by C F Dunn
She left the kitchen without replying and moments later returned with the folder. As I took it, she held on, the manila cardboard a no-man’s land between us. “Did you find the notes interesting?” she cooed.
“They were as I expected.”
“And those on Kort Staahl?”
Ah, so she had intended me to find them. “Ditto.” I tugged and she let go of the folder. “One thing, though,” I said as she turned to leave. “What happened to the pet rabbit?”
She paused with her hand on the door and looked back at me, her eyes slits. “He ate it,” she said and let the door close resolutely behind her.
CHAPTER
6
Unmasking Monsters
Sometimes I had to admit to being my own worst enemy. Trees rising in guard-red plumes gave the secure facility a semblance of grandeur, the modern glass-fronted exterior more akin to a corporate headquarters than a psychiatric unit, but it couldn’t disguise the sense of threat I felt in approaching it, nor the all-pervading dread on entering the lobby.
At reception, I swapped my bag for a visitor’s pass, and a security guard escorted me to the visitor’s room where a member of the nursing staff greeted me and rattled through a list of dos and don’ts I barely heard over the jangling in my head. I sat at a table wondering for the millionth time why I felt compelled to do this, when I heard the familiar suppressed exhalation through closed teeth that had my hair rising along my arms and me fighting the impulse to run. I glued myself to my seat as Staahl was led to the chair opposite and sat down. I didn’t – couldn’t – look at him. He spoke first.
“I didn’t know who they meant at first when they said I had a visitor. It took me a moment to realize it must be you, despite your change of name. So, you are married now,” he stated. I covered my rings with my other hand as if that would somehow protect my new life from contamination. He followed my movement with interest. “It explains why you haven’t been to see me. I’ve been expecting you, Emma; I’ve missed our little chats. I’m pleased to see you.” Was he? His voice maintained the monotone I recognized from our few, memorable encounters. “I’m glad you were able to find the time to visit. The term must be well underway and I expect you have new students to teach.” A fly buzzed and settled on the table between us and began cleaning its legs. “I miss my students. I teach literacy to some of the other… clients. The psychiatrists believe it will help me to develop empathy.” If they did, they must have been disappointed, as Staahl remained as colourless and empty as when I’d seen him as I lay on the floor of the porters’ lodge on the brink of death. A year ago. A year ago to the day.
I had nothing to say. “Yes,” I managed, my throat rigid with nerves.
The air moved; he must have nodded. “They tell me I have a mental illness and that is why I am here, to help me recover. But I don’t feel ill.” He looked around the bland room, at the burly nurse waiting nearby, and then back at me. “I have the most attentive care from the doctors. They say I am a complex case, but I sometimes think that they don’t know what to do with me. I’m told the medication helps, but it doesn’t feel like it. It blunts my thought processes, dampens my desire to learn. You must understand how frustrating that must be for me, Emma – to not be able to think clearly, not be able to feel. Perhaps you could speak with them…?”
“No,” I said hurriedly.
“Then why are you here? Have you come to ask my forgiveness?”
Was he joking? I risked looking at him but found his grey, expressionless eyes probing and sincere. Fine lines creased his skin as if he had had life sucked out of him, leaving a husk, and he had aged.
“No,” I said again. Then why had I come, I asked myself, if all I was going to do was sit here like a mutton chop? I focused on the fly. “I… I needed to see you,” I said at last. “I want to know why you thought there was a connection between us; why you did what you… did.”
“Ah,” he said, his gaze dropping to the inch of scar showing on the inside of my left arm. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, I pulled my sleeve over my wrist. Staahl linked his fingers on the table and leaned forwards, disturbing the fly. I drew back into my chair, and he smiled with the same expression of regret I had last seen in the atrium a year ago. “I’ve been told that I hurt you, but how could I hurt someone already suffering as you did? You wore guilt like a mantle when you should have been able to accept the part of you that longed to be free to express your innermost needs.”
“What needs?” I asked, despite myself.
For an instant, he looked puzzled. “To understand your desires you must first conquer your fear.” He tapped his forehead, making a hollow tokking noise. “Instead you kept them subjugated by that,” he indicated my cross, “and bred guilt. I wanted to show you the way to freedom, to release you. I wanted to consume your fear.”
In being here I confronted nothing more than his madness. There had been no rhyme nor reason behind his actions other than the delusions of his mind. What had I expected? A full-frontal confession, his remorse? Or merely the chance to see the man inside the monster and, in understanding him, kill it? I took my time before answering.
“You’re right in one respect. I did feel guilt, but it wasn’t as a result of my faith, but because I didn’t trust God enough to sort it out for me. I tried to rely on my own resources, but how could I lean on something that was broken and waiting to be mended?”
Tilting his head, he viewed me with a relentless eye, before a breathless sigh slipped out. “And are you mended now?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “I am now.”
“Then you’re here to forgive me?” he asked, a touch incredulous.
“I wasn’t,” I admitted, “because I didn’t know how. I let you become a monster because you frightened and hurt me, but you’re not, are you? You’re unwell, that’s all. I saw it at the trial, but I didn’t fully understand.”
