Entering Normal (9 page)

“God.”
Zack.
Had she locked the door when she left? She tries to visualize herself turning the key.

“He forced her out of the car at gunpoint,” Dorothy continues. “Then he took off with those two poor children still sleeping in the backseat. The mother was on the news this morning, crying. Pleading with the man to bring back her boys.” She holds up the paper. “You want this?”

“No.” The last thing in the world Opal wants is anything to do with the paper or the tragedy it holds, as if the disaster could leak out, taint her.

Dorothy takes a ten from Opal, hands her change. “That's Texas for you. Course I'm not saying the same thing couldn't happen here. You just never know. The world's turned crazy. I blame it on drugs.”

Would Zack even wake if someone broke in?

“We've started a collection.” Dorothy indicates a coffee can by the register. Someone has cut a slot in the plastic lid.

“Collection?”

“For a reward. There's a fund. We're sending a check at the end of next week.”

Opal stuffs her change through the slot.

FOR SURE SHE LOCKED THE DOOR. SHE SEES HERSELF DOING it. The light at the intersection of Main and Maple blinks yellow, and as she slows, she imagines Zack in the backseat, imagines a man approaching the car, wrenching open the door, pointing a pistol at her, sliding into the seat beside her, ordering her to drive. Could she stay calm? Would she panic? Would she dare try anything heroic? That sort of thing works in the movies, but in real life, would it be too dangerous? How could you be sure you wouldn't end up killing everyone in the car, including the child you were trying to save?

The newspaper image of the little boys and their frantic mother plays in her mind. Then Zack's face flashes in front of her. How far would she go to protect him? What would she risk? Everything, she knows. Certainly her own life. At least that.

Her hands are shaking by the time she pulls into the driveway. She has trouble with the house key, the door locked after all.

Inside the quiet is broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. She sets the pastries on the counter, checks the clock. It's 11:15. She hasn't been gone for more than half an hour. She heads for the stairs, and halfway up she hears him.

He is on the floor at the top of the landing, his face puffy from tears.

She takes the remaining stairs two at a time. Sweet Jesus. She'll never leave him again. Not for a minute. A second. Never.

“What happened? Zack. Sugah? What happened?”

“Where were you?” he accuses.

“Downstairs,” she says, lying automatically, sinking to the floor by his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I called and called.” He gives a shuddering breath that collapses into little ragged hiccups.

“I'm sorry, sugah bun.” She will never, ever leave him alone again.
Ever.

“I fell,” he announces. The twine from the cat's cradle entangles his feet.

“It's okay, Zack. I'm here now.” She tightens her embrace and he yells. It's the pain yell, not the sad yell.

“What is it, Zack?”

“My arm,” he says. Tears brim.

“Let me see,” she says. In the glow from the downstairs light his arm looks fine, but when she runs her fingers over it, he cries out.

“Okay,” she soothes. “Okay, sugah, I won't touch it.”

She carries him to her room, careful not to touch the arm, and settles him in her bed, quiets him with two baby aspirin.

“I'm thirsty,” he whimpers. “I want Tigger.”

She finds the toy on the floor by his bed, brings it to her room, tucks it in beside him, gets him a glass of Coke.

Later, when she is sure he won't waken, she turns on the bedside lamp. His arm
looks
okay. There are no markings. But when she strokes her fingers over his forearm—really barely touching the skin— he whimpers in his sleep.

Months later, when everything begins to fall apart, she comes to believe it was not leaving New Zion that set the nightmare in motion. Not the string of lies she told, lies as tangled as the web of twine that tripped Zack that night. Not even Ty Miller. These things were just
complications
. The beginning was this night. It was the one grievous error of leaving Zack alone while she went to out to satisfy her hunger.

