Cocoon (10 page)

At least she was certain that her mother wasn't being fed poison or hallucinatory drugs. Or was she? Zoey paused, dust cloth stilled atop the stereo speaker. She still couldn't get past the fact that Barth had been accused of his first wife's murder. The woman had been shot in the head at close range, in the parking lot of the middle school where she taught. She'd stayed late and there were no witnesses to the brutal crime. The police had found her in her car behind the wheel, her window rolled down. So it was someone she'd known well.

Barth, her ex-husband at the time, had been the prime suspect because he'd not wanted the divorce that freed Betty to marry the man she'd fallen for. The suspected motive was revenge. After the divorce, she'd married her paramour, a police officer in the Canadian province of Nova Scotia.

That much Zoe had gleaned when she got a policeman friend of Scott Burns to do a background check on Barth McGrath. He'd also discovered the murder arrest via his ample resources.

Scott Burns.

She smiled now, dusting away, as she thought of Scott. Hunky he was. And he would do anything in the world for her, though he steadfastly stated that he did not think Barth could be guilty of such a crime. Period. No further discussion. She truly liked him, but just couldn't begin to think about any sort of commitment after her ugly divorce and the long relationship with Corey Adams, who, in the end, could not leave his mother.

Zoe actually couldn't fault him too much for that. His mom was elderly and had health problems and depended on Corey. He was a great son. Just not husband material. She shook her long hair free from her shoulders, stopped, and pulled it up into a ponytail holder she carried in her jeans pocket for hair emergencies. There. That was better. Cooler. Grabbing the dust mop, she attacked the parquet floor with unfeigned vengeance.

Zoe still couldn't shake this – feeling. A subterranean certainty that there was more to Barth McGrath than meets the eye. How could she trust a virtual stranger with the care of her mother?

She would have to keep close watch on the situation.

Her mother's life – not to mention sanity – might depend on it.

Bottom line: Zoe wanted her mother back.

• • •

Two things happened in the following months. Seana's condition worsened. Barth kept a journal of her meds and schedule, down to what she ate and her behavior. He felt this would aid the doctors as to her progress or lack of. It would also help them adjust meds according to her needs.

It also gave him something positive to do. It helped, in a small way, to ward off some of the helplessness that wracked him in the midnight hours.

The other thing that happened was that Pastor Keith asked Barth to assume the ministry of music at their church. Frank Lutz had retired to Florida after a twenty-year stint there, leaving them without a music leader.

Barth was reluctant at first but his friend had urged him to consider it. “You'd be perfect, Barth. You have the heart for it, not to mention the talent. Honestly?” He'd laid his hand on Barth's shoulder as they stood in his office that Sunday, nearly a year after Seana's diagnosis. “You need this. There are many of Seana's friends who will be glad to sit with her, rotate the duty, while you minister at church.”

“I don't know, Keith.” Barth slowly shook his head. “Seana requires 24/7 care. It's not easy.”

“Exactly why you need a break.” He patted his shoulder and smiled. “Let me know.”

“Take the position,” Billie Jean insisted later that evening as they sat at the kitchen bar. Barth refilled her decaf coffee. “You know I'm here any time you need me.”

“I know.” Barth frowned as he refolded his long frame onto the stool. “I just hate to leave her.”

“Barth, how much good you gonna do her if you drain out? Huh? You can, you know. And you can't get anything outta a dried-up turnip. So look at it like this, you're staying well in order to help her heal.”

Barth looked at her long and hard. Then his eyes began to smile before it reached his lips. “You might just be right, Billie Jean.”

“Doggone tootin'.” Billie Jean's shoulders lifted and she puffed out her flat bosom. “Just look at me. All those vitamin supplements and holistic treatments you've found for me are working wonders. I'm cancer free, Barth. And I'm not even gonna add ‘for now.' I'm gonna be well. Totally.”

Barth, by now, was beaming. “That's the spirit.”

“And so is Seana.” Billie Jean's burst of coppery curls bounced as she nodded resolutely.

Chin set, she slid from the stool and marched into the den where Seana lay curled up on the sofa, her eyes vacantly watching television's ball game of the day. She'd already, at exactly twelve noon, eaten her pimento cheese sandwich with a glass of water, her ironclad menu by now. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Seana wouldn't eat just any pimento cheese, either. No sirree. It had to be Joanie Knight's homemade version. Barth had tried to slip other brands past her only to have her shove it away with a petulant “I don't want this.”

He would apologetically call Joanie and ask her, again, to tweak and mollify Seana's craving. Thank God, Barth would silently breathe, Joanie was faithful; she dropped a fresh weekly supply by the house each Monday.

