Straightjacket (24 page)

Finally tires rolled over the dirt driveway and two beams of light shone onto the house. She jerked the blanket higher up on Caleb’s back to make sure it wouldn’t slip down when she left him, and sprinted toward the car, shouting Dr. Hillman’s name. The darkness made it so that she could barely make him out.

“Anna, what’s wrong?”

She met him halfway up the path toward the house; he wore practically the same clothes as before, his shirt sleeves still rolled up unevenly.

“Thank you so much for coming. I need your help. I didn’t know who else to call,” she said, already turning around and heading toward the boat. Dr. Hillman followed as closely as he could manage, but she was almost running, and he lagged several feet behind her.

“What’s wrong? Is Caleb hurt?” he shouted ahead at her.

“He’s right here.” The blanket had slipped off him and lay crumpled on the floorboards of the boat.

“Caleb, what’s the matter, my boy?”

“He can’t talk. He’s having…an episode.”

“An episode?” Dr. Hillman climbed into the boat and sat down so he was facing Caleb. He placed his leather doctor’s bag on his lap and searched it in the dark, finally pulling out a penlight.

“A catatonic episode,” she said quietly as he waved the light back and forth across Caleb’s eyes.

“So he’s had these before?”

“Yeah, a lot of them. I know there’s not really anything I can do, but I need to get him inside, and there’s no way I can do it by myself.”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor answered, now checking Caleb’s pulse. “He’s physically okay. The most important thing right now is to get him inside the house, like you said. I’m not exactly in the best shape to carry him myself,” he said, chuckling. “Let me see. Maybe I can drive the car down here and between the two of us we can load him in the backseat and drive him to the front door.”

“Yes!” Anna cried with relief. “Let’s try it.” The doctor walked briskly back up to his car while Anna draped the blanket back over Caleb.

“Dr. Hillman’s going to help us,” she whispered to the frozen face. “Just a little longer.” The engine turned over and the wheels rolled over the dirt. The headlights swept across the trees and then in their direction. The car headed very slowly and carefully down the incline and over the dirt and grass until it stopped right next to them, its back door lined up with the board where Caleb was sitting.

“Okay, let’s each try to grab him underneath an arm and pull him into the backseat,” he said once he was out of the car. “Just be careful and don’t use your injured arm.”

She nodded and then flung Caleb’s arm over her shoulder and around to the other side. The doctor did the same.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” At the count of three, they lifted him so that he stood at three-quarters of his height, his back rounded as he slumped over with his head hanging down. They moved slowly in the direction of the car, and each of them stepped over the side holding Caleb’s arms securely around them. Once they were over, they kept pulling so that his legs and then feet fell over the side of the boat. His feet landed on the ground with a dead thump and they dragged him over to the car, his heels digging into the dirt and leaving two parallel tracks behind them. After a struggle, they were able to lay him across the backseat, moving his limbs so that all of him fit into the car.

“Well, we’re halfway there,” the doctor said good-heartedly, and with a struggle she offered him a weak smile. “Hop in.” The car turned around slowly and headed back up to the house. He parked as close as he could, positioning the car so that the backseat lined up with the front door.

“I’ll pull him out, and then you can get yourself under him again and we’ll get him inside.” Dr. Hillman slid his fingers underneath Caleb’s arms and pulled hard until his entire body was outside. Anna rushed to catch Caleb and the two of them propped him up again. With enormous effort, they pulled him up the three stairs and into the house, laying him down on the couch. Anna placed a pillow underneath his head and layered two blankets across the length of his body. He lay still with his arms and legs obeying the positions in which they had been placed and his eyes wide open, looking blankly up at the ceiling.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There were voices speaking to each other, but the actual words were mostly lost to Caleb. One time he concentrated hard, focusing on the deeper voice. The words zipped by, but he memorized a particular string of them so he could take his time going over them again and again. One by one he decoded their meaning, and then laboriously put all the meanings together. He settled on something to the extent of “it will be hard for you to take care of him yourself.”

