She was halfway down the stairs and looked down at Ruthie.
The baby was asleep. Again.
But this time, looking at her baby's closed eyes, Alyssa felt gooseflesh stipple her skin. She turned, certain she would see something behind her. Dark visions of claws, of talons and teeth and blood, pulsed through her mind. Her body began to ball around Ruthie. The corners of the playpen bit into her armpit and side.
Nothing there.
She stood frozen like that for a while. Not sure how long, but long enough that reality set in. She started to feel foolish. Then silly. Then ridiculous.
She turned around.
There was a dark shadow in the frosted glass window of the front door.
The front door opened.
This time she did not curl. Did not tense. This time it wasn't just a feeling. She was seeing something. Her body went loose. She barely managed to keep hold of Ruthie, but she dropped the playpen. It crashed end over end down the steps, each impact of plastic on wood sounding like a grenade blast.
The door opened.
The dark figure moved into the house.
It was backlit, totally blacked out by the sun shining behind it, but she knew – knew – it was here to kill her. To take Ruthie and perhaps kill the baby, too. But probably not.
Probably it had something worse in store for the baby.
The intruder's hand, still on the doorknob, swung out of the sunlight. Into view.
She only saw three fingers gripping the knob. For some reason that was the worst thing.
She opened her mouth to scream.
The playpen slammed to the floor below the stairs.
"Hon? What's wrong?"
Blake stepped the rest of the way in the house. He rushed up the stairs. Held her tightly. She almost sobbed into his shoulder. But refrained as he stepped back and put one hand on Ruthie's head, the other on her chest, obviously checking to make sure the problem wasn't some injury or another attack.
She saw his hands. Saw his fingers. All of them.
Warmth thawed the ice crystals in her bones. The warmth of relief, the greater heat of embarrassment.
It is our nature to turn outward when we should be turned inward. Not merely focusing on the mote in others' eyes, but lashing out when no mote is present, if there is the merest speck in our vision. And now Alyssa did that, shoving Blake so hard he nearly followed the playpen down the stairs. "You scared me!" she hollered.
"I can see that!" said Blake. He looked up from Ruthie, catching her eyes with his own. "What's going on?"
Alyssa couldn't answer. She just laughed.
Sometimes we cover fear with noise – television sounds, radio sounds. The beat of dance music, the blips and beeps of video games.
Alyssa did that now. She laughed, and didn't stop. She laughed so she wouldn't hear her own fear.
So she wouldn't hear the scream that hid just under the laughter.
HIDE AND SEEK
Blake got Alyssa down the stairs, and she wouldn't tell him what was going on. He got her into the living room, and she wouldn't tell him what was going on. He got her settled into a chair, and she still wouldn't tell him what was going on.
She picked up the television remote, and at that point he knew he wasn't going to find out. Not now, not anytime soon, maybe not ever. Alyssa could be stubborn. Usually it was a good thing. She stuck with problems, she never gave up. Whether it was pushing through her father's cancer or facing down a PTA president who had apparently decided to begin the Fourth Reich in Mal's school district, she didn't know how to back down.
But that also meant that if she absolutely decided not to talk about something – like she had apparently done now – he no longer had a say in the matter.
He crouched beside the chair and held her hand. At least she let him do that. Bad enough that he had gone to the office only to find out that they'd failed to land another account, and that Marty had given his notice. Bad enough they were going to be bankrupt inside of a few weeks, and it no longer looked like he could do anything at all to stop it.
At least he could hold her hand. At least he could do that. Curl his fingers around hers, make her feel safe and secure for a few moments.
The chair was a rocker-recliner, much nicer than anything they had in their own house. Plush, a white so bright it proved that the people who owned this place had no children. Alyssa rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Her eyes started to droop.
He waited five minutes or so. Her eyes never closed, but they became crescent moons. Just sparkling slivers that he was pretty sure would see nothing at all.
He slipped his hand free and stood. He was sweaty from a day of calls and wheeling and dealing and begging and pleading. Not to mention more than a few screams about broken promises and threats of lawsuits for breach of contract.
Which was total bull. At this point he couldn't afford to hire a manicurist, let alone a lawyer.
He wanted to change his business, his bank account, his house… most of his life.
Since he couldn't, he'd have to settle for a change of clothes.
"Where you going?"
He started. Alyssa's eyes were wide open, but glassy. She was still asleep as much as she was awake.
"Just going to change."
"God forbid you wear something other than a t-shirt for five whole minutes." She smiled a smile so weary it broke his heart. And she sounded so relieved he was home. That broke his heart, too. Because what was he going to do for her, really? Other than hold her hand, what was he doing?
"You want me to stay?" he asked.
She shook her head, her eyelids sinking again. "Go change."
Then she was out. Her arms still bounced Ruthie, even in her sleep. That was a thing both of them had found out with Mal: certain motions became automatic. You bounced a baby, you rocked back and forth. Didn't matter whether you were asleep, awake… you could be in a coma and you'd still do those things if someone put an infant in your arms.
