Beyond Midnight

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "I will bring you something pretty, okay?"

  "Oh, yes," said Helen, and this time Katie—after reassuring her father that she wasn't going to use the stairs— went out in the hall.

  "Probably to get something from Peaches," Nat said, as amused as Helen was by his daughter's frenetic to-ing and fro-ing. Relaxed in the spoonback chair, he was watching Helen carefully, probably to see how long she could sit on a minichair without getting a raging backache.

  "So I was wrong," he added, smiling. "She's wild about you.,'

  "'Wild' is strong; but she doesn't seem afraid," Helen had to admit.

  "I don't get it. One look at you, and that was it. It's as if she'd known you all her life."

  "Some kids bond easily," Helen said, "if you give them a chance." She thought of her son. Then again, some kids don't.

  "Enchantra," Nat said, leaning back in the tufted chair. He was rubbing the bottom of his chin; his blue eyes were narrowed under their pulled-down brows as he studied her.

  "Pardon me?"

  "Enchantra. I can't help it. I look at you, and that's the association I make. It's very powerful," he said, almost baffled now.

  "Chanel. I've told you," Helen insisted, averting her gaze from his. She felt the heat rushing to her cheeks. Her heart began knocking against her chest. "Number Five," she added, as if that would clear things up once and for all.

  Into the room Katie came running, holding something sparkly in her hand. "Here," she said, thrusting a magnificent diamond bracelet into Helen's hand.

  Helen's jaw dropped. "Katie! You must put this right back. It's not a toy."

  Automatically Helen held the bracelet out to Nat; the strand of diamonds shimmered and shone in the beam of the recessed light above them.

  Nat had an absolutely odd expression on his face: cautious, curious, amused, amazed—Helen hadn't a clue what he was feeling.

  "Peaches," he yelled, almost in reflex.

  The nanny came in at once. Nat said to her, "Katie got a little carried away with her presents to Mrs. Evett. Do you know where this thing goes?"

  Laughing, Peaches said, "I'll put it back." She took the bracelet from Helen, who assumed it was paste, and left the room.

  Nat smiled and said, "Anniversary. Big one. Remembered."

  So it wasn't paste.

  In the meantime, Katie didn't think much of being overruled. Like the Queen of Hearts, she turned petulant. She began to fuss and then to cry. Her generosity had been spurned; she couldn't understand it. The wail got louder.

  Helen began trying to distract the child out of her disappointment, but Nat seemed convinced that a full-blown tantrum was in the works. He picked up his daughter and began promising her stickers if she'd only pipe down. Instead Katie began to flail and thrash.

  Once again he ran the flag up for the nanny.

  Peaches returned and took in the situation in a glance. She lifted Katie from her beleaguered father's arms and held her very tightly to her breast. "My goodness, I haven't hugged you all day," she said, and carried the screaming child out of the room.

  Nat blew air through puffed-up cheeks. "Christ, what brought that on?"

  "I expect she's frustrated," Helen said mildly.

  Frustrated himself, he said, "You're the expert; how do you deal with tantrums like that? They're happening more and more."

  "The way Peaches handled it wasn't bad," Helen admitted. "It works with some children. So does distraction. Or silliness. Or even ignoring it, although I think Katie needs comforting more than anything."

  She added, "Stickers and other bribes generally aren't such a hot idea."

  He gave her a rueful smile. "I don't know—they worked on Linda."

  Helen smiled back, but she was thinking, You know they didn't. You know she went off and found someone else.

  "Shouldn't we maybe vacate the nursery?" she suggested. "Peaches may want to bring Katie back for a nap. Suppose we put away the tea things—so Katie's not reminded," Helen said, bending over the low table to gather up the toy plates.

  That's when it hit with the force of a baseball bat: the headache.

  It was back: sudden, violent, and—Helen knew in her soul—there to stay. It was a cruel, vicious blow; she thought she'd got over the headache once and for all, months ago. It had left without warning. And now it was back. Without warning.

  In agony, she thought of her purse downstairs. Did it have any aspirin? Not anymore. "Oh, damn," she muttered, straightening up and pressing her hand to her forehead.