He thought about that for a while. Things had been clearer before, but he was forgetting. Take care of him. Was the “him” himself? Why would he need to be taken care of? Thinking was tiring and difficult. And he was so focused on the tiny crack in the ceiling. It was hard to think about anything besides the crack. You might not even notice it was there, it was so faint. But he noticed. For a long time he thought about how big it was. Then about the different lengths of the zigzags. There was so much to notice about the crack.

The voices stopped. He couldn’t determine how long ago, but he knew the silence hadn’t registered with him immediately. And then the smell of a fire. And the crackling of wood. Yes, the room was warm now and he was growing warmer. Something heavy rested on his arm. What was that? He was trying to figure it out, but he was so tired. It was hard to stay awake. Finally he set his mind adrift and wandered into a dream.

* * *

When he woke up, it was dark. He squinted at his watch and could have sworn the short hand was on the eleven. That meant it was eleven o’clock at night, but he felt like he’d slept through an entire night. His arm slipped off the couch and hit something. It was Anna, lying on the floor, fast asleep. She was curled up in a blanket, resting on her side and facing him.

Why were they sleeping in the living room? Why was he on the couch with her on the floor? How did they get there? His mind searched for answers, but there were no memories, only blankness. He flung the blanket off of him and swung his legs over the back of the couch so he wouldn’t wake her. Stiff and sore, he stumbled into the bathroom and flipped on the light. The brightness blinded him. His eyes flickered open a few seconds at a time to accept doses of light until they were used to it.

He grabbed onto the sink and looked up into the mirror. How could this be? It looked like he hadn’t shaved in two days. He probed his mind, trying to remember if he had skipped his shave that morning, but again he was met only with an empty hole where the memory should have been.

And then—the sensation of wetness. His jeans were soaked through. His boxers were saturated as well. A whiff of stale urine told him what had happened.

In a wave of fury he pulled off his T-shirt, soaked with the smell of sweat, and stripped himself naked. Underneath the showerhead, which pummeled his back with water as hot as he could bear, he lashed himself with loathing. How long had it been? What did Anna have to do? Then he remembered the boat. That’s where it had happened. His conversation with Samuel. The next time he saw him—but he couldn’t think about that right now. Instead he tried to figure out how Anna had managed to get him onto the couch. He could hardly stand to think of what he’d made her suffer through. And for him to have thought he could provide for her, take care of her and handle everything. Instead, he was a burden.

When the scalding water began to run lukewarm, he stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He dragged his aching body up to the bedroom and threw on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Downstairs Anna was still in the same position, sleeping soundly. His arms slid carefully underneath her, lifting her slowly so as not to wake her. She began to stir and he stood still, holding her close, but she settled back into her sleep and nuzzled her cheek against his chest. Even though his muscles were weak, she still felt so light to him, and it made him feel stronger.

He laid her down on the bed upstairs, resting her head on one of the pillows. She moved a bit but settled into the bed and after a few moments was still. The covers rose and fell with each breath. He wanted to be next to her but couldn’t bring himself to lie down. His body wanted to move and his mind wanted to think, so he left her and went to the study, settling down at the desk with his paper and pencils. He drew pictures of Anna and worked all night.

* * *

“Caleb.” Her voice, still heavy with sleep, traveled through the house. The patch of sky through the study window was just starting to turn to orange.

“I’m right here,” he said as he entered the bedroom.

“Caleb.” She sighed in relief. “I woke up in the bed and you weren’t here and I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay,” he said glumly. “I brought you up last night.”

“I’m so glad.” She threw her arm around his neck, hugging him close to her. He wrapped his arms around her back.

“I’m so sorry.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. The shame, self-loathing, relief, love for her—it all meshed together. He was frozen in a different way now, which made it all even worse.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I’m so happy you’re okay.”

He pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Do you feel bad? Do you need something?”