CHAPTER 9

ROSE

AS SOON AS NED DRIVES OFF— EARLIER THAN USUAL since he has a backlog of jobs—Rose gets out the Hoover and starts vacuuming, an unnecessary chore since the house is spotless. All she does every day is housework, over and over, room after room, a mechanical occupation that produces a gleaming house. This past week, she has finished up the fall cleaning: screens taken down, hosed and stacked overhead in the garage; windows washed; curtains laundered and ironed; summer cottons washed and packed away; woodwork scrubbed; kitchen cabinets straightened. This ritual cleaning used to fill her with pleasure, but now she does it mindlessly, without even the dim satisfaction of accomplishment. With just the two of them, the place hardly requires it.

She scratches the spot on her belly. No question it's worse this morning. Earlier she checked in the hand mirror and saw a definite ring of red encircling the mole. No use pretending there isn't
something
going on there, but she is more determined than ever not to let Ned know. If he had a clue, he'd have her at Doc's before she could say Jack Robinson.

We've got the future to consider, Rosie, he'd say, thinking about that day in Florida when they wouldn't have to shovel snow or pay state taxes.

Rose doesn't care about the future. All the future she had died with Todd. She knows that when a loved one dies, people say things like “a part of me died, too,” but a real part of her died in that crash with Todd: The part that goes on to tomorrow. The invisible cord that stretches out like a stream through time, linking one generation to the next. In that one encapsulated moment when Jimmy Sommers spun his pickup into the old elm on the corner of High and Church her future was ripped away. And the hard and bitter truth is that there is no way on earth she can ever reclaim it. Of course, this is the last thing on earth that Ned wants to hear.

You're holding on to grief, he accused her last year. What else do I have, she asked him. You have me, Rosie, he said. You have us.

It isn't enough.

She carries the Hoover into the dining room and slides the floor attachment wand onto the end of the hose. She is bending over to plug in the cord when a loud banging at the back door makes her jump. She's pretty sure who it is. Who else could it be, banging like a wild person? She tightens her grip on the cord and closes her eyes, as if this could make the person outside disappear. Two days ago she saw the boy urinating out by the maple tree.
Urinating.
She can't be expected to put up with this. At the kitchen door, the urgent knocking persists.

She stands perfectly still, but beneath her feet she can feel the floor tremble. The shifting of a continental plate.

“Mrs. Nelson. Mrs. Nelson.”

If Rose knew a sign for warding off affliction, she would have made it. Instead, she opens the door. Opal Gates stands there, her face so twisted it is nearly ugly. Her hair sparks out wild. She carries the boy in her arms. His face is pale as flour.

Rose wants to turn right around, shut the door and hide in the safety of her home.

“Zack's hurt,” the girl says. “His arm. I'm afraid it might be broken.”

The McDonalds' dog yaps in the distance. Crows pick at the turf by the front walk. Grubs, she thinks, although it is well past the season for them. On the street, a black sedan drives by, slows, circles the cul-de-sac, passes again.

“I need to get him to the emergency room. Will you drive us?”

“I—” It has been five years since she has so much as touched a steering wheel. “I don't have a car.”

“We'll take mine.”

Rose steps back.

“Please. There is no one else I can ask.”

Ned, Rose thinks. I need Ned.

The morning of the accident, Ned was there faster than she would have thought possible. John Denton came to the house to inform her of the accident, and when he took one look at her, he phoned right over to the garage. Ned took over, shoring her up, driving them to Mercy, speeding the entire way although all she could think was that he should drive—must drive—faster. In the end all that reckless speed proved futile.

I can't.
“I don't drive,” she manages.

“I'll drive. You hold Zack and point the way.” The girl doesn't wait for more argument. Still carrying the boy, she lopes across their yard to her car, sending the crows flying.

“Don't run,” Rose says. “It will jar his arm.”

The car floor is a mess, just
thick
with Coke cans and fast food wrappers and Lord knows what else. Rose uses her toe to nudge them aside. As Opal transfers the boy to her, she braces herself. Even so, the familiar weight of a small body against her stomach catches her off guard. Before she can steel herself, a knife blade of something distantly akin to pleasure catches her. She tightens her mouth, stiffens her arms.

The girl chatters nonstop, talking a blue streak, and Rose has to bite her lip to keep from shushing her.