  Nat, who'd returned the spoonback chair to the reading room, came back, saw her face and said, "Are you all right?"

  "Sure," Helen said faintly. "Just a sudden ... headache." The word seemed so inadequate. Crippling seizure was more like it.

  "Katie's tantrums can do that to you," he said lightly. But he looked concerned. "Do you want something for that? God, Helen, you're white as a sheet. You'd better sit down," he said.

  "No, no. Katie will be—no. I'll be all right."

  They left the nursery quickly. In the hall, a new and more terrifying sensation seized Helen: nausea.

  "I think I'm going to be sick," she said in a ghastly voice. "Where can I—?"

  "In here—my room," he said, taking her by the arm. He rushed her through a spacious bedroom furnished in elegant period antiques and into the adjoining bath, then retreated.

  Helen closed the door and fell to her knees, poised over the bowl. A wave of ignominy washed over her, hard on the heels of the nausea. She waited, dreading the retching sounds he'd be able to hear.

  But nothing happened. The nausea passed. After a while, she stood up. The headache came roaring back. Reeling, she held on to the sink. What on earth could she do? Not drive home, not like this. With rubbery hands she filled a glass with water, then downed it slowly. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give them color.

  Then she forced herself to open the door. As she thought, he was waiting: sitting in a big hobnailed wing chair of cream-colored leather. He jumped up from it at the sound of the door latch and said in a voice that sounded taut with concern, "How're you doing?"

  It occurred to Helen that he'd witnessed her kind of pain before.

  "Oh—it passed," she forced herself to say lightly. "I probably should be going. But I wonder—would you have any aspirin or anything?"

  "Oh, yeah, sure," he said, continuing to stare. "In the medicine cabinet. There's Advil, Tylenol—everything."

  She turned on her heel and closed the door behind her again. When she opened the beveled mirror of the walnut-framed medicine cabinet, she was startled—and yet not surprised—to see a vast array of pain relievers.

  She thought, with almost tearful sympathy, of Linda's headaches. There has to be something extra-strength in here.

  She rummaged through the bottles. Capsules, caplets, gelcaps, tablets, time-release, fast-acting—there seemed to be one of every over-the-counter pain reliever in existence. There was also, among the clutter of pills, a single bottle of prescription medication.

  Ergotamine. A brand-name version of ergotamine.

  She read the label on the brown plastic bottle. Dated nine months earlier, it had Linda Byrne's name and address on it. Without knowing why, Helen took the container down from the shelf and stared at it. Her hand began to shake violently, too violently to read the recommended dosage or cautionary label.

  Ergotamine. The mention of the drug by Dr. Jervis had once sent Helen into a paroxysm of anger. She'd called him a monster for even thinking of prescribing it for her. And then she'd fled from his office in what she now realized had been sheer hysteria.

  Because of this drug. Seized by a compulsion to flush it down the toilet, she pressed down on the childproof cap in an attempt to twist it off. But her hands were shaking too much; Katie had a better chance of opening it then Helen did.

  With a sense of shame and disgust, she stuck the brown bottle back on the shelf and shut the cabinet door so hard she thought the mirror wou
ld shatter.

  She had to get a grip on herself. Closing her eyes, she made herself take a deep, long breath and let it go. Another. Another.

  There is nothing involved here except a logical coincidence. Headaches are often treated with ergotamine. She had a headache. Now you have a headache. What's the big deal about this drug?

  Calmer now, and determined to make no more a spectacle of herself than she had already, Helen opened her eyes. She had intended to splash her face with water, make her apologies, and call it a day. Instead, her plan—her life—got knocked completely off track in the brief reflection of an instant.

  Instead, came the vision.

  Chapter 14

  Helen started violently. In the mirror, hovering over her left shoulder, was a shadowy form. More shimmer than substance, more shadow than fact, one thing was undeniable. It was the form of a woman, and the woman was in pain.

  Helen felt her chest collapse, as if she'd been punched there with a fist. Though her gaze was fixed on the phantom shape, she was aware in the mirror that her own eyes were wide open in shock.

