by Lisa Unger
Who would call at this hour?
She checked the time: Noon. Oh.
There were always a few seconds on waking before it all came back like a wave. Sleep came only with pills—and that chemical slumber was an abyss, a psychic wasteland. And the first few moments of awakening were blessedly blank, with sunlight glowing at the edges of the mask. For a few brief moments, she was just Claire, ready to start another day.
Then the pain.
Her broken jaw, now tentatively healed, was always aching. Her arm, elbow pinned back together, tingling, still weak. Better not to think about her face. She avoided the mirror, though the swelling from surgery had gone down. The person she saw in the mirror was not familiar.
Her phone pinged. Voice mail. Dr. Bold.
Claire made no move to call back. Her phone was filled with unanswered messages, words of support and concern, calls from lawyers—hers and Billy’s. His hearing was coming up, and she would need to testify. She should answer, but it was as if she were moving through air that had substance and weight—it muffled sound, impeded movement. Her thinking was slowed. Just like in the painting.
She shifted out of bed and walked down the long hallway to the kitchen to brew some coffee. That was what she needed, caffeine and food; then she’d start returning calls. There was a slight burst of energy. But when she sat down at the table with her coffee and her scrambled eggs, she didn’t touch either. And when she was aware of herself again, it was two o’clock.
Now the doorbell. Then loud knocking.
“Claire,” came the muffled voice from outside. Her ex, Will. “I know you’re in there. Please, Claire.”
He’d been there. The first face she’d seen when she regained consciousness, through every surgery, spending the first few nights on her couch, Claire’s mother in the guest room. The two of them had been like angels, handling every facet of her recovery, getting her to doctors, cooking for her, cleaning, helping her in and out of the shower. Will talking to her late into the night.
He still loves you, her mother had said just before leaving. He’s a good man.
I know, she hadn’t said. It’s just that I don’t love him. Not like that. He deserves better.
“I’m going to use my key,” he said through the door.
She didn’t move to stop him. She listened as the lock engaged and he moved around the house, looking for her. When he walked into the kitchen, she was still sitting there in front of her cold breakfast. His body practically sagged with relief to see her.
“Claire,” he said gently. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so tired.”
His brow was wrinkled with concern as he sat across from her. “You’ve got to get ready.”
“For what?”
“Billy’s hearing is today.”
“Today? No—it’s the twentieth.” It was weeks away. She had time to get herself together, try to reconcile what she thought happened with what she had been told happened. The two things were going to coalesce when she was stronger, more able to process the attack; she believed that. Had to.
“Today is the twentieth, Claire.”
Time was a fun house, everything pulled and warped since her attack.
“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”
She’d almost said that she wasn’t there. That she was in the painting with Archie. But she’d stopped saying that because the look on Will’s face frightened her, a mirror of her own confusion and worry. “I don’t remember.”
Everyone could accept that she didn’t remember.
Winston Grann’s attack had been swift and brutal. He’d picked the lock on his restraints with a sliver of metal he’d been holding in his mouth, and when Claire had inexplicably stood to walk over to the painting, he’d leaped on her, first breaking her arm, then her jaw, then biting her mercilessly on the face. All this before Billy had even made it the few feet that separated them. Before Billy could subdue the patient, Grann had beaten Claire viciously, had his teeth on her throat. When Billy had been unable to pull Winston away, Billy had delivered a blow to Winston’s head that proved fatal. She had no memory of the event, which in extreme trauma was not unusual.
“I think you just have to be there, Claire,” said Will now. “No one expects you to remember.”
Will helped her get into the shower, pick out her outfit; he made her a smoothie, which she gratefully drank. By the time they were heading out, she felt better. She always told her patients to get up in the morning, get dressed, be sure to eat well. Just these simple things can reconnect you to the world, create a momentum toward wellness and normalcy.
The day was bright, leaves on the trees an aggressive green, sky a crystalline blue. The colors seemed to pulsate and swirl, mesmerizing Claire.
Will was talking as he drove. Unfortunately, Archie was talking, too, so she couldn’t hear Will. This was another thing she’d stopped telling people, that she could still hear Archie’s voice.
“Okay?” said Will as they pulled into the office complex and found a spot.
“Okay,” she said, even though she had no idea what Will had said.
It wasn’t a court hearing, just a conference room with a long oak table. Billy would defend his actions to the supervisory board to determine if he’d acted appropriately. No criminal charges were being brought.
Will waited outside and Claire entered alone. The room was bright, and Billy looked stuffed into his blue suit, stiff with nerves. But he smiled when he saw Claire, rose to greet her.
“Dr. Allen,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
He took her into a gentle embrace. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t move faster.”
“You did everything you could.”
Billy took his seat next to his lawyer, a small, elegantly featured woman with dark skin and a flowing wave of black hair. Claire’s own lawyer, Martin Gonzalez, was there, as well—hair graying, suit impeccable, a bold red tie. She sat in the chair he pulled out beside him.
