He’s smoking pot with his friends again. I know all about that, and about Jeremy’s obsession with music and art, and I also know it will get him nowhere the same way it did me. Jeremy gets decent grades, but he doesn’t have a focus. And as much as I want to be a good father, even a cool father, I can’t condone my kids leaving their futures up to fate and luck.
“Jeremy!” Jeremy doesn’t stir. I move forward, dreading the arguments and lectures I’ll have to carry out over the next day or two. “Goddammit Jeremy, get in the house.”
Jeremy’s head lolls when I shake his shoulder, and the heat of my ire turns to cold fear. Something is wrong, and it sure as hell isn’t from a little weed. Blood covers his forehead. His coat is open, the shirt beneath torn and red, and his chest barely moves with shallow breaths. Maybe he was mugged, as unlikely as that is in our rural neighborhood on the outskirts of town. How long has he been sitting here while I stood inside, annoyed at his tardiness?
“Jeremy?” I get no response. “Sheila, Jeremy’s hurt!”
I grab Jeremy under the arms and pull him past Sheila at the door, then lug him to the couch, almost dropping him when his head flops to the side. The wound on his temple looks bad. Terrifyingly bad. At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, but something grayish-pink glistens in the center of the deep hole. My legs buckle before I regain my footing and set him down.
Sheila sinks beside Jeremy, face paling when she sees his temple. “He’s not breathing! Call 911.”
She shoves me out of the way, then pulls Jeremy to the floor and starts CPR. I run to the kitchen for my phone. It takes three tries before a recorded voice tells me to hold for an operator, and all I can think is that I’ll let Jeremy smoke pot until the cows come home—hell, I’ll buy Jeremy his weed—if this turns out okay. If he’s okay.
I drop the phone and run for the living room at Sheila’s high-pitched scream. Jeremy is on his feet with Sheila clutched in his arms, his mouth buried in her face. At my shout, he turns and locks eyes with me, lips thinning with a hiss.
It’s not Jeremy. Not this ashen thing with half its face coated in Sheila’s blood, its once-dark eyes a lighter brown under a filmy glaze. He turns back to his mother, mouth opening on the way to her neck, and the truth hits like a fist to the solar plexus.
Jeremy is infected.
I snap out of my shock and yank him away by his shirt. My son, the quiet kid who barely argues, the kid in whom I see echoes of my young acquiescent self, lunges for me with snapping teeth. I stumble back as he advances, grabbing his outstretched arm by the wrist and swinging him around, then I grab the other arm to lock them both behind his back. His head thrashes side to side as I push him out the front door and toss him down the porch steps. I slam the door and lock it before rushing to the living room.
Sheila sits in the easy chair, her hand cupping her cheek. Blood runs through her fingers. Another bite mark blazes on her forearm. “What did…?” she asks, eyes round from shock and pain. “Something’s wrong with him. Don’t leave him out there!”
I shake my head and run for a dishtowel. I saw the deathly pallor of Jeremy’s face, the nothing in his eyes, his brain gleaming through that terrible hole in his head. And while I’m firmly grounded in reality, I don’t automatically dispense with far-fetched theories when all evidence proves otherwise. I laughed off the crazy talk on the internet last night, but I’m not laughing now.
Back in the living room, I land on my knees and move Sheila’s hand from her cheek, gulping at the ragged hole Jeremy’s teeth made. When I’d pictured someone infected with the virus, I’d imagined anger, maybe a feverish rage. I’d imagined human. I press the dishtowel to the mess of tissue and place Sheila’s hand over top while I rise to get my phone. Her eyes follow me, accusing me of betraying our son.
I swallow to hold back a sob, to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. “Jeremy’s not right,” I say, as much to convince myself as her. “He would’ve killed you.”
Sheila stares, unwilling or, more likely, unable to take in this truth. She looks ill. Her hair is dark with sweat. Rivulets run from her temple, mingle with blood, and drip off her chin onto her blouse. Her good cheek is pale, the other pink as though infection has been brewing for days.
“No,” she says, although it’s weak. “No. Don’t leave him. Don’t do what you always…” She closes her eyes.