  It's only me; I'm seeing double, she tried to tell herself. My God in heaven. Please. Let that be so.

  The form drew nearer and then wavered, like a mirage on hot sand. Then the head seemed to fall back, as if in extreme suffering. Helen saw, or thought she saw, a mouth—open, dark, bottomless—crying out. Trying to cry out. In silence.

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Hands gripping the sink, Helen stood paralyzed by the sustained horror of the vision. It would not go away. It held her in its appalling grasp, crushing her, drawing down her energy, supplanting it with languid terror.

  She tried to cry out but—as in the vision—no sound came forth. Woozy with fear, she didn't dare take her gaze from the mirror. Whatever instincts she had were directed at keeping the thing at bay.

  The standoff lasted for a long eternity, and then the quivering shape began to surge and recede in place, until finally, slowly, it broke up altogether.

  It was over.

  Helen stumbled backward from the mirror, still without taking her eyes from her own reflection, and fumbled with the doorknob behind her. She backed out of the bathroom, heedless of how she must appear to Nat, and turned to him to say something. Anything.

  As it turned out, the speech wasn't very long. "I—" she began to say, and then she felt comforting blackness overtake her as she dropped, in slow motion, to the floor. Whether Nat was still in the master bedroom, she didn't really know. All she remembered afterward—all that was able to penetrate the thick filter of her oblivion—was Katie's excited voice crying, "Mommy!"

  ****

  When Helen came to, she was on Nat's bed. Nat was standing at the foot of it, his arms folded across the chest-high footboard, staring at her with a grave look on his face. How long he'd been there—how long she'd been there—she had no idea.

  The heirloom coverlet had not been pulled back and she was fully clothed, so apparently she wasn't dreaming. If she were, the sheets would be rumpled and she'd be naked. So would he.

  She gave him a forlorn smile and said, "Why do you remind me of Papa Bear?"

  "'Someone's been sleeping in my bed,'" he quoted in a strained voice.

  "And I know who it is," Helen said groggily as she made herself sit up. "The real question is, what the hell is she doing there?"

  "You fainted," he said, coming around to the side of the bed and sitting on it. "Feel better?"

  In fact the headache had retreated. It was still around, but it was bearable, enough so that she could make it home.

  "I don't suppose there's much point in telling you how embarrassed I am," she said, brushing back the half of her hair that had come out of the barrette. She stared at her feet. Her shoes were gone.

  "You don't have to feel embarrassed," he said, taking her hand in his. She thought he was going to pat her wrist like some kindly country priest, but instead he turned it over and put three fingers to her pulse—like some kindly country doctor.

  She must look like hell. She felt exhausted. Even her throat hurt. If she could see herself in a mirror she'd—

  The mirror.

  The horror.

  Her amnesia had been total, but it had been temporary.

  "Yow," Nat murmured without taking his fingertips from her wrist. "You feel like galloping horses." He looked truly alarmed now. "I'm going to call our doctor," he said, standing up.

  "No, no, no," she begged. "I'm fine." She staggered unconvincingly to her feet, then promptly swayed headfirst into him. Her forearms were braced against his chest; his hands were locked under her elbows. He was near enough to kiss. She lifted her face to his—and saw piercing blue eyes filled solely with apprehension.

  Her mortification was now complete. She said the first thing she could think of.

  "I need a drink."

  "Really?"

  "Please." Isn't that what people always asked for when they were scared to death? A drink?

  "I think you'd be better off with a cup of tea."

  She didn't argue. Still supporting her by one elbow, he waited as she slipped into her shoes. Then he led her out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Helen reached deliberately for the stair rail; he took it as his cue to let her go.

  Still unwilling to acknowledge what she'd seen in the mirror, she murmured, "I thought I heard Katie cry out."

  She could not make herself say the word mommy.

  "You did hear Katie. She came running into the bedroom—God knows why; maybe she heard my cry and saw me carrying you in my arms. My back was to her. I expect she got confused," he explained vaguely.

