Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (20 page)

She knew better than anyone how I'd felt over Dad's death. At least I'd thought she did.

"Jesse, that wasn't my fault. It wasn't. I didn't mean it."

"Then why did you take off? Why did you refuse to come to his funeral? Why..." she broke down mid sentence. She started to cry; she fought me with hands that flailed about like unmanned water hoses. I grabbed at her and catching her hands, pulled them close to my stomach.

I should have known the effect my reaction to Dad's death had had on her. I guess in some way I did know. Even though I didn't want to, didn't want any remembrance, images flashed through my mind. Images of Dad on his lobster boat. Images from my own perspective, watching him fish. Listening to him yell at his crew for the day.

"Jesse, it's not like that. I couldn't go to the funeral. I couldn't face anyone."

I thought of how I'd gone aboard the boat to help that day. The last day I saw my father alive. The winds that morning had brought with it freezing rain, and taken out of commission all of Dad's hired hands. Nobody wanted to fish. Not one of his crew. Uncle Sebastian, who had been visiting for Christmas opted to give him a hand. Mom didn't want anyone to go out.

Jesse sniffed loudly. I looked down at her. She met my gaze.

"Mom's been dealing with Dad's death real hard," she said. "You have no idea. No idea at all. Do you know how badly she needed you? I just didn't matter. She didn't care that she had me." She pulled her hands away and turned her back to me. "All she wanted was you."

She said this last with such venom I couldn't bear having any distance between us. When I tried to touch her shoulder, she yanked it away. "Even today when they finally let me in to see her, the first thing she said to me was, where's Danny? Where's Danny?
You
! You who haven't been to see her since Dad died except when she begs you to come over. You. She asked for you. And all along,
I'm
standing right there."

"I'm sorry," I offered. She refused to face me.

I didn't want to think. I didn't want those voices, the voices from that Saturday, of Dad yelling, Uncle Sebastian's laughter suddenly catching in his throat, to intrude upon the plastic wrapping I'd stretched across those memories. But in they came anyway. They tore apart the clear plastic and reached in with poking fingers.

I'd not wanted to fish, not in that horrible weather. They called me anyway and I'd driven the mile to my parent's house in God-awful weather, just to please a man who couldn't be pleased. Mom had made me a thermos of sweet tea, to keep me warm, she said. We left the wharf hours before dawn. The boat light shone on the rail and out into the dark ocean. I resented having to be there. Dad resented having me there; I was about as useful as a baitless trap. Get over there and shuck that pot, you lazy bastard, he'd yelled. And yelled. And yelled. I did as I was told. Ever the helpful son. I shucked every pot as nicely as I could, then on one trawl I pulled out my thermos. To be damned, I'd thought. I needed something to warm my body. Ice crystals beaded on my eyelashes, my fingers were numb from cold. Dad seemed unaffected.

Unaffected until he noticed a wave coming straight for the side. Before I could register that his panicked look was for me, I was over the rail and into the unforgiving freeze of the Atlantic.

"Winter water is heavy," I said to Jesse.

She turned. "What?"

"Remember how Dad always said the water was heavy during the winter?"

She nodded.

"I don't remember the cold. I just remember the weight."

"Maybe the weight came from your survival suit..."

I shook my head. "The water held me down. Kept me under. The few times I made it to the surface, I could see the light. That's how I knew I'd made it to the surface. But it blinded me. I couldn't see anything. I panicked. When Dad grabbed my ankle, I thought it was seaweed or something."

She knew exactly what I was talking about. Her face changed expressions. Instead of anger, I saw concern. "Don't, Daniel. You don't have to."

I let go some sort of groan. "I didn't know it was Dad. I wouldn't have kicked. I wouldn't have fought him."

"But he got you out."

Yes, he'd got me back aboard the boat. But he'd jumped in the water to do it. He'd somehow pushed and fought me until I reached the surface. Uncle Sebastian threw the life preserver and pulled me aboard. Dad wasn't rescued until the next day when his body came up in someone's trawl line.

I stared at Jesse.

"The damned tea," I said. "I killed him with it." I choked as I spoke. "I killed him."

She put her hand on my forearm. "The ocean killed him, Danny."

I dragged in a breath and nodded although I didn't agree. With heavy legs, I pushed myself to mom's room. I stared down at her with bated breath. How still she looked, how eerie. Usually she possessed enough energy to put the Energizer Bunny to shame. Now she lay on white, very white, sheets in a room without colour.

Strange, I hadn't noticed before how colour played such important roles in life. Colour lent depth, it offered interest. As important to white as shadows were too light, I supposed. What had Hannah said--shadows complement light? I understood, finally, exactly how harsh full light or true white could be. There was no relief from it, it made me want to hide my eyes.

I wished Mom were awake and could speak. More than anything, I needed to hear her voice. Strange, I'd not thought how necessary her speech, her anything, was before. She'd always just been.

The nurses had said she'd be all right. They'd said she suffered only a minor attack, that there might not be any damage. But how would they know? How would they know until they tested her. Everything, my pitiful existence, my iris garden, grand house and property, everything meant nothing. All that mattered was that she open her eyes and forgive me for killing the man she loved beyond anything else in the world. Forgive me for taking away her shadow.

Mom's green eyes looked drug weary as she peered up at me.

"I'm glad you're okay."

She nodded.

I didn't know what to say next. I watched her and the way she fiddled with the sheets as if they could do all of the talking. She licked her lips, turning this way and that trying to find some liquid. I noticed a styrofoam cup on the trolley. It had a bent straw in it.