Today Billie Jean dragged over an ottoman and planted herself on it, within mere inches of Seana. Barth watched her get in Seana's face and held his breath. Seana did not like such intrusiveness, but how would she ever get better without human interaction?

“Look, Seana,” Billie Jean leaned forward, dug elbows into knees, and clasped her hands together. “I want you to listen. I know you can hear me. I want you to know this one thing. Look into my eyes. Seana? Look at me! Yeh. Like that. Read my lips. You. Are. Going. To. Get. Better.”

Seana didn't respond. Neither Barth nor Billie Jean expected her to. But in Barth's heart of hearts, he knew that on some level such loving, caring feedback would take root deep in Seana's soul.

Such faith would make a big difference.

“Thanks, Billie Jean. I needed that.” Tears filled his eyes and he removed his glasses to wipe them away. “And thanks, too, for showing me that I must continue living while Seana is in this – hibernation. I need to be in top form when she emerges.”

Billie Jean gave him a high five. “The magic word.
When.
”

Barth laughed and looked over at Seana, curled up on the sofa just as she had been for the past year. The sight of her, wounded, slowly bleeding life and sanity, was imprinted into his brain for all eternity. But he wasn't whipped.

“You know what comes from a cocoon, don't you, Billie Jean?” He shook his head, tears again pooling along his lower lids. “A daggum butterfly. And yeah, Seana, I know you're hearing my Southernese. Heck, honey, somebody has to take up the slack for your silence.”

• • •

After the initial onset of the psychosis, Barth never left Seana completely by herself. She could stay alone for short periods and knew to call him if she needed him. Her cell phone lay conveniently within reach at all times, charged and ready to use. But at the same time, she would sometimes panic when alone or in the dark.

As months passed, Seana's deviance from her former self grew more pronounced. Whereas before, she'd watched TV news religiously, she now hated it. Barth described
hate
as when she seemed to bristle, her face turned stormy, and she would turn completely away from the object of her distaste. This proved to be bothersome, that she did nothing to hide her aversion.

Barth trudged on, doing the best he could to avoid catastrophe.

“Here I am,
and there I am
Dancing on the glass.”

– Sarah Kane

S
eana was, if nothing else, contrary.

On some murky level, she knew it. But she didn't care. Her emptiness allowed no regret or culpability to penetrate the cocoon wrapping her. Heck, it permitted no emotions at all. Only weapon she had to turn away invasive irritation was her voice. By George, she could say “no.” And as with a two year old's blank mental canvas, Seana used the word often and loudly.

She sat in the doctors's office, an outsider, listening to Barth's discourse with the current physician – one of a menagerie littering her dark journey – from the time of her diagnosis. She'd long ago lost track of who was who. Hardly recognized any of them.

“Tell me some of the most notable changes since her diagnosis.” Dr. Wallace wheeled his chair around to a computer.

“She barely tolerates coffee anymore. She always loved it. Only half a cup a day now. Loved sweets. Now hates them. Her gag reflex was slightly above normal. Now she gags for no discernable cause. She was always cool natured, but now she freezes most of the time.”

“Okay.” The doctor typed into his computer as they talked. “Go on.”

“Umm. Let's see … Seana's appetite was always good. Now she has to force herself to eat most of the time. She used to diet occasionally, but now she's lost over twenty-five pounds. Another thing, she used to love low, soft lights in the den. Now she wants the lights very, very bright there.”

“What about pastime activities? Social things?”

Barth laughed tightly and shook his head. “She was a very social being before, outgoing, fun-loving. Now she hates to be around people. Fun? I don't really know anything she truly enjoys, Dr. Wallace. Once upon a time she watched news and discussed it. No more. Only thing she still will watch on television is a ball game. I turn it to the Atlanta Braves games because they were her favorite team at one time, but now, though she watches, she's no longer interested in who's playing.” He shrugged listlessly.

Seana watched the clock. How long were they going to be here? They'd already been here for an hour and four minutes and thirty-five seconds.

The voices droned on, aggravating her.

Barth continued. “Every morning after I force her to shower, know what she says to me, doc? She asks me, ‘Barth, do you have enough to do at the church office to keep you busy today so you won't bother me?' That's how I get sent off.”

Barth and the doctor laughed uproariously as though it was funny. It wasn't funny to Seana because she
did
want Barth to stay away from her. Wanted everybody to stay the heck away from her. Barth didn't know that when he sent her to shower and stood guard at the bathroom door to listen until she turned on the water, that she only pretended to shower. She would step back into the stall's corner so the water did not touch her.

Sometimes he would sniff and say, “Seana, you need a bath. You're beginning to smell.” And he would strip himself off and get in the shower with her and soap her up all over with the loofa sponge, then rinse her down before briskly toweling her dry.