Curiosity broke the featureless plane of his face. “On that last day, before they took me away, there was a light – in my head. It was too bright, like a searchlight, and I couldn’t escape it.”
I remembered the chaos of emotions in colours as I slipped from life, demanding my attention, begging for recognition, and then a presence – colourless and devoid of light. I had recognized Staahl before he went berserk and had to be taken, screaming, from the courtroom.
“That was you,” he stated. “I thought I was mad.” He tracked the progress of the fly as it sought invisible sustenance from the yellow-grained wood. “So you came here today – on this special day, a day we will always share – to understand me better. And do you understand me now?” The fly launched, circled, and landed close to Staahl’s manacled hands lying exposed on the table.
Did I? “I don’t think I’ll ever understand what drove you to do the things you did, but I realize now that you didn’t hurt me out of malice. I never shared your fascination with pain and darkness. I studied torture because I wanted to comprehend the motives of the men behind such acts and in doing so find the light and their humanity. But sometimes the light isn’t there to be found, is it?”
Staahl didn’t answer immediately, seemingly intent on the progress of the insect towards his outstretched fingers. “A fly doesn’t think; it follows its instincts free of guilt and shame. Man is obsessed with rules that restrict his true nature.” He watched the fly and with a sudden sweep of his hand brought the palm, smack, down on top of it, making me jump back. The nurse darted forward, but stepped back again as Staahl examined the oozing corpse with intense interest. With a flick of his tongue, he consumed it, savouring before swallowing. I stared in fascinated horror and he gave a slow, thin smile. “That will give my psychiatrists something to talk about at their next case meeting.” He closed his eyes, the balls darting back and forth beneath the crêped lids. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since being in here. It’s so much quieter than the state prison they put me in at first. I thought I would go mad. I could hear the other men ranting like lunati
cs. It is disturbing being surrounded by the insane, but Dr Lynes helped me come to terms with who I am, and I found it comforting to know that she understood what you mean to me. You mean a lot to her, Emma, do you know that? She mentioned you a great deal, although I couldn’t understand why she felt it necessary to attack you during the trial. I think she was on the verge of a breakdown,. Don’t you?”
“I think I’d better go.” The chair scraped across the hygienic floor as I made ready to stand. Staahl opened his eyes.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I knew you would.”
“When you were a boy, why did you eat your pet rabbit?” I asked on impulse.
“My konijn?” His expression became almost dreamy, then he fixed me with his blank stare. “It hated captivity; I set it free.”
I sat in the car, hands on the steering wheel and engine running, staring at nothing in particular, until a security guard rapped on the window.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
The window rolled down and I released the breath I seemed to have been holding forever. “No, thank you, I’m really quite all right. I’ll be off in a minute. I’m not in the way, am I?”
“No, ma’am. Just as long as you’re OK.”
“I am, thank you.” And as I said it, I realized how true it was with a certainty I hadn’t felt for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like. I smiled. “Thanks, I am.”
CHAPTER
7
Blood Sinister
Henry popped his head around the back door and knocked. “Apologies for disturbing you at work, Emma, but have you seen Ellie recently? She’s not answering her cell.”
My finger hovered over send. “She dropped by to leave something for Matthew and then I saw her heading out after lunch, Henry. She must have left, oh…” I checked the time in the corner of the screen, squinting until it came into view, “… about an hour ago.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, she didn’t. Is everything OK?”
He came into the kitchen, knocking clods of late winter snow from his boots, and sat down next to me at the table, looking tired. “She was supposed to see me for her health check and have her bloods done. That’s the third time she’s missed a date.”
“And she’s not forgetful.”
He shook his head. “No, she isn’t. I don’t know why she’s avoiding the tests. She knows how important it is to monitor her health in these last few weeks of pregnancy. Did she say anything to you?”
“She was a bit twitchy, but I put that down to her feeling like an overripe watermelon. She wanted to get some baby things in town, but I thought she had arranged to go with Jeannie. Can’t the tests be done when she gets home?” I hauled myself, with my own growing bump, to my feet and went to find my new glasses left next to the kettle.
“It’s not just a question of the tests, Emma; she’s taking risks with her health that might impact on us all.”
Cradling my stomach, I leaned against the counter, chewing the end of my specs. “How so?”
“If she goes into premature labour, or needs greater facilities than we have here, she’ll have to be hospitalized. They’ll do all the procedural checks as routine, and it’ll only take someone with sharp eyes and half a brain cell in the phlebotomy department to spot the anomalies in her blood.”
“I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”
“Obvious – no, but it would flag up questions we could well do without. They wouldn’t know what they were looking at and would be obliged to run further screening. It’s a risk we can’t afford to take. Ellie’s the first Lynes girl to give birth, and we don’t exactly know what to expect.”
“Hence all the health checks. So what will you do if there is an emergency?”
Henry slapped his hands on the tops of his thighs and stood up. “That’s just one bridge we’ll have to cross if we come to it. Until then, I’d better find my errant granddaughter and give her a transfusion of common sense.”