“Hold on, sugah,” Opal repeats over and over. “We're almost there.” She pronounces it “thaya.” Once or twice she takes a hand off the wheel, reaches over, squeezes his knee. “It's gonna be okay, Zack.”

As soon as they get to Mercy, Rose plans on calling a taxi.

OUTSIDE THE DOUBLE DOORS OF THE EMERGENCY WING entrance, Opal rolls to a stop, switches off the engine, and runs ahead, calling for Rose to follow. There is nothing for it but to carry the boy inside.

The nurse on duty at the desk takes their name and directs them to the waiting room.
The waiting room.
The room for waiting. The room where she and Ned waited.

Everything is exactly the same, is if days have passed, not years. Gray tweed industrial carpeting. Interlocking chairs with blue plastic seats and chrome arms. Round clock. Magazine rack affixed to the wall. Square laminate-topped table littered with—even this early in the day—empty Styrofoam cups, most holding cold coffee. A
No
Smoking
sign. A notice reading,
Please have your insurance information
ready
. Off to the left, an alcove with vending machines for coffee and hot chocolate and cold drinks. Five years and not one single thing has been altered. Rose is faint with memory. She wills herself not to run.

WHEN THEY TOLD HER TODD WAS DEAD, SHE WOULDN'T believe it. She wanted to see him, asked to see him. Not now, Rosie. Ned said. Your husband's right, the doctor agreed. It would be better if you don't. She should have insisted.
Ned
should have insisted.

She fainted in the middle of the emergency room, the only time in her life she has ever passed out. They hustled her away in a wheelchair, swooped her off to a small room, made her lie down, whisked the curtains closed. So much activity. Such urgency. For what?

Overly solicitous nurses bustled around bringing water, a pleated paper cup that contained a pill. Left alone at last, she sat right up. Through the curtain she heard voices: the doctor talking to Ned, telling him that Todd had suffered so much brain damage that had he lived he would have been no better than a vegetable.
A vegetable.

For days the words echoed in her head, giving her no rest, buzzing round and round like a fly trapped between glass and screen. After the funeral, Ned's sister Ethel put her arm around her and said, “It's terrible, Rose, but what with head injuries like that it's a blessing he went. Truly it is.” As if
that
was supposed to console her. Truth is, she would have taken Todd if he'd been able to do nothing but drool. No more capable than a cucumber. Taken him and been glad for it. At least he would still be with her. At least she could have cared for him, tended to his needs. Kissed him. Smelled his hair. At least then she would have had a place to pour her love. If Rose knows anything it is this: To stay alive love needs a place to go.

A WORKMAN SITS ACROSS FROM THEM, CUPPING A HAND wrapped in a towel. Blood has already seeped through the folded terrycloth. A child with feverish eyes and flushed cheeks sleeps in his mother's lap. The woman's shoes are unevenly worn and misshapen. Cheap shoes. It pays to take care of your feet, Rose thinks. Your feet and your teeth are no place to save money.

The double doors glide open with a pneumatic whoosh, and a young man dressed in athletic shorts and a U Mass jersey hobbles in on crutches, gives the receptionist his name and insurance card, is instructed to join the others in the waiting room. He gives Opal the eye.

The clock reads 7:30. It doesn't seem possible that only a half hour has passed since Ned left for the station. It feels like weeks.

FIVE YEARS AGO, WHEN THEY LEFT THE HOSPITAL—LEFT Todd—she made Ned drive her directly to the intersection at High and Church. He made a fuss about it, but she wouldn't back down. The pavement was still wet from the fire hoses. Near the curb, small fragments of glass caught the sun, mocking her with their resemblance to jewels.

A week later, the fresh scar on the elm—a spot of bare bark about the size of a dishpan—was the only evidence of what had occurred there. Rose had ripped down the plastic roses and crude crosses Todd's classmates had tied to the tree.

Day after day, she returned to the site, needing to stand at the last place her son had lived, had breathed. When Ned put his foot down and refused to take her there, she walked. More than once she went in the evening, staying until it was dark, staring up at the stars like an animal until she could stand to make her way home.