A slim young man who identified himself as Dr. Bruce Shaw, the head of the review board for the hospital, began the questioning. Claire struggled to maintain her focus as the hearing began. The room was overwarm. Outside, trees swayed. The sky looked to be darkening.
They’ll never understand what happened. Not really, Archie whispered.
“Dr. Allen rose,” Billy said. Claire snapped back at the mention of her name. “And walked around her desk. She seemed to be looking at the painting that was hanging behind Winston Grann.”
“What were you doing, Dr. Allen?” asked Dr. Shaw. His wire-rimmed glasses reflected the sun coming in the window.
“The painting—it looked odd,” she said. “I was drawn to it.”
She hated how wobbly she sounded, how unsatisfactory was her statement. It earned some frowns around the table.
“Odd how?” Dr. Shaw pressed.
“Can we keep the questioning to the matter at hand?” asked Martin.
Shaw gave a terse nod. “Go on, Mr. Jenkins.”
“And as Dr. Allen passed by Winston Grann, his restraints fell away, and he attacked the doctor.”
“His restraints fell away.”
“He apparently had a small piece of metal in his mouth, which he used to pick the locks.”
“While you and Dr. Allen were both present in the room?”
“Apparently,” said Billy, looking down at his hands. It was hard to understand how any of it had happened. Claire noticed that Billy had bitten his nails to the quick. Anxiety. He had a wife and a young son. He couldn’t afford to lose his job, or have the taint of wrongdoing prevent him from getting another one. She had to help him.
“What happened next?” asked Shaw.
“When I was unable to pull Grann off of Dr. Allen—”
“You were unable to pull him off. Mr. Jenkins
, you’re six foot four and weigh in at”—Shaw looked down at his notes, pushed up his glasses—“two hundred and twenty pounds. Mr. Grann was under five foot five, weighed one hundred and thirty pounds, and led a mostly sedentary life.”
Billy nodded, rubbed at the crown of his head. “That’s right. But he was, like, locked on to her. I couldn’t pull him away. And there was so much blood. It was . . . slippery.”
“So what did you do?”
“I used my club and I hit him in the head, hoping he would lose consciousness. Which he did.”
“And his life. He lost his life.”
Billy nodded, stricken. “I had to save Dr. Allen. He was killing her. That’s what I was thinking, that I just had to get him to let go of her.”
There was more back-and-forth between the lawyers and Shaw. But Archie was laughing, so it was hard to concentrate.
“Dr. Allen, you’ve given a statement about the attack, which we have here. You’ve stated that you don’t remember what happened.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t. But I have no doubt that Billy Jenkins acted in my defense and only used the force that was necessary to save my life. I’ve known him for five years, and his actions with patients have always been exemplary.”
“And what about your actions?” asked Billy’s lawyer.
“Dr. Allen’s behavior is not at question here,” said Martin quickly.
“But she violated the hospital policy to stay as far away from Grann as possible. By walking around the desk, she instigated a violent criminal, and caused my client to use deadly force to save her life.”
“This is not what we’re here to discuss,” said Martin.
“A patient is dead, and my client could lose his job because Dr. Allen wanted to look at a painting.”
“I take full responsibility,” Claire said. She would gladly take any punishment if it meant that Billy would be cleared of wrongdoing.
“Claire,” said Martin, putting a hand on her arm.
“Truly,” she said. She felt calm and focused, alert for the first time in a while. “It was my fault. I can’t explain what happened in that room. But I know Billy only acted to protect me. He should be commended, not reprimanded. I was the one who breached protocol, got distracted. Working with Winston Grann was a strain; maybe I wasn’t coping as well as I thought.”
“My client has been through a lot,” said Martin, his hand still resting on her arm. “Let’s take a break.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Shaw with an officious nod. “We have all we need for Mr. Jenkins’s review. We’ll be in touch about Dr. Allen’s.”
“What were you thinking, Claire?” asked Martin outside. Will stood behind her, a bolstering hand on her shoulder.
“I was thinking about Billy. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Neither do you,” Martin said. He had a kind face, warm eyes—not very lawyerly. He was more fatherly, which was why she liked him. She never knew her own father, but if she had, she’d want him to look at her just like that. “If they question your behavior, you could be in danger of losing your license to practice.”
“That figures. I’m viciously attacked by a convicted serial killer, nearly killed, and I, and the man who defended me, are the ones in trouble.”
Will put an arm around her, and she fought the urge to push him away; he crowded her. That was one of the things that had bothered her most. He hovered. She was cold, withholding—that was his complaint during their marriage. You’re always shutting me out.
“It’s not fair; you’re right,” said Martin. “And if you cooperate with me, I can get you through this, and you’ll be back with your patients when you’re well.” He always sounded so sure of himself. His suits were impeccable and his cologne smelled like money.
It doesn’t matter, whispered Archie. You’re done with all of this.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Claire. Her own voice sounded distant and far away.
Will and Martin exchanged a look of concern, which she pretended not to notice.
“Let’s get you home,” said Will.
“I’ll make some calls and we’ll regroup tomorrow, okay, Claire?” Martin’s voice had taken on the softness people use with children and the mentally ill.