I laughed. “Perhaps a transfusion of Matthew’s blood wouldn’t go amiss. There’s plenty of common sense in him.”
“If only we could. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not?” I asked, still smiling at the idea.
He stopped by the back door, one hand on the latch. “I thought you knew,” he said, suddenly serious. “His blood’s incompatible with ours – with everyone’s. One drop is enough to kill.”
* * *
“Rex is a bit frisky,” I mused later that evening, balancing my tea on my bulge and watching the minute unpredictable ripples as the baby moved.
“Rex?” Matthew came back into our bedroom, towelling his hair into random sheaves.
“T-Rex – you know, like the one in Jurassic Park.” The baby conveniently kicked, and the surface of the tea wobbled. Removing the cup, Matthew sat on the bed next to me and placed his hand on my stomach, smiling as his offspring wriggled beneath his palm. Light played through his hair as he replaced his hand with his lips, giving him a halo of gold. Everything about him seemed so benign and nothing hinted at a darker secret. “Matthew, why is your blood so dangerous?” He looked up, eyes cobalt in the light of the bedside lamp. “Henry said it would kill anyone who had a transfusion of it.”
“Did he? Yes, he’s right in that respect. Do you remember me telling you about the experiments I did a long time ago when I tried to save people’s lives by giving them my blood?”
“Yes, you said they died.”
“I didn’t know then about the negative immune response – no one did. If you try giving someone incompatible blood, you run the risk of them going into shock, sometimes developing septicaemia, and worse. Since then we’ve discovered how diverse combinations of blood types can be – millions of variations – although we tend to classify them into main groups for practical reasons…”
“Such as giving transfusions?”
“Among other things. Most people fall into these groups, but a number have such rare blood types that they have to be on a register of rare blood groups in case of an emergency.”
“And you’re one of those people?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of” didn’t rate as an explanation, but he picked up the damp towel and took it back to the bathroom without expanding his answer. I waited until he returned.
“Well?”
“Well, I have a rare blood type all right. Unique, in fact.”
“As a result of what happened to you?”
“I don’t know, perhaps – probably – but all the Lynes blood throws a marker that appears specific to the family; it’s just that mine alone seems wholly incompatible with the rest of humanity. It’s a pity; I once hoped to use it to do some good.” There, that slide into self-doubt that still haunted him, that aching vulnerability.
“You do what you can, Matthew, and it’s more than many. You have nothing to atone for in being who you are; it was beyond your control.”
“I suppose it was.” He checked the shutters and closed the curtains, and climbed into bed, tucking the duvet around me. “Sorry. This baby has made me rather more introspective than usual. It’s made me realize how reserved I had to be around Ellen when she was carrying Henry, and how I don’t need to be with you. Back then, I had no idea whether I could father a healthy child, but I couldn’t share my fears with her; it wouldn’t have been fair.”
“But Henry is fine – better than that – he’s inherited some of your benefits, and this baby will as well, won’t he?”
“Yes, of course he – or she – will. You’ll both be fine.”
It was the way he said it: you’ll both be fine. I pursed my lips. “Me? I didn’t think I wouldn’t. Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
In reaching for his book, he knocked my little triptych, now returned to its rightful place by the bed. He righted it with the merest sideways glance at me. “No reason at all. That’s what I said: you’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER
> 8
Precious Cargo
Snow melted in clumps, leaving brown-patched earth and a tangle of lank grasses exposed to the lengthening days. I loved the snow – I loved the predictable winter here in Maine and the frost-nipped mornings and biting, clean air. I drew in lungfuls until they burned – but the ice could be lethal underfoot, especially when carrying precious cargo, as I did.
If I was honest with myself and peeled away the layers of cultural expectation placed on me, I had to admit to having my doubts about motherhood. It wasn’t that I was adverse to the idea, but Matthew’s unbounded enthusiasm left my own wanting, and my lack of experience with young children was in marked contrast to the ease with which he conversed with my nephews and niece.
“It’ll be different when it’s your own child,” he assured me. “Don’t judge yourself so harshly. You’ll get a chance for some practice when Ellie’s baby arrives.”
“I doubt she’ll let me near it. She tolerates me, but that’s about it. She knows I find it difficult because it’s Guy’s child.”
“But you’re on speaking terms now and that’s a start.”
“And what if I get something wrong? I might end up hurting it – him,” I corrected myself.
He gave me one of those ever-patient looks, accompanied by a sigh. “Babies are tougher than they look, and are far more forgiving than you’re ever likely to be on yourself.”
I had smoothed my hands over the plane of my stomach, trying to imagine the child growing inside me and detecting any sign of attachment I thought I should have. Matthew must have guessed my thoughts because his hands joined mine. “You’ll grow together over the next few months, just wait and see. Talk to him, tell him about your day and your work. Get to know him.”
And over the winter as the nausea grew and faded and my body swelled, my detachment waned, and now, carefully negotiating the icy patches stubbornly clinging to the shadows by the garage, I protected Rex – as we now referred to him – from every slip or bump. He was no longer a stranger; he was part of me – of us. We were a family.
