Abattoir (6 page)

The most abiding lesson? That, in the end, he could only rely on himself.

When he was 20, he held his last job as bar-back in a popular jazz joint. He washed dishes and glasses, replenished liquor bottles, slung buckets of ice, emptied the trash for bartenders, and learned a few things about alcohol. He grew fascinated with the profit potential in the liquor trade; that each bottle could be marked up as high as a thousand percent, and that no matter what was going on in the outside world, economically, socially or politically, people would always be thirsty for booze. And willing to pay a premium for it.

Brown showed an inherent skill for negotiation, in convincing the elderly owner of the Clown’s Tears Lounge to turn the business over to him for $1,000 and a share of the profits.

It was a very inauspicious beginning. The bar was a dive, a hangout for neighborhood lushes and lounge lizards. Two months later, renamed the Yellow Pages, the place was packed seven nights a week.

He dove into his destiny with a vengeance. The Yellow Pages was only the beginning. Nothing would stand in his way.

Success followed success, each one greater than the last, none truly satisfying his hunger. His three wives were no more successful in keeping him happy, nor were his houses, his cars or his press clippings.

But happiness had never been Stu Brown’s goal: Keeping the wolves at bay was the only thing that ever mattered. He couldn’t hear them yelping or howling, but they were always there, always
waiting
.

And he’d never stopped fearing them.

5

The psychiatrist, Sharon Knaster, took in the view. “It’s fantastic!” she gushed. “I absolutely love what you’ve done with the place.”

Sharon was being polite. In reality, the flat in which Su Ling and her daughter resided was sparse, especially compared to other units in the Exeter. There was no expensive furniture or art, no state-of-the-art electronics, no Persian rugs, no evidence that an interior decorator had ever set foot in the place.

Over the fireplace was a simple color photograph of the family—what
used
to be the family—Su Ling, her daughter Anna, and Quan.

There were other mementos: etchings of Asian folklore scenes, an American flag, a framed copy of Su Ling’s and Quan’s citizenship papers. The American decor heavily outweighed the Asian, which was not accidental. The Nugyens were intensely proud of their adopted homeland, and only faintly nostalgic for their native Vietnam.

“How’s our patient this morning?” Sharon asked, getting down to business.

Su Ling attempted a smile and shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t need to say what the gesture signified: Same as always.

Sharon sighed and made her way to the bedroom. She carried a large black valise. It always reminded Su Ling of old-fashioned doctors making house calls in the dead of night.

She creaked open the door.

Anna lay on the carpet, staring blankly at the gray sky outside the window. There was a look in her eyes that struck Sharon as profound sadness, although her professional caution prevented her from rushing to such conclusions.

Anna’s toys lay untouched on their shelves, alongside an impressive collection of neglected juvenile books. The perfect neatness of the room was broken only by a simple pad of paper and a pencil which sat next to the girl, as if waiting to be used.

She really is beautiful. Sharon closed the door behind her. Just like her mother.

Sharon opened her valise, produced several medical tools, and began with a cursory physical examination of the child—pupils, heartbeat, blood pressure—all of which indicated remarkable physical health and strength. Throughout, the girl was passive, almost pliant, like a plastic action figure.

Sharon followed up with a series of stock questions, meaningless in and of themselves; designed to provoke specific responses in the subject.

As usual, there were none. The girl did make limited eye contact when questions were put to her, but there was no sign of cognitive response, nor did she open her mouth to speak.

Anna was not typical of Sharon’s patients. In fact, she was the only child the psychiatrist was seeing. The idea of having children as patients was depressing to Sharon. She had believed in a naïve notion—that children were like flowers, innocent, beautiful and pure. She just couldn’t handle the idea that they could be anything else.

She still wasn’t sure why she made an exception nine months ago when Su Ling had begged her for help.

It was only three months after the accident, and the child had made no progress in the care of other specialists. She remained unresponsive, apathetic. Perhaps the challenge that Anna posed made Sharon bend her own rules.