“Hang on,” I say softly. There’s no time to explain, and she probably wouldn’t believe me. “Just hold on, sweetie. We’ll fix this.”
If Jeremy has the virus, then Sheila has it now. I push down the fear and confusion, the horror of Jeremy out there, reduced to something I don’t recognize. I had to do it before he hurt her worse, but I still feel as though I turned my back on my son. If I can do anything, it’s lock those feelings away and focus on the future. And right now the future involves keeping my wife alive.
I can barely breathe by the time the dispatcher answers on the fifth ring. “My wife. She’s been bitten. I need an ambulance.”
“Sir, can you make it to the hospital yourself?” she asks. “It would be faster. All cars are out on calls.”
I don’t answer, only hang up and try to ignore the memory of what I saw online: 100% fatal to all who contract Bornavirus. But the radio said there’s a treatment. Maybe it works before the virus goes too far. Before you reach Jeremy’s point.
Sheila slumps against the back of the overstuffed chair. The hand that holds the bloody dishtowel rests in her lap. Blood races down her drooping jaw and soaks her shirt. She opens her eyes—unfocused and icy—when I touch her shoulder.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I say firmly, in an effort to hide my terror.
She gives a long, slow blink. I bend to scoop her up, but she pushes me with feeble arms. “Jeremy. Help. Please…”
Her eyes roll up until only half of each pupil is visible before they snap into place, awaiting my answer. I pick her up, arms under her shoulders and knees, and pause when I see the chair cushion beneath is sodden with blood. Far too much blood. Wetness soaks into my sleeve under her shoulders. Her arm drops from her side to reveal a tear in the armpit of her shirt—a wound I missed, and one much more important. I stanched the flow of blood from her cheek while the whole time she was bleeding out from a deep, shredded gouge in her flesh.
As I move through the kitchen toward the garage, Sheila releases a sigh that coincides with a loosening of her limbs. Her head drops back, mouth open. Dead weight. I set her on the kitchen floor and fall to my knees beside her, then shake her shoulder and shout her name. Nothing. Her face is pale, so pale. I feel her neck for a pulse, but my fingers shake so badly I can’t be sure I’d feel it.
I pump her chest, lean to blow into her mouth, and stop short. The virus is transmitted through blood and saliva, and Sheila’s lips are smeared with both. I pump her chest again, begging for assistance from God, from anything and anyone. Her blood spreads across the floor, a pool of dark liquid on beige tile, but I can’t stop. It would mean giving up, and I don’t give up. I pump until my knees are wet, until Sheila’s lifeless body jerks with every push of my hands. I’m hurting her. I don’t want to hurt her.
Hissing noises come from outside, and rather than look at my dead wife, I stagger to the window. The sun is down. Jeremy sways by the steps, staring at the house with a slack expression, and the utter lack of life may be worse than his snarls. Two more figures stand beside him—a blood-soaked man, a woman in shredded clothing—attracted by the porch light in this dark part of town. I shut it off and return to Sheila lying in the light of the stove’s hood. She can’t be dead. It’s not possible. I kneel and take her hand, averting my eyes from her mangled cheek.
I love her as much as I did when we met in college. Back then, I was focused on my degree, trying to prove myself to my father, but I never had to prove anything to Sheila. One day in class I made an off-color joke. She threw back her head with a laugh, then said, “Tom, you’re not as straigh
t-laced as you want people to think, are you?”
She’s seen through me ever since, accepted me. She knows all humans are fallible and forgives them their trespasses. It’s what I most admire about her, more than her intelligence or beauty or humor.
Her eyelids twitch, and a flame of hope lights in my chest. Maybe the CPR worked. I make a noise that’s supposed to be her name, although my mouth is too parched to manage it. Sheila turns her head with a jerk. Her pallid skin and blank eyes are Jeremy all over again. I’d hoped the virus made you aggressive until you were dead, not after you were dead, but now the even more far-fetched truths are making themselves known.
Zombies.
Sheila’s deep growl takes me by surprise. Make no mistake, we’ve had our share of arguments that Sheila usually wins, but this is venomous, almost like hatred. Her body shudders, and her hands flex before they reach for me.
