The Promised World (18 page)

The policeman shrugged and said he could find out the number with or without their help. He was just about to call the police station when Pearl said, “If you take us back, he’ll hurt me again.”

“Who?”

“My mother’s boyfriend.” Pearl sounded strange and the look on her face was like nothing William had ever seen. She looked as blank as the chalkboard looked in the morning at school.

The policeman said something William didn’t follow and Pearl said, “If you don’t believe me, look!” She spun around and raised her shirt up over her back. William saw the strap of her bra, which
made him feel embarrassed, but he also saw the purple and blue bruises all over her, from her shoulders to the top of her jeans.

“Kyle hit you?” he gasped, and Pearl nodded in his direction before turning back to the policeman, who wasn’t dialing the phone but instead putting it back in his pocket. He asked Pearl if they could go into the living room to talk for a minute, alone.

William knew “alone” meant he wasn’t supposed to follow them, but he couldn’t if he wanted to. His legs felt like noodles and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed the biggest rock by the creek. He didn’t have Daddy’s list with him, but he knew for sure that this was on it. He even remembered the words Daddy used: “That Bastard hitting you or Maisie or Pearl for any reason whatsoever.” He’d had to look up the word “whatsoever,” and though he still couldn’t define it in his own words, the way his teacher always said to, he’d figured out what it meant in the sentence. It meant Kyle could never hit them, not even if they mouthed off or bugged him while he was watching the game, not even if they broke the window on his truck by accident or even on purpose.

And this was way down at the bottom of Daddy’s list, with the other stuff his father had drawn an arrow next to. William knew what that arrow meant, because Daddy had talked to him about the arrow every day they were doing the Challenges. The arrow meant the time had come to save his sisters.

As he sat on the floor of Aunt Lila’s bedroom, clearing his throat like he really had tried to swallow a boulder, he could hear Daddy saying, “You have to feel the fear and do it anyway. I know it’s hard, but you’re smart, buddy. You’ll figure out that’s the only secret to being brave.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

F
or more than a half hour, Patrick had been stuck in the ER admissions department, filling out forms and answering questions. The intake clerk wasn’t completely heartless; she’d waited to trap him until after the attending physician said that Lila was going to live. His wife was lucky, apparently, that she’d only taken her sleeping pills and not mixed them with alcohol or other drugs. She was also lucky that she’d been taking so many sedatives in the last month, day and night, that she’d built up a tolerance. They pumped her stomach and gave her another drug that worked to counteract the sleeping pills. The doctor said she was already physically alert—groaning, responding to reflex tests, and the like—and she’d probably be mentally alert within the hour. Patrick had told the clerk that he should
be there when his wife woke up, but the clerk insisted this paperwork had to be completed first. At the moment, she was on hold with his insurance company, waiting for preauthorization for a psych admit.

Which gave him time to think about the last several hours. Even if he hadn’t been with Joyce when his niece had left a message at the Marriott, he still would have felt this was unreal, but as it was, he felt feverish and light-headed, as though he was literally sickened by what had happened.

He’d spent Wednesday night alone and Thursday night, too. He could have gone out anytime he wanted—he had a rental car, a brand-new Mazda—but the only place he wanted to be was back home. He kept thinking Lila would call, even just to say that she needed food or soap or a prescription refilled, but the only phone calls he got were from Joyce, making sure he was all right. Offering to help in any way she could. Worrying that he was spending too much time by himself.

By Friday night, he knew he needed to get out of his tiny hotel room, so he agreed to go to dinner with Joyce, but he kept his cell phone with him, just in case. Joyce picked him up at seven and they went to a steak place near campus. He had two beers; she had a few glasses of wine. While they were eating, Joyce asked him if their kiss was the reason he’d left his wife.

“Oh boy, I can’t believe I just asked you that,” she said. “What I meant was that I hope what happened between us didn’t cause you any problems at home.” She paused. “I’d hate to think I’d hurt you. I’d never want to do that.”

“Please don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.” He waited a moment. “My guess is this has been coming for a long time.”