Sharon’s field of specialty was Alzheimer’s and dementia. Her expertise in this area was renowned. She’d published several papers in prestigious journals and taken home half a dozen national awards. Her waiting list for new patients was six months long.

The diseases in which she specialized were most often associated with the elderly. Her patients, in virtually all cases, were terminal. All Sharon was able to do for them was provide comfort for their families and perhaps, in the luckier cases, alleviate some of their symptoms. It was a rewarding profession, but certainly not a hopeful one.

Hope was what Anna offered.

There was something in the girl’s catatonic stare, something in the way she glided her pencil over the paper—with passion and a focus only she could see—that hinted at a possible breakthrough. There was a certain logic, perhaps even the hint of form, to the girl’s scribblings, which had begun only a few weeks ago. The drawings intrigued Sharon, who took many of them home and studied them at length. They were all different, all abstract, without apparent meaning.

Sharon rose from the carpet and took a chair in Anna’s room. She gazed at the child, feeling an unusual stirring of maternal instinct. She hated to admit it, but she would love to have a daughter, even in this silent, impassive condition. She knew that her relationship with Anna and Su Ling was already well beyond professional interest.

Sharon was not one to live in denial, especially in psychological matters. She prided herself on being a realist in every part of her life. Her loneliness, therefore, was not something she could hide from.

Her professional accolades and considerable income would never fill the profound void she felt. There’d not been a man in her life for a decade. It had been a brief marriage, and not a great one, for he was jealous of her prestige and the time she was forced to commit to her work. The marriage broke up after six months, and there had been no rebound. At first, Sharon was happy with that—it freed up time for patients and work—but now, years of solitude later, she pined for companionship, if not exactly for love.

She wondered whether it was this need that made her think twice when Su Ling barged into her office, her silent child clasped in her hand, no appointment, pleading for help. Their need was obvious, their sincerity a given.

Sharon felt a connection with them from the outset. They were alone, desperate; in need of a friend as much as a psychiatrist. Sharon decided that she would do everything in her power to help them both during that first meeting.

And to help herself at the same time.

The timing was fortuitous. Sharon had just signed a lease for a new flat at the Exeter. There was something intriguing about Cantrell’s vision for the place—the idea of transforming something ugly into something beautiful—that corresponded to her professional ethics and passion.

It took most of the intervening months for Sharon to convince Su Ling to consider joining her at the Exeter. Sharon had professional reasons for the idea—the proximity would make their increasingly frequent visits much easier—as well as her personal investment. Sharon was eager for a new start, but she didn’t want it to be entirely solo. She would love moving into the Exeter much more if a friend were to join her.

At first, Su Ling resisted. She lived in a modest house in an aging, tired suburb, but was reluctant to leave her first home. It was full of memories for her, some good, some very bad. What finally convinced her was Sharon’s argument that the change in scenery might have a beneficial impact on Anna.

Besides, Su Ling had been fortunate in at least one way—she had the life insurance settlement, which made the move possible.

The gaining twilight outside Anna’s bedroom window reminded Sharon of the time. She approached the girl, looked into her vacant eyes, and smiled. “It was so good to visit with you, sweetheart. You’re doing so well, and we’re all very proud of you.”

She planted a kiss on the girl’s jet black hair and left the room. The psychiatrist did not notice that upon her exit, Anna immediately picked up her tablet and began to scribble.

Sharon joined Su Ling on the sofa in the living room.

“How’d it go?”

Sharon leaned back on the couch and sighed. “It’s hard to tell, Su. I wish I had an easy answer for you. There are times when talking to her is like talking to the wall. Other times, like today, I could swear she was listening to every word . . . not just listening;
understanding
. I’m not giving up on a breakthrough.”

Su Ling nodded. A tear began to form in the corner of one eye.