Oh how she hated for him to do that.

“She has this one shirt she loves,” Barth said. “She wears it all the time. It's yellow with green stripes. I have to take it off her most of the time to launder it.”

Seana heard that. The striped shirt was loose and comfortable, along with the stretchy black slacks, which were the only ones that fit her anymore. The clock now said three twenty-six. They'd been here an hour and twenty-six minutes and … fifteen seconds.

“Can you think of any other significant changes, Mr. McGrath?” Dr. Wallace looked up from his computer screen.

“Yes. Perhaps the most significant of all. She loved her children and grandchildren with a passion. The iconic Nana, Seana was. Now they make her nervous. It hurts them, though they're both troopers and cover it well.”

“Sex?” The doctor asked.

“Oh, before, Seana had a healthy libido. Now, she has no libido.”

“None?”

“Absolutely none. It's like making love to an inflatable mannequin. No response.”

“Must be difficult for you.” The statement was sympathetic.

A long sigh. “Yes. It is.”

Seana crossed her arms. When was this going to end?

The doctor stood and so did Barth. They shook hands. “Let's just hope better times are coming.”

Finally,
Seana thought standing abruptly.

Better times?
The words fizzled as quickly as they appeared.

• • •

One late afternoon while Seana was alone – Barth was at his church office – the front doorbell pealed. Occasionally, he now would leave her alone for a couple of hours at a time. Most of the time, Billie Jean was downstairs and could be quickly summoned via Seana's ever present cell phone.

The doorbell pealed again.

Brutus, from his floor pillow positioned near the sofa, rwooofed.

Seana rolled onto her back and stared tersely at the ceiling. Why? She wondered. Why did people bother her?

The loud peals continued for what seemed an eternity. Brutus barked and trotted over to the door, sniffing. Seana jerked upright, slid into her robe, and stalked to the door. Cautiously, she opened it.

Sadie Tate and Fred and Elsie Johnson stood smiling from ear to ear, laden with a beautiful bouquet of red roses and a huge goodies basket filled with a colorful, fragrant assortment from Fred's Grocery Store.

“Hello, Seana,” Sadie gushed and shifting the roses to one side, stepped forward to give Seana a hug, customary in the past. Today, however, Seana stepped back, frowning, deflecting the embrace.

Annoyed, she waited for them to reveal their mission.

Something like pity brushed Sadie's sharp little features before the smile reappeared, only heightening Seana's impatience. “We came to see how you're doing. The church sent these flowers to cheer you up.”

“Yeh.” Fred nodded at the big basket of fares in his arms. “Here's some goodies, too. We all miss you, Seana, and want to see you well again.”

Hurry, she thought.
Hurry and leave
. Seana reached for the basket, roughly deposited it on the floor, turned and snatched the flowers from Sadie, whose startled expression did not register with Seana.

“Thanks,” she muttered – simply because she knew she was supposed to – and slammed the door in their faces. She turned and leaned her back against the door, heart pounding away with apprehension. Why didn't they leave her alone?

She tossed the flowers on the bar then returned to curl up beneath the blanket on the sofa, pulling and tucking her warm, snug cocoon back securely around her. Brutus sighed and nestled back down to nap. After Seana had first fallen ill, he'd laid his head on the sofa while his tawny eyes begged for her affection, which he was so accustomed to. But after awhile, he became resigned to just lounging near her.

Later, she heard Barth come in and Brutus's paws clicking toward him for a greeting.

She heard Barth's gentle “hi there, buddy,” as he vigorously ruffled neck fur.

“Seana? Why did you throw the flowers on the bar? Couldn't you have managed to stretch yourself a bit and put them in water? The vase is sitting right here on the counter. Didn't Sadie offer to fix them for you?”

“No.”

He came to stand before her, puzzled, as he looked over his shoulder at the goodie basket still planted next to the front door. Then he peered into her face as she kept her eyes fastened to the Atlanta Braves game now playing on TV.

“Seana? Did you invite them in?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn't want to.”

“Dear God,” he said, pivoting away and striding to collect the roses. “I should have warned them when they told me they were coming.”

She heard him running water into the crystal vase and arranging the flowers. Then she heard him carry the basket to the counter and rummage through the food, exclaiming over the consideration of the church folks. “I hope they understand by now,” he muttered.

Eyes now fixed on the large wall clock she'd insisted on having, Seana heard him begin to prepare dinner. She smelled the chicken stir-fry he put together and meticulously seasoned.

Hawk-like, Seana watched the clock's second hand move. One minute till six.

Dishes rattled as Barth pulled them out and ice tinkled into a glass. The loaf bread package crackled.

Thirty seconds till six.