For a split-second, so quick I can almost convince myself it didn’t happen, I think I’ll let her do it. I’ll go down into the abyss with my wife and son. But my mind flashes to Clara on her way home. I can’t give up.
I pull a steak knife from the block on the counter. Sheila rolls to her side, clawing at my pants. These are good knives—one length of shining stainless steel. It takes almost no strength to pin her head to the tile floor, but the effort of will it takes is enormous.
I think of Clara as I sink the knife behind Sheila’s ear; it’s the only way I can bring myself to do it. I don’t know that I could do it to Jeremy. The scrape on bone reverberates through my body, thickens my saliva, and I don’t have the fortitude to remove the blade after Sheila goes still. I rush to the sink and vomit, then wash it down, moving the faucet side to side to eliminate every trace. As if my regurgitated lunch matters when Sheila lies only feet away.
Dimly, I hear myself mumble for forgiveness, and what makes it worse is that Sheila would forgive me. And she’d do it without a second thought.
7
Rose
Empty Thai food containers litter the dining room table. The kids are in the living room with Pop, while Mitch and I sit at the breakfast counter with a bottle of white wine. “Did you rob a cracker store or something?” she asks, raising her chin at the kitchen counter, where no fewer than ten boxes of crackers reside.
“You know I have no portion control when it comes to party food,” I say. “And crackers soak up wine, speaking of which…” I dump more into our glasses. “After this glass, we’re going to the basement to play with the karaoke machine.”
I rented one for the party because karaoke is the best invention ever, especially when you’re worried you’ll throw the worst party ever. You can’t be bored when you have karaoke. Or maybe someone can, but Mitch, Craig, and I will have a great time.
“It’d better have ‘Islands in the Stream,’ or else we’re in a fight.”
“Of course it does,” I say. “I’m not a monster.”
Mitch laughs, and I lift my phone to check the time. “What the hell could Ethan be doing?” she asks. “Besides the obvious.”
I shrug. It’s dark, and he isn’t home. I added my own message to Holly’s, asking Ethan to call. I said we were worried. And I am, somewhat, but I’m also relieved. If he isn’t home, I don’t have to watch him for signs of drug use, don’t have to pretend all is well. If I don’t pretend, it leads to a discussion in which Ethan accuses me of not caring for him, of being cold and distant, followed by speculation that I’m looking for someone or something else.
“What’s going on?” Mitch leans in close. “Tell me.”
“I’m just tired of it, you know?”
“I’m tired of it, and he’s not my husband. Did you have another fight?”
I dip my finger in my wine and run it around the rim of my glass to produce a high-pitched chime, the way I did on Mom’s glass when I was young. I always stuck my finger in my mouth afterward, grimacing at the taste while Mom laughed. It’s a good memory.
“No fight,” I finally say. “Another talk. It doesn’t matter, it’s over now.”
Mitch deserves more, but I can barely explain to myself what happens in those talks. For years, Ethan joked good-naturedly at how I could spend an entire day inside a book, but now it means I’m ignoring him. If I make plans outside the house, he picks a fight with me before I leave. Instead of saying I look good, the way he always did, he maligns my makeup and asks who I expect to impress. He acts as if I haven’t been faithful for over twenty years, as if he doesn’t know me at all.
“It’s not over,” Mitch says quietly. “It never is. Do you realize you don’t laugh half as much as you used to? You’re not the same. I know there’s more, and, fine, you don’t have to tell me, but I can guess. And I can’t stand it, Ro.”
I want to blame the wine for the way my eyes sting, but it’s the ring of truth in Mitch’s words. I second-guess my every move. If I don’t, Ethan does. At times I think I’m going crazy. Down is up. Up is sideways. And when Ethan says I’ve changed, that I’ve turned cold and callous, I double down to prove him wrong while wondering if he’s right.
But Mitch has cut through the fog, made it crystal clear. Ethan controls me with his addiction, with his unpredictable emotions, and I let him do it. I’m already ashamed of my weakness, but now I’m one of them: the women who allow it to go on. The ones about whom everyone says, I’d never let that happen. I’d be out the door so fast your head would spin.