He walked out of the living room. Suddenly dead tired himself, wanting to lay down, knowing he couldn't because Mal would have to be picked up and since he was home early today it was only right that he do it.
He was in the entryway –
(tick-tock)
– and realized that he very much wanted to crank up the music box. Not to dance, but just to listen. A sudden urge to hear the music, to rock back and forth without a baby in his arms. To drop into the metal sound of the old music, simply because –
(Daddy's gonna play a game)
– he wanted to.
How long has it been since you did something because you wanted to, Blake? Days? Months? Years? When was the last time you took the time to just watch a movie or go to a nice restaurant or –
(play a game)
– even sit and do nothing?
He walked on. There was no time for music. He had to pick up Mal. Alyssa was asleep because she had to hold Ruthie, who was also asleep.
And for just a moment he hated all of them for that. Hated them deeply and completely.
Then the moment passed, and he walked past the music box. Up the stairs.
In the bedroom he and Alyssa were using, he tossed open his suitcase and dug out a t-shirt.
"Got me on that one, Alyssa."
He thought about putting on another button-up or, even better, one of her shirts, just to mess with her. But he had to pick up Mal in an hour, and life was hard enough for a kid in elementary school without being picked up by a dad with serious clothing confusion.
In the end he decided for comfort over comic effect. Picked up the t-shirt again and –
Blake froze. Frowned.
He tossed the contents of his suitcase, moving everything onto the bedspread. He put everything back into the suitcase again and, just to be sure, repeated the process.
When everything was spread across the bed for the second time he smiled. He hadn't thought Alyssa would be up to dealing with the boo
k full of dead children, but apparently she had gotten rid of it – either permanently, or just tucked it out of the way, maybe back where she found it.
Blake kind of hoped it was the latter. He had meant what he said about destroying the book. It was grotesque, offensive. He knew that people had taken pictures of their dead as tender mementos of loved ones lost, but that thing…. He shuddered.
It had not seemed like a memorial item. It had felt pornographic. Something a twisted mind would use to satiate an even more twisted craving.
Blake was glad it was gone.
So why was he taking the clothes out again? Why was he still looking for it?
It's not here. It's gone.
"Thanks, honey. I really didn't want to touch that thing again," he said.
But he said it like an alcoholic, thanking someone for taking the wine off the table.
And he kept looking, looking, looking. Face flushing, hands trembling.
(C'mere. Daddy's gonna play a game.)
REACHING DARKNESS
Mal liked school. Liked it a lot. He wasn't a dork about it or anything – he got good grades, but he was smart enough not to tell anyone what they were; and even though he almost always knew the answer, he only raised his hand once or twice a day. Not like Tina Wipperfurth, who was not just a cheater at "Mercy," but also a bragger and a suck-up who raised her hand so high it looked like she had to pee.
So yeah, Mal liked school. He liked class, he liked recess (dodgeball!), and he really liked pizza day in the caf.
Still, he liked coming home more.
Some of his friends said they hated coming home. Jefferson lived with just his mommy, and Mal saw her pick him up once and she dressed like the lady on the cover of the magazine Jerry Lambert brought to school and showed a lot of people before Mrs. Augustyn found it and he got suspended. Mal wouldn't want to go home to that, either.
But Mal did like going home. To his home. He loved Mommy, he loved Daddy. He loved Ruthie.
Home was awesome. Better even than the place with wall-to-wall trampolines that Brad had his birthday party at last year.
But today, home was weird. Not just because home was at somebody else's house. He knew that people were getting rid of the king-size bugs at their real house, and that was great news. So everyone should have been happy.
But no one was. Not really.
Everyone pretended to be, but he felt like it wasn't true. Not a Lie, exactly, but not Really True. Mommy and Daddy kept asking "are you okay?" to each other, and then they'd answer, "fine, are you?" and then the other one would say, "fine." Over and over.
Mal felt like it was for him. Like they were acting out a TV show so he wouldn't notice something.
They kept asking if he was okay, too. And he almost told them about his dream a couple times. But then decided not to, because if Mommy and Daddy were this freaked out, then he didn't want to add to it. They had told him about his jobs as a Big Brother, but he also figured he had some jobs as a Good Son.
One of them was not to make things bad if they were good. Another was that if they already were bad, he shouldn't make them worse.
Daddy and Mommy let him watch a lot of TV, which was also weird. They made him do homework, but that usually only took him an hour or less. Then it was all "tube time." They told him he had to watch Ruthie, but again he got the feeling that was just pretend – just acting like things were normal.
He sat by her while she lay on her baby mat and he rubbed her tummy. He watched her as much as he watched cartoons. She was that cute.
Ruthie mostly slept. Boring when people did it, but babies made funny sounds and sweet faces.
He heard Mommy and Daddy talking about dinner, and that was the first "real" good time. They decided pizza.
Mal pumped his fist and said, "Yes!"
Then he got worried because Daddy mumbled something. Mal couldn't hear the words, but it didn't sound like, "Okay, let's do it!"
Then Mommy said, "In for a penny, in for a pound," and Daddy said, "Okay."
Pizza came thirty minutes (or less) later.
