by James Hunt
***
Claire sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop open between her knees, and sifted through everything that she could find about snake bites and which types were native to Louisiana. From what she researched, the most common venomous snake in the area was the Cottonmouth. And judging from its description, a black colored or dark-brown with black blotches on its underside, she thought that might have been the snake she saw slithering away from Matt after he was bit.
Aside from hallucinations, nausea, and vomiting, there wasn’t anything else to explain her son’s behavior. And the more and more she read, she realized that whatever was happening to her son went beyond the snake bite. There was something else.
Claire opened another tab on the browser, and she typed in the name of their town and waited for the search fields to populate when the front door opened and she heard Owen’s voice.
“Claire?”
She snapped the laptop shut and set it aside on the couch. “Hey.” The pair lingered in silence for a moment. She was still angry with him, but after a day of being able to digest his words, she understood where they were coming from.
“How’s Matt?” Owen asked.
“The doctor said everything was fine,” Claire answered, waiting for the I-told-you-so that never came, which she was glad to escape. She’d never felt uncomfortable with him, but with what she wanted to say, the feeling was inevitable.
“About this morning—”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said, cutting him off. “I know, you thought you’d be the one apologizing.”
“What I said about your dad, it was wrong.” Owen walked over and joined her on the couch. “It’s just everything that’s happened… I think I’ve let it get to me more than it should.”
“We both have.” Claire leaned her head against his chest. It was still damp with sweat, and he smelled the same way he did coming home from the shipyard in Baltimore. The familiarity was comforting. “But I’m not wrong about what’s happening. Something is off, Owen. I still want to leave. I haven’t changed my mind about that.”
Owen sighed. “I spoke to Chuck. He said he’ll find us a place, but he doesn’t have anything open right now.” Claire started to speak, and Owen lifted her hands. “It’s just one more night, Claire. Just one more. Okay?”
Claire drew in a deep breath. “All right. But we leave tomorrow.”
“Right.” Owen kissed her forehead. “How was your dad?”
“Not good,” Claire answered. “He was himself for a little bit, and then… well, he wasn’t.”
“Putting him in a home is the best way for him to get the help that he needs,” Owen said, doing his best to sound reassuring. “They’ll be better equipped for stuff like that, and I promise that we’ll go and visit him at least once a week. Plus there’s phone calls, and video—”
“I don’t want to put him in a home,” Claire said. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and it’s not what my mom would have wanted.” She straightened her back. “It’s not what I want.”
Owen stood silent for what felt like an eternity before he sat down on the couch’s armrest and nodded slowly. “And you’re comfortable leaving your dad around the kids?” He looked her in the eye. “He’s only going to get worse.”
“I know, and yes, I am.” Claire stood firm, hoping that Owen couldn’t see her trembling. “I still don’t believe that he bit Matt. He wouldn’t have done that. I know him.”
“We’ll talk more about it later.” Owen turned toward their bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Claire crossed her arms then glanced up to the second floor where Chloe had spread out a series of blank white papers and spilled all of her crayons on the floor. Matt was sound asleep, but Claire made sure to keep his door propped wide open. He’d passed out the moment they got home from the hospital. She’d never seen him so tired, but she figured it was good he was sleeping.
The laptop was still on the couch, the power light glowing and blinking slowly. She sat down next to the computer, looking but not touching, wondering what she would find on her Google search of the town. Just as she was about to open the tabs, Chloe called for her upstairs. Claire left the computer on the couch, making a mental note to check those results later.