"Want some water?" I asked, cringing as soon as I mentioned the word. If I could have avoided any word, it would have been water.

Mom didn't notice my discomfort. She opened her mouth, waiting for me to slip the straw inside. She took long, large gulps and I wondered if she'd get sick from having cold liquid hit her stomach. We both waited for the outcome.

Before I realised I wanted to speak, my tongue started wagging.

"I'm sorry," I started. Mom held up her hand.

"Don't," she said.

"I shouldn't have stayed away. You needed me. But I just couldn't."

Mom sighed. I gave a swipe at the bit of liquid that bled from my eyes to my cheek.

Tubes jiggled; the heart monitor sped up as she worked to say more than one word.

"I've never blamed you, Danny. Never."

I felt for her fingers as her hand dropped to the sheet.

"That makes it even worse."

She blinked and for a second and I thought she'd say something sweet and kind and I couldn't take that if she did. I'd tear out of there screaming if she said she forgave me.

"You're a horrible son," she said, her voice gravelly and harsh but with something resonating beneath it that put me in mind of a gruff old priest offering absolution to a sinner.

"You killed your own father and I hate you for it."

My lungs expanded as though I'd been holding my breath. Water swam in my vision.

"I love you, Mom," I said, choking on the words, but they made her smile.

Even as I sensed the shift, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I plucked it out and tapped answer. Gina. Great timing.

"Did you make your statement, then?" she asked.

"Yeah, just this morning."

There was silence on the other end for a moment. "If you were only going to do it this morning why were you in such a damned hurry yesterday?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your text yesterday demanding info."

I leaned away from mom's bedside because Gina's voice was getting a little shrill and I didn't want it disturbing the sense of peace that had settled around me. I found a chair next to it and pushed myself as far into the back as I could.

"What information are talking about, Gina?"

"You said you needed Hannah Hastings' address. I figured you needed it to fill out your police statement."

"What in the hell would I need Hannah's address for?"

"Because of that weirdo yesterday. The one who wanted to deposit into her account."

I thought the lights had gone out. Weird shadows tightened my vision into a tiny white circle and then down into nothing. It was almost as if I'd got up out of my seat in too much of a hurry. Indeed, when the shadows disappeared into the light, I realised I had stood.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Gina nodded. "You mean you didn't know that?" She sucked her teeth. "You would have if you hadn't taken off so quickly yesterday."

I plowed through the index cards of my mind. I twirled through my Rolodex. When I pulled out Hannah's card and looked at it, it contained almost every piece of dialog we'd spoken. It contained her website address, her photo, and lastly, the information about the man who had driven her out of the city.

I didn't know how, but I knew her stalker had found her.

The spot William found to hide was a difficult one to crouch into. Being on the edge of the saltwater marsh, it made the breeze cold. William worried that his knapsack full of powder would fall into the water and get thoroughly soaked. He held tightly onto the straps and forced himself to remain perfectly still.

He wasn't sure how long he waited, but the sun moved from its spot straight above him to the Southwest, and cast a long shadow from the house to the broken down gardening shed next to where he waited. By then, Hannah had taken to wiping down the panes of window that made up the solarium. In all that time, no one came out of the house and no one went in. It was time.

First, he had to inspect the outside perimeter of the house. He hoped there would be another way in other than the door that faced him because Hannah would undoubtedly see him if he went in that way. He needed the measure of surprise. He crept cautiously to the left, making sure that at every pause he was hidden quite nicely behind the tall over growth. In a short time, he faced the south wall of the house and could see that indeed, there was a door. And a window. He moved closer.

The house was narrow. If he stretched himself along the ground, William was certain he'd only have to fill the space twice before the other boundary was reached. The entrance, in the middle of the wall, had on one side a window, the other side, a small storage room filled with wood. That room, too, had a door. If William managed to creep inside, he could hide in that room until he decided exactly what to do.

He lifted the latch.

He heard her singing. His heart lurched. It would be a pity, really, to kill that voice. But what was it, except just another voice, another sound to fill his already saturated ears. If William had his way, he'd close off all the sounds. He'd be deaf.

Hannah had taken to dancing in the other room. William could hear the deliberate, rhythmic tapping and shuffling that accompanied her singing. He wondered what it would be like to stand at the side of the room, with her full knowledge, and simply watch her. He wondered what it would be like to have her reach for him and place her head on his shoulder while they swayed and dipped and turned. He wanted to take the few steps through the kitchen and into that other room.

Instead, he opened the door to his left and sat on a pile of wood.

My BMW couldn't have taken me fast enough to Hannah's. I hoped against all hope that Howard hadn't taken his flight back to Toronto. At least if he was still here, he'd provide some measure of protection. But then, perhaps the stalker didn't know where she lived. Gina had given him the address of the Grand Hotel. It was perfectly logical that he didn't know about Helen Lucy Road. And if luck and God was with us, I'd reach Hannah early enough to warn her that Shakespeare was somewhere in town. At least then, she could be on guard. Get a new restraining order, even.

I passed the hospital doing over one hundred kilometres. Please, please, please God, don't let the cops stop me. Don't let them catch me speeding. Then again, what was I thinking? Please, please, please God. Let the cops catch me.

Hannah came into the kitchen. William could hear her rustling around from his spot on the woodpile. He had left the door open just a crack so that he wouldn't feel so closed in, and since he had, he could see her quite clearly put a kettle on top of the wood stove. She talked to someone as she moved around the kitchen. Howard. It had to be that horrible man who would leave her panties on the floor, who would rifle through her belongings, who would disrespect her space.