The Lurking Man (14 page)

“You scared me half to death.”

He scowled.

“Come on, sit up,” she said and helped him do so.

She saw the filth from the floor on his hands and elbows and a wave of embarrassment swept over her. She had showered a few hours ago and that had made this accident her fault.

“Let me get your wheelchair out of the car and then I'll get you cleaned up.”

He nodded his acceptance.

She exited the bathroom and paused when she got to the kitchen doorway. The cupboard that once held her booze beckoned her. It told her that if her frustration needed a reprieve it might have something that may have been overlooked.

“There's nothing in there. I made sure of it. This is a new day and a new start,” she whispered and stepped into the kitchen. The urge to know if she might have missed something was strong.

“Mom, are you getting me my chair so I can get off this floor and get washed up?”

“Yes,” she said, the distraction enough to squash her curiosity and force her out of the kitchen. “I'm going out now.”

She went outside and barely noticed the cold. The idea that she almost gave in to the alcohol so soon left her frustrated.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

She balled her fist and pounded it into the palm of her hand.

“Why did you think you could beat it?”

She hated the fact that her addiction was more powerful than the care she had for her own son.

Opening the trunk, she grabbed the wheelchair and tried to pull it out, but it was stuck. Placing a foot on the bumper, she gave the chair a strong yank. It popped free and she stumbled backwards and fell into a snowdrift.

“Damn it!”

She jumped to her feet and brushed the snow off of her clothes, grabbed the frame of the chair, and dragged it up the walkway and into the house. She grappled with it and cursed herself for not paying better attention when Wilson showed her how to use it.

Once she figured it out, she rolled it down the hallway and found Beau waiting in the same spot she had left him.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I couldn't get it out of the trunk.”

Beau laughed. “Your hair has snow in it.”

She looked in the mirror and laughed at what she saw. A small pile of snow sat on top of her head. “I guess I lost my hat when I fell. Darn, I love those pompoms.”

“You can go back outside and get it.”

She shook her head. “I don't love them that much. It really is cold out there and I can barely feel my fingers.”

Lifting him into the chair, Cailean positioned his feet on the footrests. “Are you comfortable?”

He nodded and she washed his hands and arms.

“I'm going to need you to remind me when I'm supposed to take you to the bathroom next.”

“That's OK. I like to do it myself.”

“No,” she said and shook her head. “Absolutely not. I want to know when you're going. God forbid you fall again. You could be there for a long time before I even realized you were gone.”

“I won't fall again.”

“Please, Beau, just do as I ask.”

He nodded.

“And I'm sorry about the mess in the house. I'm embarrassed you had to see it. I live alone and don't clean up behind myself as well as I should.”

The doorbell rang.

“Would you like to watch some television so I can see who that is?”

“That's fine, Mom.”

She backed the wheelchair out of the bathroom and the handrims scraped the walls. She groaned in displeasure and examined the deep lines that ripped through the paint.

“That's no big deal,” she said and ignored her growing frustration. She moved Beau into the family room and slid the coffee table aside and centered the wheelchair to the television. The doorbell rang again and it was followed by a series of hard knocks.

“Hold on a second!” she shouted and turned on cartoons and purposely set the volume loud. The idea that Wilson might have followed her home to check on them
didn't help with her changing mood. If he was outside that door she was going to give him a piece of her mind.
 

“I'll be back in a few minutes, sweetie. Do you need me to bring you anything when I return?”

“No, thank you, Mom.”

She walked the hallway and seethed at the idea that Wilson gave her no trust whatsoever. She yanked the door open, and to her surprise, Emerson stood there with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets and a ski cap pulled down tight around his big head.

“Emerson?” she said.

“It's really cold out here, Cailean.” His breath stained the air and his bright red cheeks and nose confirmed his declaration.

“Yes, I know. My son is here and now is really not a good time for this.” The cold penetrated her clothes and she pushed the door closed to a slit.

“You left the trunk of your car open and I closed it. You must have dropped this.” He handed her the pompom hat.

“Thank you.”

“If you allow me inside, what I have to say to you will only take a minute.”

“What is it? What do you want?”

“Right now?” he stepped closer to the door. “I would like to warm up for a minute. I walked all the way here and now I have to turn around and walk all the way back.”

“Why in the hell would you walk all the way here, in this?”

Emerson slapped his midsection. “Well, with some of the things you said, it really hit home. And honestly, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

She stepped aside and opened the door, offering him passage. “Just keep your voice down and make this quick.”

“I will,” he said and hurried into the house.

Cailean closed the door.

“And so much for you waiting to hear from me,” she said.

He rubbed his hands together and blew into them. “I was worried about you and I didn't like the way things went between us. I wanted to come by and see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you still mad?”

“I really haven't had much time to think about it. I've been busy trying to get myself right for Beau.”

“That's great, it really is. I'm happy for you and support you one hundred percent.” He smiled. “How did it go with Wilson?”

“Better than expected, I suppose. Beau's here with me, so that must tell you something.”

Emerson unzipped his coat.

“What are you doing?” she said. “I already told you that you're not staying.”

“I know that.”

He reached inside his coat and withdrew a crumpled brown bag and held it out for her to take.

“Here, this is for you,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A peace offering.”

She wanted to turn away from him and tell him to get the hell out of her house, but she also wanted what was inside that bag.

“Now is not the best time for that,” she said.

Her words were without conviction and she could hear it.