  "I see. Where was Peaches?"

  "I wasn't paying attention. Somewhere close, I guess, because she hustled Katie out of the bedroom pretty fast."

  They were at the entrance to the music room. He said, "Find yourself a cozy corner. I'll be right back with the tea."

  "This is so embarrassing," she blurted again.

  He smiled and said, "I heard you the first time, darlin'." He went on to the kitchen and Helen was left to wonder what he meant by "darlin'" as she sought out the pale shabby-chic sofa at the far end of the room and collapsed into its softness. She pulled the barrette from her half- pinned hair and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  Darlin'. The word on his lips was almost as shocking as the face in the mirror. Helen could chalk up the ghastliness of her vision to pain and nausea, a kind of projection of her own misery. But darlin'? Was it a figure of speech? A comforting endearment? A first, easy foray into friendship? Whatever it was, she hadn't imagined it. The face, yes. The word, no.

  Overwhelmed in every way, she picked up one of the down-filled throws and hugged it to her chest for comfort. She let her head drop back on the cushy sofa and closed her eyes. The minutes ticked by. Eventually her thoughts, like ripples on a pond, flattened into serenity. She was slipping into sleep.

  Bam. The face appeared, with its silent scream of agony.

  "Oh," gasped Helen, hurtled from her stillness.

  Nat walked through the door at exactly that moment, carrying two steaming stoneware mugs. "What?" he demanded to know. "It's back?"

  "Oh God, yes," Helen said, before she had time to consider the question. Then: "You mean, the headache. No ... no, not really," she mumbled, sitting up wearily.

  He placed the mugs in front of her on the low table where Katie liked to color, then retraced half a dozen steps, picked up a square white pillow from the floor, and returned it to the sofa alongside Helen.

  "I guess that's why they call 'em throw pillows," he quipped.

  While Helen sat aghast at the thought that she must have flung it across the room to ward off the vision, Nat went over to the glassed-in cabinet and took out a decanter of brandy. He poured a big dollop of it into his mug and, when Helen nodded, a smaller one into hers. Then he sat back and said, "All in all, an interesting day."

  Helen laughed weakly. "Oh, yes, we must do this more oft
en," she said, totally ironic.

  "I'd like that."

  She looked at him for signs that he too was being droll, but he seemed perfectly sincere. Coming hard on the heels of the "darlin'," his remark left Helen once again second-guessing his intentions.

  For God's sakes, she warned herself. He's in mourning. Get a grip.

  Aloud she said, "This hits the spot."

  He was polite and presumed she meant the tea. "Earl Grey," he said. "Peaches told me you looked like the Earl Grey type."

  "Did she?" It was annoying, being categorized according to tea preference, but Helen simply smiled and said, "What an extraordinary young woman she is."

  He missed Helen's coolness completely. "She graduated from a nanny's college in London," he told her. "Half her class is bottle-feeding royalty as we speak. Those girls— women—can write their own tickets, you know. They get paid fabulous salaries over there."

  "I'm surprised Peaches didn't stay there, in that case," Helen said, sipping her tea and letting the hot brandy race through her blood. It was the perfect restorative.

  "Well, for one thing, there's her accent. Her stepfather was British, but so what? She's American. No Brit wants his children's speech corrupted by one of them."

  "True enough," Helen said, laughing. The brandy was wonderful. It was giving her perspective. Had she really thought she'd seen a ghost?

  She said, "So Peaches came back to the States with her hard-won credentials. But how did you happen to realize how good they were? I didn't know London nannies were so special. And I'm in the business."

  "We didn't have a clue, either," he admitted. "Peaches came to us in an entirely different way. She was one of the students in an art class Linda was teaching. Linda—four or five months pregnant with Katie at the time—was having coffee with Peaches and some of the other students after class once, and Peaches happened to describe the training she'd got in nanny college."

  He added, "She hadn't even had a chance to use it yet; as it turned out, after graduation she'd taken a pretty good job as a British woman's companion. But then the woman died, and Peaches came back to the States, and took the art history course, and there you go. The rest is history."