“We can never lose hope, Su. Things like this are very unpredictable. They change in their own good time. You have to remember that it’s only been a year—in post-traumatic terms, mere seconds—and you can’t forget the trauma itself.”

Su Ling’s tears began to flow. “How could I
forget
?”

Sharon covered Su Ling’s hand with her own. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was what Anna had to go through . . . ”

The day on which Quan—Su Ling’s husband and Anna’s father—died, he’d insisted on taking his daughter to the ball game. It was a beautiful Sunday, almost exactly a year ago. The circumstances of the accident itself were simple: Quan was apparently distracted, had no time to react. A car had swerved directly in front of theirs. His only instinct was to lean over Anna, to protect her with his arm.

It took him five minutes to die. Trapped beside him, but unhurt, his daughter held his mangled hand the whole time, calling his name. That was the last time she’d ever spoken.

“Listen Su, you’ve been living a nightmare. You lost your husband and your daughter too. I can’t bring Quan back—we know that—but we’ve got a chance for Anna. Please don’t lose faith.”

Su Ling dried her tears with a handkerchief and feigned a smile.

“I know you’re right,” she replied. “And I haven’t lost faith. That’s why I’m here, Sharon. That’s why I followed you to this place. If you say that Anna is hearing you, that she might understand your words, I believe you. And don’t worry if I cry now and then. Part of me just doesn’t want to let go.”

There was a long silence.

Su Ling smiled at last, this time for real. “So, you really like what I’ve done here?” She gazed at the modest but neat surroundings.

“I love it,” Sharon said. “I really do. I can tell you and Anna are at home here.”

She paused and squeezed Su Ling’s hand. “Speaking of home, I should be heading for mine.”

“Thank you so much, Sharon,” Su Ling rose with her. “You’ve been a great friend.”

“So have you.”

§

The soft lights that illuminated the hallway came on just as Sharon entered it. There was no one else around. She could hear music coming from one of the flats, the muted sound of a television from another. She suddenly felt very tired and longed for the solitude of her own place.

When she opened the door, the blast of hot air struck her face like a slap.

Her first fear was fire, but there was no smell of smoke. She ran to the thermostat, but there was no heat on. In panic, she ran to the kitchen.

The oven was on full, set for 450. She immediately turned it off and opened a window, breathing in the cool that rushed into the room.

How in the hell . . .
? Then she remembered:

She’d turned on the oven this morning, before she left for the office, intending to quickly bake a batch of frozen cookies. It was an old custom; one that endeared her to her patients.

She’d forgotten about it, plain and simple. The roll of frozen cookies lay unopened and thawed on the counter, the baking sheet clean and naked beside it, the oven door yawning open.

How could she possibly forget?

And then the old fear crept in, snaking through her belly and resting there.

Was she starting to lose it? Was this how it started?

Sharon tried to shake it off. “Anybody could forget something so ordinary,” she said aloud. “It doesn’t prove a damn thing. People do it all the time.”

But the fear was stubborn; it clung to her. The oven wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten lately. Her last credit card bill was a month late. The tuna steak she’d planned for dinner had spoiled in the refrigerator. Last week, she had totally forgotten to refill a patient’s prescription.

She had seen dozens, if not hundreds, of cases just like this. They always started out banally—lights left on, keys left in the front door lock,
a stove left on—
and then grew progressively worse. Pieces of memory would start to fall like leaves in autumn, until there was nothing left but a blank smile and a meaningless stare.

“Come on, get over it,” she told herself, pulling a bottle of wine from the cupboard and pouring herself a small glass.

She silently scolded herself for being selfish. Here she was, obsessing over herself, worrying about nonsense, when Su Ling needed her so badly, not to mention her many other patients.

§

Sharon awoke with a start. She heard rain, falling hard and steady, and stared at the digital clock by her bedside. 4:02.

She rose clumsily and looked out the window. The night was pitch black, but she could tell it wasn’t raining.