He’d said “guess” because that’s just what it felt like: as though he were some unprepared student throwing out an answer that might well be ridiculous. Only a few days ago, the idea that he
would ever leave his wife was not only absurd but unthinkable. And yet here he was.

A moment later, he heard himself saying, “I don’t think she ever loved me.” But was this close to the truth? He certainly believed that Lila wouldn’t have lied to him over and over if she really loved him; yet he had
felt
loved by her, hadn’t he? Did he even know what love was?

Joyce reached for his hand, but to her credit she said, “She married you. She must have loved you at one time.”

He thought about moving his hand, but didn’t. “You could be right.” He shrugged. “I just don’t understand it.” After a minute, he changed the topic to the dean’s latest annoying faculty memo.

Another beer, another glass of wine, and somehow Joyce was sitting on his side of the booth, pressing her leg against his. She admitted that she’d had a crush on him for a while. He admitted that he really enjoyed her company and was glad she’d pushed him to come out tonight. After they finished dessert and split the check, they were back in her geek mobile, heading to the Marriott. Her hand was on his thigh. She was kissing him at every red light. She obviously assumed, as he did, that they were going back to his room together. He hadn’t had sex in a long time: not since Billy died, of course, and only once or twice in the months before, because Lila was always busy, working on an important paper. He couldn’t remember Lila ever wanting him with the passion that Joyce quite obviously did. He was incredibly excited as they drove into the hotel parking lot.

They were already out of Joyce’s car, sharing another kiss, when it finally struck him that he couldn’t go through with it. He was still a married man. No matter how much he wanted Joyce, he took his commitments seriously, including his promise to be faithful. He could tell she was disappointed, as he was, but as he walked back
into the hotel alone, he was relieved that he’d managed to do the right thing.

That would turn out to be the last clear-cut moment of the night—the rest was a blur of terror and guilt and panic and other feelings he couldn’t even identify. Yet he knew the doctor was right: it could have been much worse. If Patrick had stayed out an hour longer, if the kids hadn’t shown up, if Pearl hadn’t thought to call him when she did, Lila could have aspirated vomit and damaged her lungs, or stopped breathing and damaged her brain, or even died.

When the intake clerk finally said he could go, he ignored a fleeting desire to run in the other direction rather than back to the room where they’d taken his wife. He pushed back the curtain and found a nurse sitting with Lila. His wife was crying, but the nurse said that was normal. The stomach pumping, or “gastric lavage” as she called it, had involved an endotracheal tube that was “more than uncomfortable” and the drug to counteract the sedative might have caused some agitation and withdrawal. “But she’ll be all right soon,” the nurse said. “A doctor will be coming to talk to her. He should be down shortly.” Then she patted Lila’s arm, stood up to check his wife’s IV pole, and told Patrick to buzz the nursing station if they needed anything.

“I have to get out of here,” Lila said as soon as the nurse walked away. Tears were streaming down her face, but it couldn’t be normal crying, because she wasn’t making any crying sounds. “I know I haven’t been a very good wife. I thought about this a lot yesterday.” She was speaking quickly, as though she was afraid he’d interrupt. “I don’t blame you for wanting to leave me, but could you just pretend that you’re going to take me home? That way, they’ll think someone is watching out for me and let me go.”

He sat down next to her and took her hand. The doctor had already told Patrick that, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be allowed
to just take Lila home. There were laws involved when someone attempted suicide. He told her he would do his best, but then he explained what the doctor said. Or he started to. He told her there would be a psychiatrist coming down to talk to her, but before he got to the strong probability that she would have to stay in the hospital for a few days, just to make sure she was no longer a threat to herself, somehow Lila already knew what was coming. She jerked her hand away and yelled, “No! Don’t you understand? I can’t stay here. I just can’t!”

Patrick braced himself for medical personnel rushing in and tying Lila down or giving her a sedative, something. But when nobody came, he lowered his voice, hoping Lila would take the hint and lower hers. “Don’t worry, babe, they won’t keep you for long.” He forced a smile. “Our insurance will make sure of that.”