“I was crazy to think that any of this wouldn’t be a problem. I was irresponsible and—to think about what I put you through…” He thought he might actually start crying. Instead he cleared his throat and took a breath. “It’s not fair to you. You don’t deserve this. It won’t happen again.”

“What? What are you talking about? I’d do anything for you. I took care of you, like you take care of me.” Frustration and anger hid behind her words, but he let her speak without being interrupted. “And anyway, how can you say this won’t happen again?” Alarm gripped her. “Are you—are you going to leave? Is that what you mean? Caleb, no…”

“No, of course not.” He took her hand in both of his. “I meant I’m not going to have stupors anymore. I’m taking care of it.”

“What? Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m going into town and picking up a prescription. I’m going to take what Dr. Blackwell has been wanting me to take. You’ll never have to deal with me like that again. It won’t ever be a problem.”
None of it will be a problem. If I can’t fall into the stupors, then Samuel can’t get to me, can’t bring me back.
But that part was not something she’d ever need to know.

“You said you’d never take that stuff, you didn’t want it to change you. I don’t want you to do anything—”

“Well, I changed my mind. That’s what I’m doing.”

“How? Did Dr. Hillman prescribe it?”

“No, Blackwell. I called him last night. He agreed to let Dr. Hillman keep an eye on me so we can stay here.”

“Caleb, I don’t know about this. You used to say you’d rather die than take that stuff.”

“Well, now I’d rather live with you.” Suddenly his voice turned angry. “I will
not
turn you into some kind of nurse to my weak…my disgusting body that just lies there for who knows how many days at a time.” It was true; that was part of it, but not all of it.

“No, that’s not how it is.”

“Really? How long was I out for?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” she said quietly.

He tensed up and closed his eyes when what he really wanted to do was jump up and start screaming. But he was able to stay calm.

“That won’t happen again.” He desperately wanted to ask her what had happened, how she’d managed, but he couldn’t bear to listen. And then he hated himself even more for his weakness; she had lived it, and he couldn’t even stand to hear about it.

“It’s okay, it
was
okay, I was able to handle it,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“It won’t happen again,” he repeated, slowly. “I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. Why don’t you go get ready and I’ll get breakfast going?”

“Whatever you want.” For his sake she slid out of bed and hopped into the shower.

Downstairs, he peered into the coolness of the refrigerator for a long time, feeling lost and useless. But his hands took over and reached for the egg carton, butter, and half gallon of milk. Next they went for the skillet, dropping it on the burner of the stove. The starter clicked and ignited the gas underneath.

His body knew what to do next even though his mind was dull. He saw himself crack three eggs into a bowl. A tiny fragment of eggshell was suspended in the whites. His finger poked through the goo, dragging the shell up the side of the bowl. But before it could reach the edge to fish it out, the shell slid back in, settling near the yolks. He tried two more times, but each effort ended with the sliver of shell slipping back into the center.

“Crap.” The whisk beat the eggs furiously until the yolks and whites had blended together, hiding the fragment of shell deep in the frothy yellowness. Joined by a splash of too much milk, the entire contents of the bowl landed in the skillet.

He swirled the spatula around the bottom of the pan, giving the eggs too little time to settle and cook. But he couldn’t stand there doing nothing, so he continued to swish the liquid around. Eventually the eggs did cook through, and the now-scrambled eggs landed onto two plates. He practically dropped them both onto the table and continued to busy himself by pouring a glass of orange juice for Anna and starting some decaf coffee for himself.

“Anna, it’s ready!” he called upstairs, dropping some forks and napkins into the middle of the table. He checked on the coffee, sat down, got back up to check on the coffee again, and then Anna walked into the kitchen, dressed in khaki shorts, flip-flops and a pink T-shirt with her hair hanging straight down her back.

“Thanks for making breakfast.”

“It needs salt and pepper,” he mumbled, grabbing the pepper for himself and shaking it over his mound of eggs.