“Yes, of course.”
Back at her house, Will made some tea and brought it to her where she sat on the window seat in the living room. They’d bought this house together when they were just married, in love. Although, maybe she’d never really loved him. Not as she should. He was just the first safe place she’d found. He was strong and solid, predictable and upright. All the things she’d loved at first later bored her to tears.
He’d let her have the house. In fact, he’d given her everything she’d wanted—money wasn’t an issue for Will, or for her—and let her go without a fight. I love you, he’d told her. But I won’t beg you to love me back.
“Talk to me,” he said now. “Tell me where you’re at.”
Get rid of him, said Archie.
“I’m okay,” she said. She tried for a smile, the muscles of her face aching. “Really. I just need some sleep.”
“You don’t seem like—yourself, Claire. I mean, I know you’ve been through a horrific trauma. But—”
He doesn’t know you, whispered Archie. I’m the only one who really knows you.
“I just need the time and space to heal. You’re right; I’m not myself. I’m probably not going to be the person I was before. I’m working toward the new normal.”
Will nodded vigorously, hands folded. “I want to be here for you.”
“You are. You have been. Thank you.”
She knew the words sounded cool, dismissive. Will pressed his full lips into a disappointed line. He looked tired. She flashed on a beach vacation they’d taken, where his skin had been brown from the sun and his golden curls were wild in the wind. They’d been happy then. Maybe she hadn’t loved him enough, but there had been plenty of good times. Lots of laughs. Great sex. She felt a tug back to him, to the person she was then.
He’s dull, complained Archie. He bores me.
“I’ll call you,” she said gently. “As soon as I wake up.”
“I’ll bring you breakfast.”
“That would be great,” she said, smiling. She reached out her hand, and he rose to take it. “You’ve always been so good to me.”
“I love you,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “That hasn’t changed. It won’t.”
She looked down, the words sticking in her throat. He let go of her hand, smiling sadly.
“You don’t have to say it. It doesn’t matter. See you tomorrow.”
From her perch, she watched him disappear down the walk, relief mingling with sadness. She imagined herself leaping up and running out the door, stopping him as he backed out of her driveway. Don’t go. Please. Something’s happened to me. Something I can’t understand. I’m afraid. But she didn’t do that. The part of her that wanted to was bound and gagged; her limbs felt filled with sand.
As soon as she lost sight of him, the afternoon sun seemed to disappear from the sky, and the room darkened, everything cast in shadow. And there was Archie, sitting easily on the chair by the fireplace. She rose to greet him, and he moved toward her, seeming to glide. Then he surrounded her like smoke, a twisting black cloud that engulfed and swallowed her until she didn’t exist at all.
5.
What now?
Matthew woke to what he thought was the sound of his wife moving furniture. A long scraping, like a chair being dragged across the hardwood floor. But when he turned over in the bed, she was sound asleep beside him. He envied her. Samantha was a woman who, no matter what might be happening in their lives, fell immediately to sleep and slept like a stone for eight solid hours. She was hard to rouse, which was why he’d never imagined she’d hear the phone when Sylvia had called late last night.
He listened now. Silence.
He almost drifted off, then startle
d awake, hearing it again.
This time it went on a little longer, sounded more like the moan of wood under pressure, and he climbed out of bed. The house was full of strange noises, that weird hum, creaks and snaps, sighs, doors swinging open, drafts. But he wasn’t afraid of Merle House. They had a relationship he’d nearly forgotten—he and this place. It wasn’t a good relationship, but they understood each other. Or so he liked to think.
Avery March seemed confident that she could sell the place—as a curiosity, or a bed-and-breakfast, or, earning an enthusiastic nod from Samantha, a writers’ retreat. She hadn’t brought up the old abandoned building deep on the property, though she must know about it. He certainly wasn’t going to mention it to Samantha, because then he’d have to take her out there. And that wasn’t going to happen. If he wanted to discuss it with March, he’d have to find a way to talk to her alone.
Meanwhile, there was a punch list of huge repairs he had to do, from replacing the HVAC to fixing the leaks in the roof, installing a security system for theft, fire, and carbon monoxide, and a raft of other things from floor to paint to landscaping.
It’s not rocket science, Samantha had said after March left. We’ll learn how to do some of it on YouTube. And there’s no rush, right?
No rush. They were living off their savings. He’d be lucky to ever get another university job. His book, the one he’d been working on for years, had been rejected by five publishers and counting. Jewel, who was going to school online, would probably graduate before they’d expected; she’d made it clear she couldn’t wait to get away from them (him), and the plan had always been NYU. Samantha didn’t think about money. She figured when they needed it, it would just appear. He didn’t share her faith.
And now this scraping noise. Any strange noise in a house meant money down the drain.
He walked down the hall toward Jewel’s room. He found her sprawled on her bed in a T-shirt and underwear, earbuds in, night-light glowing pink, covers kicked to the floor. He walked in to pick up her comforter and cover her. She sighed and rolled in her sleep.
