The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (40 page)

Most of my memories, though, weren’t of events. Mostly, they were of feelings. They erupted suddenly, unexpectedly, and I struggled to define and endure them. Putting dishes into a cabinet, I’d see my mother secretly hiding bracelets, squirreling away jars of coins, and, instantly, without warning, I’d be overcome with loss. Tears would gush from my eyes. In the bathtub, resting my hand on my swollen tummy, I’d picture my mother’s sad, vacant eyes and be terrified that I’d become like her, losing myself to depression after my baby’s birth. And, reading with Molly or tucking her into bed, I’d see shadows of myself with my mother and become paralyzed, almost speechless with grief, enough so that Molly would notice and ask what was wrong.

Worst of all was nighttime. Trying to fall asleep, I tossed, unsettled, haunted by guilt. I told myself that her death had not been my fault. I’d been a young child, and my mother’s suicide had been beyond anything I could control. My guilt was irrational, childish.

But the little girl who’d been hiding in my mind still felt responsible for my mother’s death. Little Zoe blamed herself, insisting that if only she’d stayed downstairs, if only she’d been there, she could have prevented the suicide. My adult mind assured her that she was not at fault. It explained that, even if she’d interrupted Mom that day, she’d have no doubt killed herself at another time. I reasoned that Mom had been deeply disturbed, too sick to survive. But the child remained unconvinced. Petulant, she insisted that if only she’d been a good-enough girl, if only she’d have made her mother happier, there would have been no suicide. Her mother would not have wanted to die. The little girl still living in my head knew beyond any doubt that the death was all her fault.

You’re a therapist, I reminded myself. Stop this hysterical guilt trip. You know better; your mother’s death was not because of you. But the confusion and secrets my mind had contained all these years burst out, overpowering my rational thoughts, spouting guilt and self-blame, spewing unresolved pain and confusion. Even if my adult self had studied psychology, a five-year-old child was cowering at the back of my mind, frozen in the basement, staring at swinging feet.

I told myself that it would take time to recover. I had to reacquaint myself with my childhood, absorb these emerging memories. Not certain what to say, I kept the process close and private, not discussing it with Susan, not even with Nick. I was too raw, not able to put my feelings into words, not ready to expose the tender child I’d been to the scrutiny of others, even those who loved me. For now, I hid her away, kept her as protected and quiet as I could, bracing myself for her tantrums, trying to cope with the intensity of her sudden revelations.

And at night, when she was too troubled and restless to let me sleep, I took the tin box from my nightstand and calmed her by holding colored glass buttons up to the lamplight, marveling at the magic of their glow.

M
Y MEDICATIONS SEEMED TO
be working; the contractions had increased, averaging six an hour, but they were mostly mild. Although I still couldn’t go back to work, Dr. Martin said that I could resume some of my normal activities, even, with reservations, moderate driving. I felt like a bird released from a cage, couldn’t wait to go someplace. Anywhere. Even to the grocery store. Molly had a different idea. She wanted to visit her grandfather. And so my very first outdoor trip in weeks was to see my dad.

When we got to Harrington Place, he was in the lounge, playing poker. What a surprise.

“We’re almost done here,” he welcomed us. “Have a seat. Watch some television. I’ll just finish cleaning these guys’ clocks and call it a day.”

“I wouldn’t count my winnings yet, if I were you.” The man to my father’s left was tall and mustached, elegant in his posture.

“Will you fellows stop jawing and play the game?” Leonard complained. From what I’d seen, Leonard was always complaining.

“What’s your hurry, Leonard?” The tall man grinned. “You got a train to catch?”

“No,” my father jabbed. “He’s expecting his son. Any minute, he expects him to walk in from…Where is he, Leonard? Tasmania?”

There were chuckles all around while Leonard bristled. “Is that supposed to be funny?” He sat up straight, piqued. “Don’t make comments about my son.”

“Forget about it, Leonard,” the tall man advised. “I’m raising a dollar.”

“What’s raising a dollar, Mom?”

I wasn’t sure. “They play for money.” Maybe that made sense.

“Anyway, what did he say about my son?”

“Leonard, wait. No kidding—you have a son?” Dad teased, merciless, throwing his dollar in the pot. “Tell us about him. What’s he up to these days?”

