Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (19 page)

William's eyes burned as if he'd sprayed them with acid. He couldn't remember his last full night of sleep. Two days ago? Three? Whatever the number, he certainly hadn't slept at all for at least 24 hours. But sleep wasn't something he had time for right now. He couldn't afford even five minutes of rest. He strode into the hotel lobby with determination. He'd find out which room she was in. He'd charm the clerk and in minutes he'd be knocking on her door.

The clerk seemed a bit young to be supervising the check-in desk. Her hair, long and blonde reminded him of Hannah's. Except Hannah's was curly. This girl's was straight and pulled back into a barrette. Her youth could work to his advantage.

William cosied up to the counter. "Excuse us?"

The girl drew away as if he'd slapped her. Her nostrils flared. "Yes?"

"We're here for Hannah Hastings."

Something flickered across her face. William traced it from brows to eyes to lips. He was certain she was considering something.

"Oh," she said. "She just checked out. But she's been waiting for you. You can take the stuff to 86 Helen Lucy Road."

Whatever stroke of luck or synchronous happenstance allowed this moment to settle around his shoulders, William wasn't about question. Pure kismet led the receptionist to pass this information over so easily. Fate. It couldn't have been written any better if Shakespeare himself had penned it. Like some Deus ex machina written in reverse just for his benefit. Instead of questioning it, he gave a short prayer of gratitude up to the god of writing and left the hotel lobby before the woman could think better of her mistake.

It wasn't difficult for William to find the place. A couple of questions asked of a gas station attendant, and the information that Hannah's new home was about nine kilometres past the hospital was delivered. Nine kilometres wouldn't be too far a walk for someone who'd already come so far.

He found the road by late afternoon. Fog had rolled in from the beach and wet his lashes. It made him cold and damp and warbled his vision. He came to a falling-apart shed. There was lots of tall grass and even a small saltwater marsh directly next to it. Through the mist, William could see a small house, unpainted and weathered almost the color of the heavy fog or the sand that spread from the beach through the grass.

Windowpanes formed the entire back of the Cottage. They stretched out like half a hexagon into the over growth. A soft glow warmed the inside of the area and William could see a shadow pass by one of the windows. He crept close. Knowing fog and tall grass hid him, he didn't worry about being seen. He imagined darkness crept around the dwelling, hiding him as easily as she could be seen in the light. Candlelight, William decided. He found himself imagining her lying on white satin sheets surrounded by candles. He imagined her reaching for him as the satin bed grew more narrow, plushed with tufted satin wrapping her still form. His breath caught in his throat.

It was a good image. One that he clung to as he crawled as close as he dared and backed into a huge patch of wild roses and over growth. He pulled his knapsack to the back of his neck and stretched some of the empty material over the top of his head. Hunkered down so that his buttocks rested against the back of his calves, he was fairly protected from the thorns and had good view of the inside of the cabin.

He half expected to be met with the image from his imagination. He almost hoped that inside the cabin she wore a cotton camisole and lacey pink panties. He didn't expect to see her lounging on a blanket on the floor with the the puppet lips man--Howard-- from her apartment.

Howard offered her a glass of water from the spread on the blanket. He reached into a basket of fries and chomped into a thin potato strip that he dangled like a string above his mouth. Hannah laughed. Puppet lips laughed. William wanted him to choke.

Hannah leaned back on her elbows and stared at the ceiling. William wondered what she thought. He wanted to know whether she laughed because her friend had said something funny, or whether she was ever so happy to be free of the city and from William's clutches. She had called him a thing. She had written it to the man inside whose lips were so thin they could barely be seen.

William squeezed his eyes closed.

He didn't want to watch the two of them together. Slowly, though, he opened his eyes. They started to tear when he saw the man reach for Hannah and touch her on the arm with such loving attention William wanted to retch. Puppet lips touched her as if she belonged to him. She smiled. She spoke. Puppet lips stared into her face as if it were a vision from heaven.

William had trusted her. He'd given her every bit of love and passion he could ever dream of giving anyone. All of those tenders, all of them, gone to waste. All of his energy. He wanted to shout and stomp. He wanted to cry. And what really bothered him, what angered him the most, was that beneath all of his frustration and resentment boiled that same want. He still wanted her. Damn it to hell. He wanted her to love him.

He couldn't stand to see any more. He crept out from his hiding place and stumbled down the dirt road in the dark. Potholes caught his feet and he had to swerve back and forth until he reached the main road.

Each slap of vinyl bottomed sneaker on pavement sounded like a taunt.

He'd fix her. He'd fix her good. And Puppet lips Howard. And that Daniel. He'd fix them all. He'd have to wait till morning for the ridiculous stores in this town to open, but he'd wreak his vengeance as though he were Lucifer breaking free of Hell.

His first stop was a drugstore. It was a small, family owned one with friendly clerks and well-lit shelves. Over further from the checkout, in a room that seemed separate from the usual fare, was an area filled with crutches and wheel chairs and walkers. And just on this side of that room were shelves that held every manner of old fashioned remedies. William rifled through castor oil and Epsom salts. He wandered up and down the short aisles searching for just the right item.

His sneakers squeaked as he stopped dead. Their vinyl bottoms gave a shrill shriek. He stared at the shelves.

There it was. A palm sized box covered with pictures of vermin. Just the right thing to rid the world of troublesome pests.