“No, I know it's not.” He turned to the counter and placed the bag down. “But maybe later, after Beau goes, you might find it useful. I'm sure you threw everything you had away again and you'll be going crazy for some after he leaves for the night.”

She wanted to tell him something to the contrary but didn't want him to take away what he had brought. She watched him walk to the door.

“If you would like some company, you could call me later on and I'll come over,” he said.

She nodded. “Sure, OK.”

Emerson zipped his coat, smiled at Cailean, and exited the house.

She looked at the bag and then looked down the hallway toward the family room. “Damn,” she said and could envision Beau waiting for her. But he was quiet and really—what was one more minute?

Opening the bag, she removed two bottles of red wine and set them back down on the counter. She wanted a taste so badly she started to shake.

The phone rang next to her.

“Hello?”

“Cailean?” Wilson said, the anger in his tone palpable. “I thought you said you were going to give me a call when you got in?”

“I did . . . at least I intended to. The roads are really icy and it took me longer than I thought to get home. And it was a little more challenging getting Beau inside the house and settled.”

“Did you take him to the bathroom yet?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He didn't go in his pants, did he?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“If he didn't say anything to you, then he didn't. That's good.”

“Well I don't see what the big deal is anyway. He wears a diaper.”

Wilson sighed. “We discussed this already. I told you it was going to be a lot of work and you said you were fine with it.”

“I am fine with it. I was just saying.”

“It's a phase he's in and it makes him happy. He's getting a little older now and is becoming more aware of what kids his age are supposed to do.”

“I understand.”

“Cailean, please don't make me regret this. I'm nervous about the whole thing to begin with and when you didn't call . . .”

“Everything is fine.” The bottles of wine were a distraction and she turned her back to them. “And I know everything I have to do for him.”

“Where is he now?”

She looked towards the hallway. “He's in his chair, warming up in front of the television.” She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned, but no one was there. She glanced at the bottles. “I was getting ready to make him a cup of cocoa.”

“Can I speak to him, please?”

She squeezed the phone and clenched her jaw. Stifling a need to protest his request with an unpleasant rebut, she tried to keep the frustration from her voice. “Sure, no problem.”

He was babysitting her and impeding on her time with Beau. She walked down the hallway and felt the annoyance settle in her throat. It was a big lump that she tried to swallow.

“Your father would like to speak to you.”

Beau's eyes lit up and he went to take the phone. Cailean moved it away and put her lips next to his ear. “Don't say anything about falling in the bathroom or the dirt. If you do, he won't let us hang out.”

Beau nodded and she stood up and smiled. She placed the phone in his hand and went into the kitchen. Choosing a bottle of wine, she took it off the counter and took the corkscrew out of the drawer and opened the bottle.

There was no need for a glass. She put the bottle to her lips and drank until she was out of breath.

Chapter 17

 

 

A BLACK BOX

 

 

Present day.

 

Cailean was dazed. Last she remembered she was on her back and looking up at the light after she fell from the table. The blizzard-like conditions had given her the peace she sought and now it was gone, replaced by a smothering silence. Somehow she had made it into the chair and sat comfortably with her elbows resting on the table. She craved the wine she drank before she was ripped back here to this brightly lit section of hell.

“Go on,” Sariel said.

She flinched and held a hand over her racing heart.

“Open the box on the table,” he said.

She searched the black but couldn't locate him. “Don't do that. Your voice is frightening and it goes right through me.”

“The box,” he said.

“What's in it?” she said.

“Ask me no other questions and just open it.”

She hesitated. “The last time you made me do this I came out with a molded mask of the man my father killed. A mask you made after he died.”

“Open the box.”

Her hands pulled away the bow and she searched the paper for the seam. With haste, she pulled away the black wrapping and an identical brown box remained. Not wanting to give into her trepidation, she lifted the lid and tossed it aside. Reaching her hand into the abyss, she felt no effects of the darkness. It took her several moments to locate what lay inside at the very bottom.

When she withdrew her hand, she came out with a dirty, tattered stuffed animal that looked like a giraffe. She had no memory of it and was unable to understand why it made her hesitant. She felt uneasy while she stared at the threadbare cloth exterior.

“What is this?” she said and held it up for Sariel to see.

“Something more defining in your life than the event surrounding your mother, father, and Mr. Hagen.”

“A stuffed animal was more defining than my father killing another man because of my lies? And my mother committing suicide because she feared what I was becoming?”

She laughed.

When she had withdrawn the death mask from the box its significance could be felt right away. But whatever secrets this mangy, fetid thing held, she no longer remembered or cared about it. She wondered if Sariel might have overestimated its significance.

“You may not know it, but I can see from here that you loathe it,” he said.

“It's filthy,” she said, and dropped it on the tabletop. “If I can't remember it, how important could it have been?”

She felt it was a waste of her time. Yet, without knowing why, s
he went back to it and ran her fingers over the stubby body and long thin legs.
 

“I am curious, though, why didn't I like it?” she said.

“Because it was loved and you always felt you were not,” Sariel said.

“Are you telling me someone held affection for this mangy thing? How could someone love this, an inanimate stitched up sack of cotton . . . and I be jealous of it?”

Her doubt twisted her mouth.

“You admired your drink, didn't you?”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “I suppose.”

“You despised what you couldn't understand.”

“What does this stupid toy have to do with anything?”

“For the person that it belonged to? Everything!”

“Whose was it?”

“The answer is underneath your nose, contained within your repulsion. Search for it and you will find the answer you seek.”