Daddy stared at the receipt on the side of the box for a while, which was more weirdness, then Mommy pulled it off and tossed it in a little trashcan. "Enjoy yourself," she said in a "Don't Mess With Me" voice.
Daddy nodded and smiled but the smile was little and his cheeks barely puffed out at all.
Bonus time: Mommy spread out a blanket they had and said they could eat in front of the television, which was something that almost never happened. Daddy put Ruthie in the playpen.
"She asleep?" asked Mommy.
"Yup. You need me to get her up to feed her?"
Mommy felt her boobies, which was gross, and then shook her head.
They started to eat. Three seconds in, which was barely enough time for Mal to eat two slices, and of course Ruthie started to cry.
She was cute, but she had lousy timing.
Daddy stood. Halfway up and Mommy said, "I'll get her."
"Time?"
Mommy was feeling her chest again. She nodded. Mal tried to ignore what was happening. Especially when Mommy covered her shirt and Ruthie with a little cloth and stared under them both like the most interesting thing ever was down there. Mal knew what was happening there, and he did not think it was interesting. Gross and horrifying, but not interesting.
He suddenly realized that he had probably done that, too. Had probably….
He wondered if he would be able to finish his pizza. He felt sick to his stomach.
At least it's not milk.
Ruthie kept crying. Mal couldn't blame her.
"Latch, baby girl," said Mommy. She moved her hand under the blanket, then looked around. "She's not interested."
"Is she…?" said Daddy. Mal stopped pretending to watch TV.
Is Ruthie sick? Will she scream again? Are we going back to the hospital?
Mommy shook her head. "Her temp's fine, and her last feeding was a good one. She's probably just cranky." She looked around. "You know where her rattle is?"
Daddy shook his head.
Mommy did something weird then. She didn't stop moving, exactly. But she sorta did, too. Just a quick jittery stop-start, like her body was hiccupping, then she said, "I'll check in her room."
And now Mal wondered if the TV show his parents had been acting out was actually for him after all. Maybe it was for each other. Or for themselves? He didn't understand that exactly, but he thought there might be something to that idea.
"You sure you're up to that?" said Daddy. He was smiling, but again it was that little smile. His eyes weren't smiling at all.
Mommy stuck her tongue out at him. She put Ruthie back in the playpen, still crying. Then she left.
Mal watched Mommy go. She almost ran through the entryway, then up the stairs. But as fast as she was going, she looked careful, too. A ninja cowboy deep in dangerous samurai Sioux territory.
Weird.
Scary.
Mal tried to look at the TV show, or to look at Ruthie. But neither one was real good for him right then. He couldn't focus on the TV, and Ruthie was making these creepy noises like she was worried someone was going to step on her face.
Daddy began wiggling.
Mal put another piece of pizza in his mouth. He didn't even taste it. He loved pizza, but this might as well have been a bread-and-bread sandwich. He kept thinking about how Mommy must have once fed him.
And Daddy's scrunching around on the couch was seriously making it hard to watch anything else.
Maybe Daddy's going to get up and get Ruthie.
Daddy didn't. He just wiggled around on the sofa.
"You got ants in your pants, make you do the boogie dance?" said Mal. The words were what everyone said to each other at school. They just popped out.
He was glad they did. Daddy actually smiled a real smile.
"You're not allowed to do that rhyme unless you actually know what a boogie dance is."
Mal smiled back. It f
elt good. Pizza squished between his cheeks and teeth and he felt like Godzilla, crushing villagers in his mouth, RAWR. Godzilla was a good thing to be. Godzilla was tough and had never eaten boobie-milk.
"What is a boogie dance?"
Daddy smiled another real smile. "Beats me. I'm not old enough to know, either." He wiggled some more. "Something's under the cushion."
And he started to stand.
The smile went out of Mal. The moment of good feeling was gone.
Daddy said something was under the cushion.
That meant Daddy was going to reach under it. And who knew what was there, in the dark under the pillow?
Mal had a quick flash of memory, or maybe a quick flash of dream: an upside down cross, Jesus screaming straight down. Something that sounded like centipedes, then turned into whispering –
("Help me help me help me help me help me….")
– below him. And then Mal rolling off the bed, his hand falling into darkness.
Darkness.
And then… and then… the thing. The thing he saw, or the thing he dreamed. Maybe he did them both. Saw and dreamed in a place between sleep and awake.
He couldn't remember what the thing was. Just that it was black. Scary.
Coming fast. Coming soon.
Daddy stood.
He was going to put his hand into darkness.
What if the thing was there?
TOUCHES THROUGH TIME
Some things move slowly.
Some things move slowly because they must gain power, gain strength before they move.
Some things move slowly because they savor the game. The pain and the fear felt are as much to be enjoyed as the final moments where understanding enters and life departs.
And some things move slowly because it is simply the way it must be.
Whichever is true here, in this time and at this place, the waiting is over. The time for slow movement has passed.
Things will move fast now. Fast and fast and so fast that the blur will be all that can be seen and all that is real. Simple confusion, simpler pain.
The baby cries, for it senses what is so close.
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