I once said the same, but now I know how it happens. Slowly. In increments. The fact that I’ve spent half my life with Ethan means I can’t give up on him easily. I know who he is, who he was. Who he could be again. I’ve convinced myself it’s best not to upset him, to encourage him, to wait out his moods and yield to his whims because of his precarious sobriety. But the truth is that he’s playing the tune, and I’m dancing like the organ grinder’s monkey.
I look down at my limp hands in my lap, blinking away tears. Mitch touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry, lady. I shouldn’t have said that.”
We both know it’s exactly what she should’ve said. I can’t explain how I’ve reached this place, but Mitch doesn’t need an explanation, which eases the mortification somewhat.
I don’t love him the way I once did. He’s hurt me too many times to let myself be vulnerable like that again. When I tell myself I love him, I’m coasting on familiarity, on the belief that I always have, so I still must. But I can’t do this anymore, not now that I see it so clearly. Not if I have any self-respect left.
I wipe my eyes. “No, you’re right.” My small laugh has a sob quality to it. “Great timing with that speech, by the way, what with the party this weekend.”
Mitch stares for a moment before her giant laugh bursts forth, and I join in until I clutch my stomach. I have to laugh. Otherwise, I’ll cry, and I’m done crying.
“What’s so funny?” Jesse calls.
That sets us off again. I bend to the counter, breaths coming in gusts. “My stomach. Ow, stop.”
Mitch pats my back. She hiccups, breathes out, and hiccups again. Mitch isn’t pretty in the conventional sense—except for her eyes, her features are sturdy, utilitarian—but she has presence. Her kindness lights her up, and her ability to laugh at everyone, including herself, makes her brown eyes glow. Her skin is gorgeous, with hardly a wrinkle in sight although she’s basked in the sun for decades, which turns her from a tawny beige to a deep brown.
Mitch was adopted, her biological mother a fair-skinned teenager with blue eyes, and her father unknown. When asked her ethnicity, Mitch always replies Human. It caused her much distress growing up, when everyone wants to fit in, to belong somewhere. In true Mitch fashion, she finally said fuck it to the whole idea and blazed her own path.
I was glad to have been along for the ride, even if I watched from a distance. While I was twenty with a kid on the way, Mitch traveled the world. When I was juggling two kids, community college, and a job, she graduated Berkeley with two degrees. She lived in San Francisc
o for years, then became successful enough to move home and work as a consultant, which is as mysterious to me as it is lucrative for Mitch. The crux of it is that she tells corporations and their employees what’s wrong with them. Basically, what she’s just done here.
I wipe my face a final time and roll my head on my neck. “Maybe you should be my life consultant.”
“You’ll be able to afford me when you sell Winter Realty.”
I push her arm. I’ve been dreading the sale of the business, mainly because I worried about Ethan having nothing to do but drugs and even more money to blow on them. But maybe it’s good timing. Ethan and I can split the money, go our separate ways. Not scouring the bank statement for suspicious purchases and ATM withdrawals will be refreshing. As will an empty house where I can do what I want without tiptoeing around. I could drag Mitch to visit Craig and see what kind of trouble we can get into. The idea sounds unbelievably freeing.
“Have you spoken to Craig?” I ask.
“Just eight thousand times. Mitch, what should I wear? What are you wearing? Do you think the plane will crash? Why not? You can’t know that for sure. What are you eating? Stop chewing into the phone, it’s disgusting.”
She asks the questions in the fast tempo of Craig’s anxious voice, and I laugh. “Okay, good. I couldn’t get in touch with him today.”
“Not today. This was two days ago. I told him I’d see him when he got here, otherwise I’d have to strangle him through the phone.”
I play peacemaker between the two, though it’s more of a joke than anything else. When I moved to Eugene from Brooklyn in the middle of high school, I was angry and lonely and completely unprepared for how moving from the city seemed to move me back in time ten years. My combat boots and vintage clothes made me an outcast, and I endured snarky comments and outright animosity from kids who still teased their hair and pegged their jeans long after it was out of fashion back east. My shyness made me friendless, until the day Mitch and Craig descended on me like the Freak Squad Welcome Wagon. I’d found my people—funny, weird, and every bit as out of place as I was.
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 4
