave. I heard myself calling her unspeakable names, things that if I said I could never take back. I was shaking with it. She saw it; she saw it in my face and she recoiled from me. Her eyes were a mirror where I saw myself. I was a monster. I ran from her, from myself, and from everything we were together.

  I left her there—in the dark, cold night … I left my best friend crying. She was sobbing actually, from pain that I had cau
sed her. And now she was gone. I thought she had run off, that she was punishing me, as I heartily deserved to be punished. I thought she’d turn up all sassy and victorious to see the pain she’d caused. Because Beck liked that. She liked people to hurt for her. That was how she knew they cared. But now I had to wonder. Who else had been out there that night? And what had he done to Beck?

  I was sunk deep into the beanbag, flipping through that old book that maybe no one but Luke had ever read. The silence seemed to expand. And then I heard a door open and close downstairs.

  I froze, listening to slow, heavy footsteps resonating through the wood floor of the attic. Not Rachel, not Luke—the footfalls were too heavy, too deliberate. Rachel was soft and light on her feet, tapping out quick staccato beats. Luke was all banging—tossing his bag and coat down, storming into the kitchen.

  Whoever was in the house was moving carefully down the hall. I heard the copper gong that hung in the hallway give off a hum. I thought of my bag on the floor, in plain sight. There was a terrible pause, a moment of silence. I forced myself to breathe deep. Then I heard him (it had to be a man) move back down the hallway toward the staircase. I’d left Luke’s closet door, the attic access, wide open. If someone were looking for me, it would be very easy to figure out where I’d gone.

  There was another agonizingly long pause, in which I thought maybe whoever it was would leave. Maybe the front door was open for some reason, perhaps it had swung ajar and a neighbor came to investigate. Or perhaps it was the handyman Rachel had mentioned. The man who was hanging her paintings, erecting bookshelves, hauling away junk left by the former residents. It could have reasonably been any of those things.

  But then I heard someone on the stairs. I put the book into my pants and started crawling quietly along the dusty floor. Maybe the handyman had a quick errand to do in the house, or had to drop something off. I just had to stay quiet, undetected.