“Cut it out, Walter—don’t egg him on.” A man with thick white hair and glasses chewed an unlit cigar and tossed in his dollar. “Call.” He waited for the tall man to show his cards.

“You know I have a son, Walter.” Leonard reminded him. “I told you—”

“Forget about it, Leonard,” Arthur called. “Put your damn dollar in.” The tall man turned to my father. “You can’t help yourself, can you, Walter?”

My father grinned. “Of course I can. And usually, I do. But do I get credit for those times? No.”

“Guys.” Arthur shook his head. “I called. Are we playing cards or what? What have you got, Moe?”

Molly had wandered over to my dad and climbed onto his lap. “What are you playing, Grandpa?”

“Poker. Shh. You can’t talk until we’re done.”

“Why?”

“People will think we’re cheating.”

So Molly sat perfectly quiet while they finished. As my dad collected the pot, she cheered and threw her arms around his neck. “You won! Grandpa won—”

She stopped mid-sentence, seeing my face.

“Your mother doesn’t like me to gamble. She worries that I’ll lose.”

“Lose? Him? Not likely.” Moe, the man with the mustache, told Molly. “He beats everybody. Your grandpa’s what they call a card shark, young lady. If he teaches you half of what he knows, you can get rich.”

Okay, I thought. That’s enough about the benefits of gambling. “Molly, let Grandpa get up so we can go get some lunch.”

We started for the dining room, Molly fascinated by my father’s winnings, marveling at all the singles and the pile of change he’d pulled in. “If your mother lets me, I’ll teach you to play gin.”

“What’s gin?”

“Oh, it’s fun—after lunch, I’ll show you.”

“Dad—”

“—I said, ‘If your mom lets me.’”

Molly turned to me, begging, and I changed the subject, commenting about my father’s new friends. Dad replied that he, Moe and Arthur were buddies, playing cards almost daily, arranging bimonthly Saturday-night bus trips to Atlantic City. I simmered, remembering his fights with my mother. But before I said a word about it, he promised that his gambling was under control, limiting his bets to petty cash.

The hostess greeted us, showed us to our table. As we passed, women of various sizes, shapes and hair shades greeted my father with a dazzling array of smiles and blushes. A wave of “Hello, Walter” seemed to ripple through the dining room, but my father didn’t seem to notice. The hostess smiled and handed us menus.

“Don’t open it yet,” my father told Molly. “Bet you a dollar you can’t guess what the soup of the day is.”

Oh, Lord. “Dad—”

“Bet I can.” Molly closed her eyes and thought. “Chicken noodle?”

My father’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”

Molly beamed, thrilled. I watched her, saw myself at her age, two little girls completely enthralled by the same man.

“I can’t believe it. You got it right. I got to give you a dollar.” He reached for his wallet. “Tell me how you knew.”

Molly beamed with pride, palm out to take the cash. “That lady.” She pointed to a stout red-haired woman at the next table who was sipping a cup of chicken noodle.

“Dad. Molly,” I barked. “No more gambling.” The man was incorrigible.

“Why not?” Molly had no idea.

“Relax. It’s only a dollar. Leave us alone, we’re fine.”

“It’s a waste of time and money.”

“It’s fun, Mom. I won a dollar.”

“You were lucky this time. How would you feel if you lost a dollar?”

She looked confused. “But I didn’t—”

“Let the kid have some fun, would you?”

I didn’t want to fight with him in front of Molly. Besides, he’d already given her the dollar; it was best to let it pass. I picked up the menu, trying to think about something else. Maybe chicken salad. Or no. I wanted red meat—roast beef? I was considering a rare cheeseburger when, without warning, the air was crushed from my lungs. Light flashed in my head, and my ribs began to cave in.

The contraction was worse than any I’d had or even imagined, and for its duration I was aware of nothing else.

A
S SOON AS IT
passed, I knew I had to call Dr. Martin. But my father and Molly were watching me, four wide eyes, alarmed.

“What’s wrong, Mom? Is it the baby again?”

“The baby?” My father hadn’t known that I was having a difficult pregnancy. “What’s she talking about? Is something wrong with the baby?” He seemed to lose color.

“It’s all right.” But I knew it wasn’t. This contraction had been serious. Stabbing. Oh, God. Was I going to lose the baby? I grabbed my belly. Stay calm, I told myself; don’t panic. But I wasn’t calm, and I didn’t have the energy to panic. My body was damp and shaky, my brain sluggish.