Someone bumped into William. He stumbled backward and caught himself on the shelving unit only to notice a teenage boy holding a box of condoms and trying to disguise it with a couple bags of chips. He offered no apology, just glared a William as if he was the one who had been rude. It took all of William's concentration not to let loose his sudden anger on the boy. It took in an immeasurable amount of strength to keep bottled the bodies within that scrambled for the surface desperate to vent their fury on the smooth faced teenager. It took such an amount of determination, that his stomach clenched and his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. The light in the room grew too bright. The plate glass window to his left exploded inward and rained down on the shelves and into customers' hair. They took no notice, just went along completing their business as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. They lifted items off the shelves; they picked money out of their wallets.

The shards of glass glinted in the sunlight. They looked like little knives.

A cacophony of sounds, sounds from within, swept like wind through his skull. Those sounds rustled dust from strange parts of his mind. They collected, each small bit, and took shape. They grew into larger bits, for from dust was man formed, and stood, finally, fully formed.
It
spoke out of the darkness. It sounded like his own voice, his own heartbeat merged with the shape of dust that could have been Hamlet.

Now could I drink hot blood, and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on.

Oh, help him, you sweet heavens,
came a sweet female voice. A tremor of a whisper that surprised William.
Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown.

Polonius, for surely it was Polonius (yet it too merged with that shape of dust) said,
That he is mad 'tis true: 'tis true. 'tis pity.

The voice of Claudius, murderous king, had its say before it took residence in the shape of man.
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us to let his madness range.

William knew each character that formed from the dust around him to take shape and stare at him. Ophelia, Claudius, Polonius. Every voice in turn had its time, and William didn't bother to shut them out.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.

William decided straight away to hire a taxi.

My wit's diseased. I must be cruel, only to be kind.

He would send it to Helen Lucy Road.

I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.

He would save her from Puppet Lips no matter what it took. He wouldn't let Howard tempt Hannah into believing any one loved her more.

He stood holding his knapsack in one hand as the taxi drove off, leaving him at the head of the road rather than at the house. All the better to go with more stealth. There was a measure of relief settling into William's back. Without the incessant internal noises assailing his ears, he could concentrate on what his own mind told him.

Lobster traps lined the road. Stacked at least ten high, and made of wire and wood, they crushed straw coloured grass. Edging the sides of the stack, were overgrown and dying fringes of brush. Barrels, wooden and plastic littered the area. To one side was a short wharf stretching into green ocean, and on the other sat two derelict and broken fishing boats.

He took his first step, feeling grandiose, purposeful. He kept walking and kept walking knowing without a doubt, that Hannah would be home. Could there really be any doubt when everything had gone so perfectly. At first, he'd believed he needed to find her because he loved her. He thought, no, knew, that she could stop the horrible sounds that threw themselves like insults against his mind over and over and over again.

Now that he had come to understand. Like Ophelia and Hamlet, their fate was sealed. He had to save her from Puppet Lips even if he had to kill her.

I didn't bother with the colonel when I drove into my driveway. He was pretty full already, heavy in fact, with money and he lay terribly far out of reach on the back seat floor. Besides, I wouldn't need any of it for my funeral. I didn't plan to will my house over to Jesse; I'd give Gina my BMW to replace the old suicide vehicle she now drove. I felt reborn.

Even when I noticed my mother's number on my phone's unanswered list I maintained my glee. Standing in my favourite room, my den, I picked up the receiver and let the phone do its thing and dial Mom. As I scoured the room with my glance waiting for someone to pick up, I realised exactly why I'd always liked this room. It wasn't magazine page perfect. It reflected me. Not what everyone expected of me.

Jesse answered.

"Hello dear sister," I said into the mouthpiece.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"I've been out," I chirped.

"Mom's in intensive care." She blurted. "Lucky you managed to get me here. I've been with her since supper. I just came home to pack her some necessities."

Mom? In the hospital? What in the name of God?

"What happened?" I finally got out.

Jesse's voice came back with razor blades. "You. You happened."

My stomach rose with my anger. "What the hell do you mean?"

"Just go to the hospital. You could at least do that."

"What happened?"

"She's had a stroke. Meet me there." The phone clicked.

For a few moments I listened to the dead air and bland tone. I must have stood there for as long as it would take for a seed to sprout. I must have stared into space for as long as it took to die.

I must have driven to the hospital at the speed of stink. I didn't remember getting into my BMW. I didn't remember driving. All that came through the murk of images was the hospital entrance.

I couldn't possibly have had anything to do with mother's stroke. There was no way in hell that I was to blame. There couldn't be. I hadn't been anywhere near her since Saturday night. She'd served tea. She and Jesse. And I'd spilled it intentionally. But that wouldn't be enough to send her over the edge.

It was nothing like Dad's death. I wasn't to blame. I wasn't.

Nurses, doctors, candy stripers and various street-clothed people milled around the entrance. I had a hard time swallowing. Whatever bit of spit came up from my stomach or was formed in my mouth stuck in my throat like a great gob of slime. The darkness outside matched the gloom that took residence in my thoughts.

I faced Jesse outside the intensive care unit. She'd entered the heavy doors with worry whiting out her features like liquid paper. When she saw me wringing my hands as I stood surrounded by scurrying ants of people she immediately replaced the worried look with anger.

"So you decided to come," she accused.

"Why wouldn't I? She's my mother."

She shrugged and pushed past me. "I guess I didn't think you cared."

I grabbed her arm. "What's with you? Of course I care."

"Like you cared about Dad? Give me a break. I hope you care a whole lot more than that."