Water being poured into an empty glass. Bowl sliding from fridge.

Fifteen seconds till six.

Fridge door slamming shut.

Five seconds till six. Four. Three. Two. One.

Six o'clock.

Seana sat upright, rolled off the couch and padded over to the kitchen. Barth held out her plate.

She moved back to her sofa perch, sat her plain un-iced water on the coffee table, and began to eat her halved pimento cheese sandwich.

Barth brought his food over to join her. He shook his head as he deposited his own iced water on the table next to Seana's. “Sure hate that you weren't hospitable to those kind church folks, honey,” he murmured. “I'll have to apologize to them.”

He looked at the screen, his eyes grief stricken. “Seems I'm doing a lot of that lately.” Then his eyes met Seana's as she chewed her gooey pimento cheese sandwich.

His smile was instant and complete. Accepting. Understanding.

A tiny – minute – something inside her flickered. Then in the next instant was gone.

She returned her gaze to the TV screen and the baseball game.

• • •

The one venture Seana agreed to was to Joanie's Homecombing Queen's Beauty Parlor. Once a week, she compliantly allowed Barth to drive her there, leave her for a silent hour, and then pick her up after Joanie performed miracles on her hair.

Though it utterly agitated Seana, Joanie managed to slide a firm shoulder hug in as she seated Seana in the styling chair and tilted her back for a warm, sudsy shampoo. It wasn't too bad, Seana decided each time.

Joanie cut her hair a bit shorter than usual because by the time Seana wallowed on the sofa all week, her hair looked like a bird's nest. That didn't bother Seana at all. Nothing bothered her anymore. Except noise and people.

“At least I get to see it looking pretty for a few minutes,” Seana overheard Barth tell Joanie one day as he picked her up. Joanie gave him a sympathetic smile and patted him on the shoulder as he collected Seana.

On the way home, he drove by the Mater and Onion Buffet, overriding Seana's demands to go home. “I'm hungry,” he told her. “And tired. I want to relax a few minutes and enjoy some good home-cooked food. You can enjoy it, too, if you choose.” He sucked in a drag of air and rolled his eyes heavenward, shaking his head. “If not, then you can sit with me while I do.”

Seana was not pleased as he steered her inside and greeted the Wests, the Cherokee proprietors, while Seana ignored them. As usual, Joseph West – called Chief by the locals – seated them in their little private corner nook.

Jet, the Filipino keyboard artist, immediately began playing one of Seana's favorites,
Girl From Ipanema
, with its syncopated Latino beat. Seana frowned at the noise and turned away as much as possible. Brett's heart dropped to his toes, like it always did when she behaved so. But in an instant, his heart went out to her and he reached and took her hand to gently kiss it.

Seana's scowl deepened as she wrested her fingers free.

Chief West appeared again to take their drink order. The Friday evening trade was heavy so he personally catered to the McGraths because they were old friends and he understood that Seana was not herself.

“Water. Without ice,” Seana muttered, not meeting his pleasant, expectant gaze.

“Same, with ice,” Barth said, giving Chief an apologetic roll of eyes.

Chief shrugged, smiled, and waved it away with a flick of bronze fingers as he left to collect their order.

“Do you want me to fix your plate?” Barth asked, to save time. This was a usual battle of wills. “Or do you want to go to the buffet yourself?”

“No.”

“No, you don't want me to fix your plate, or no, you don't want to go to the buffet?”

“I don't want to go.”

“Shall I fix you chicken or … Oh, come on, Seana. Go with me and I'll help you.”

He tugged her to her resisting feet and nudged her to the lovely buffet that was fit for royalty.

It took Barth twenty minutes of haggling and cajoling Seana to try different foods that she'd once adored. To her, the array of choices looked sickening. Disgusting. She finally conceded to try a piece of ham, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots, though the latter gave her serious pause and guardedness.

He seated her and then went to fill his own plate. When he returned and began to eat, Seana said, “I can't eat this.”

Barth visibly reined in his impatience. “What's wrong with the ham, Seana? Huh?”

“I don't like it. I don't like these peas and carrots either.” They looked and smelled vile.

“You haven't even tasted them, Seana. Go on, try a bite.”

He watched her pick up her fork and take a bite. She slowly began to chew, her face already wrinkling into a torturous mask of misery. Then she gagged.

Once. Twice.

“Oh … no, Seana. Spit it out into your napkin. Here.” He held out a napkin for her to spit out the offensive substance. She wiped her mouth savagely and took a gulp of the tepid water.

“How about some chicken? You've always loved fried chicken.” He kept pushing things at her when she wished he'd simply leave her alone. She could eat a pimento cheese sandwich when she got home.

“I don't want to eat,” she insisted.