She was not surprised by the persistence of her grief. What surprised her was the idea that anyone
could
get over it. People thought grief was like the flu, something you got over. It wasn't. Oh, it ebbed for a moment—like a new moon tide flowing out—but then it rushed in and swept you away again. What surprised her was that the sky stayed blue.

Weeks after he died, she walked into the woods beyond the cul-de-sac and began to cry. Wrenching sobs, horrid, keening sounds you might make if you were wounded, your flesh pierced. If she had had a knife with her, she would have cut herself. You should be able to chop off a finger—something to express your grief—but they don't let you.

IT SEEMS LIKE ONLY MOMENTS HAVE PASSED, BUT WHEN Rose surfaces, it is 8:15. Although she is not aware of them having left, both the man with the injured hand and the feverish boy and his mother have disappeared.

Eventually, they come for Zack. He is rolled off in a wheelchair by a nurse who is all efficiency. Opal goes with them, murmuring reassurances to her son. Rose watches them disappear behind swinging doors.

A NURSE HANDED HER A PLASTIC BAG WITH TODD'S CLOTHES when they finally left the hospital. Ned assumed she threw them out, but she kept them. The blue jeans and plaid shirt, the navy T-shirt, his jockey shorts, each item torn and stained with what you could think was rust if you didn't know better. Fingering each article, she would mentally recite the autopsy report, which she knew by heart. Fractures of wrists and arms and ribs, brain ripped—pons from medulla—aorta ripped.
Ripped.
The single word summing up all the violence done to her son.

At home, she found his windbreaker hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. It smelled of him. She rolled it up tight and sealed it in a Ziploc freezer bag. Despite the bag, when she took it out months later his smell was gone.

Ned had wanted to cremate Todd's body, but she balked. It was unbearable to think of more damage done to him. Later she wished she had agreed. Then she would have his ashes. She could have sifted them through her hands, tasted them.
Ingested
them.

Taken him back into her.

“MRS. NELSON?”

Opal plops down next to her.

“How is he?” Rose asks.

“Who the hell knows?” There is a hard edge to Opal's voice. She is near her limit. “They think it's a fracture, but they won't know until they've taken X rays. In the meantime, they've got us sitting and waiting in some other goddamned hall.”

Nearby, other patients look over. Opal is attracting the attention of the admissions staff. Rose wants to tell her to lower her voice. She is aware of Opal's too-short skirt, her bare legs. At least she's wearing shoes. She supposes that's something.

“Christ,” Opal continues. “This is the most inefficient place I've ever been in. A fuckin' vet could do a better job.”

Rose remembers how careful she had been. How quiet. How she had swallowed her own anger, nearly choked on her cries.
Be careful,
she wants to say.
Don't make them mad.
The spot on her stomach begins to itch again.

“Perhaps you should call someone? Your . . . your husband?”

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

Opal looks straight at her. “Would if I could, but there ain't no such creature. I'm not married.”

Lord, Rose thinks, what have I gotten myself into?

“Mrs. Gates?” A doctor approaches, looks from Rose to Opal.

“Miss Gates,” Opal corrects.

“We've had a chance to read the X rays. Your son has a buckle fracture of the right wrist.”

“Oh, God,” Opal breathes. “Can I see him?”

“In a few minutes. Right now, we're putting a cast on. Normally we'd use a splint, but at his age, a fiberglass cast is the better choice.” He pauses, looks down at his clipboard. “We need more information.” He motions toward the alcove with the vending machines.

Opal holds her ground. “I want to see Zack.”

“In a minute.”

That's right, Rose thinks. You insist. Don't let them keep you apart.
It would be better if you don't.

“They're putting the cast on. Then we're taking a few more X rays. While they're finishing up with that, I have a couple of questions.”

“More X rays? Why?”

“Routine.” He doesn't meet her eyes.

“It's his arm. That's all. You've already X rayed that. Why do you need more X rays?”