“What’s wrong with the baby?” my father asked again.

“Nothing,” I breathed. “Don’t worry.”

“Mom? Are you having the baby now? Should I call?” Molly was on her feet, digging into my pocketbook. “Where’s your cell phone?”

Oh. Right. My cell phone. “It’s okay, Molly. I’ll call Nick.”

She stood beside me, supervising as I took out the phone.

My father watched me, frowning.

“I’m all right, Dad. Don’t worry.”

The waitress came for our orders.

“Hi, there, Mr. Hayes. What can I get you folks?”

“Sally, this is my family.” Dad’s eyes didn’t leave me; he was concerned.

“Your family? Well, it’s nice to meet you. You have a charming guy here.” Sally smiled sweetly, fondly patting my dad on the shoulder, reminding me yet again of his way with women.

Still shaky, phone in hand, I smiled back at her. “Go sit down, Molls. I’m okay now. Order some lunch.”

Reluctantly Molly sat, leaving me holding the phone, figuring out which call to make. Should I call Nick first, then the doctor? Or the doctor first, then Nick?

“Mom.” Molly was talking to me. “You need to order.”

Sally was waiting; my father was watching me. I couldn’t think about food.

“Need some more time? Should I come back?”

“No. I’ll just have some tea.”

“How about something with that?” She talked in singsong, as if to a small child. “A nice banana nut muffin—”

“No—just tea,” I snapped, wanting her to go away, feeling another contraction rumbling through my middle. So soon? I took a deep breath, shut my eyes, waiting for it to pass.

When I tuned in again, Sally was gone. My father was shifting in his chair, agitated, muttering.

“Mom. You need to call.”

I began to, but my father leaned forward, upset about the baby. “Just remember, you’re the important one. No matter what, you come first. You can always have another baby, but there’s only one you.”

What? Oh my God. “Dad. Stop it—”

Molly sucked her bottom lip, her skin ashen.

“Sometimes these things happen. Babies don’t always make it—‘”

“Dad, stop. The baby isn’t dying. Please just let me call the doctor.”

My father was distraught. Maybe confused, recalling the loss of his own baby boy. He wouldn’t quiet down. He kept talking, acting as if the baby was going to be lost, and I had to cover my free ear in order to hear Nick’s, then the doctor’s voices. Before I got off the phone, though, another monster contraction began, much worse than the last, and I sat, afraid to speak or move, counting its duration, trying to breathe, waiting for Nick to arrive and take me to the hospital.

When the contraction finally abated, it did so gradually, and it was a while until I could see straight. My father and Molly were deep in conversation.

“You have to be patient with her.” He put his hand on her arm. “She can’t help it. It’s how the world looks to her.”

Molly shook her head. “But, Grandpa, Mom’s not like that—”

“It’s hard for you to understand, Zoe.”

“But I’m Molly.”

Oh, God. He’d slipped again, confusing me with Molly, my mom with me.

“Listen to me. Your mother imagines things. She’s always been a little different. She sees trouble everywhere, so she tries to keep everything safe, to protect us.” He sighed. “I probably should put her in a hospital, but, well, the truth is I can’t bear to.”

What had happened? Half an hour ago, he’d been completely oriented, winning at poker. Was it my contraction? Had his concern for my baby transported him to his past?

“Your mother doesn’t trust a single living soul. Even her friends. Remember Edith? Or Helen? You must remember Roslyn.”

“I don’t know any of them—”

“Well, you used to. Roslyn used to paint your fingernails and cut your hair. But you forgot them because they don’t call anymore. And why don’t they call? Because your mother has accused them—each one of them—of stealing from her. It’s very sad.”

“You’re wrong, Grandpa.” Molly was defiant. “Mommy’s not like that.”

“Listen. You hear her when she yells at me for gambling. When she says I lose our money at poker and God knows what all. Zoe, I swear. None of it’s true.”

It wasn’t?

“None of it. Oh, I like some penny-ante poker now and then, but I’m no big-time gambler. Your mom imagines that I gamble away the roof over our heads. Or that thieves will come in the night and take her pearls and sterling. She imagines that people are out to take whatever she has, whatever she values—”

Wait. She imagined it? What? I tried to process what he was saying, couldn’t keep up.