“They will keep me. They’ll say they won’t, but they will. And I won’t be able to see you. They won’t even let you visit.” At least she wasn’t yelling anymore. He was trying to stay calm, thinking about how to reassure her, until she added, “They won’t let me see Billy, either, no matter what they promise.”

What he felt then was so entirely physical that he didn’t even realize that his mind had shut down. It was like he was a child again playing ball and he’d had the ball kicked right into his stomach. Except it was worse: it felt like the air hadn’t just been knocked out of his lungs, but out of his entire body. He couldn’t feel his legs or his arms. The room looked shimmery and strange, as though his eyes had lost their ability to focus.

“Wait, I know Billy can’t come here.” Lila was looking at the ceiling, speaking slowly. “He died, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” He inhaled, hoping her initial confusion was normal after a trauma. He was grateful that she’d already come back to the present, but he was more alert now, afraid there might be other things she would say that would shock him. The monitors attached to Lila
seemed louder; the fluorescent lights harsher and more annoying. Even the hospital smell, which he thought he was used to from all the times he’d visited his mother, was suddenly obnoxious and vaguely nauseating. He wanted to get out of here every bit as badly as Lila did.

When she didn’t say anything for a while, he said the only thing he could think of. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt Billy.” She was still looking at the ceiling. Her odd tears had stopped, but her expression was blank, unreadable. “I don’t think you were even there when Harold shot him, but I don’t know. I may be losing the plot again.”

“Harold?” The name of the policeman who shot Lila’s brother had never made it into any of the news reports. Patrick thought this was because they didn’t know exactly whose bullet had killed Billy. He’d been shot multiple times by the SWAT team when he’d refused their demand that he move away from the window and drop the rifle he’d aimed at the second floor of the elementary school.

“I don’t think you know him,” she said quietly, as though she was talking to herself, working out the details. “You weren’t invited to any of the parties, were you?”

He was wondering what the hell she was talking about when he heard the screech of the metal rings as the curtain opened again. A man introduced himself as Dr. Samuels. He looked like all the other doctors Patrick had seen so far: younger than expected and unmistakably tired. He said he needed to talk to Lila for a few minutes, and turned to Patrick. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside. Someone will come and get you when the discussion is over. If we decide to move your wife to another room, you can go with her and help her get settled.”

He’d already stood up when Lila begged, “Don’t leave me. Please.”

“He’ll be right down the hall,” the doctor said. Then he looked at Patrick and nodded in the direction of the waiting room.

Patrick reassured Lila he’d be back soon and walked away. Even after he closed the curtain, he could hear her repeated pleas that he stay with her.

He made it to the waiting room, went into the bathroom to wash his face, and sat back down by the window, where the sun was already turning the horizon a pale orange. It took him a minute to realize it was Saturday now, almost morning. He wasn’t tired, at least his mind wasn’t, but his body ached a protest that he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when the psychiatrist came out to talk to him. The sun was up; it looked like it was turning into a beautiful spring day, very few clouds. As expected, Dr. Samuels said that Lila was going to be held over the weekend and possibly longer. He said this would give them a chance to examine her and more aggressively treat her. He also admitted that Lila was very upset about this, but that was common enough for survivors of suicide attempts. Especially in a situation like hers. When Patrick asked what the last part meant, the doctor said, “From what your wife said, my guess is this isn’t her first encounter with the mental health system.”

He nodded. “She went to a therapist, but didn’t feel it helped.”

“I’m talking about as an inpatient. Do you know of any previous hospitalizations?”

“No. Absolutely not. And I’ve known her for twelve years.”

“Perhaps when she was younger? In college? Before?”

Patrick wanted to say this was impossible, too, but he couldn’t. He had no way to know if this was another thing she’d lied to him about. “I don’t see how this is relevant,” he insisted. “She’s depressed because her twin brother committed suicide.”

Dr. Samuels got out his notes. “Her brother Billy?” Patrick
nodded, and the doctor said, “The one who got shot when she was fifteen?”