IGMS Issue 50 (13 page)

Dr. Loeb's eyes were full and sympathetic. Which was different than pitying, Tara thought. Pity . . . they could do without that. "He hasn't told me, Michael. Sometimes there isn't any one element that identifies the fulcrum of the psychosis. I wish there were, and I wish I had a better answer for you. We can treat him, though. Jack can have a fairly normal life. Baseball, piano . . . happiness. None of that is out of the picture. Jack's just taking a kind of roundabout way to get there."

Mike was silent.

Tara sucked a breath and nodded. Her hands were sweaty--so were Mike's. She wiped hers on her jeans and nodded at Dr. Loeb. "He's probably bouncing off the walls, wondering what's taking so long. I guess we're ready."

Dr. Loeb smiled. "I'll fetch him."

Jack wasn't bouncing, but he didn't look as exhausted and beaten as he had when they'd brought him into the hospital. He dropped his duffel bag and Tara stooped to embrace him. He hugged her back, the bandage on his hand chafing her shirt. Oh, but it was so good to hold him again! To put hands on him, wrap arms around his torso, smell the shampoo in his hair, feel the soft, smooth press of his cheek. It was G-O-O-D,
good
.

Mike took his turn with Jack. Tentative, at first, both of them. Then Mike swooped Jack off his feet and swung him around. Ten years old--Jack was young enough for bear-hug-dancing. Young enough to be hugged and kissed by Mom and Dad, still, and not be completely embarrassed by it. Tara wrapped her arms around them both, and they swayed together in the little room in the psychiatric hospital, breathing in, breathing out.

Until Jack finally
did
get embarrassed about their attention and demanded that they let him go. They teased him a little, holding to him more tightly, squeezing him, until he said the magic words, "Goodbye, guts!" and then they let him drop to the floor.

Magic words, and bear hugs, and breath, Tara thought. That's what we're going to heal Jack with. A ridiculous thought. She wasn't that naive. But it was a nice way to think about it--amid therapy, and medications, and mental health professionals, surely they could fit those things in as well.

In the car, he chattered about his stay in the hospital. Mostly, he talked about how awful the food was, and how the school day at hospital was only six hours long, and why couldn't regular school be like that?

When Tara told him about moving into Tommy's room, he got quiet. He asked, "Tommy doesn't hate me?"

"No, of course not," Tara said. "Families don't hate each other."

Jack said, "That's not true. I met these two boys, Bobby and Niels, they're twins. Their mom's boyfriend used to beat her a lot, and so they, one night when he was asleep, they stuck a screwdriver in his belly to keep him from doing it ever again, only he woke up, and he beat them instead, and so did their mom. She beat Niels so hard he can't talk right, and now they hate her."

Fear crawled up Tara's spine on caterpillar feet. What else had Jack learned in these two weeks? She swallowed, said, "Jack, I guess that's true. Sometimes, families do terrible things to each other. Some families hate each other. Abuse each other.

"But that's not us, Jack. Dad and I would never hurt you, or abandon you." Tara turned around to face him. "Jonathon Lorenzo Howard, there is nothing that exists--nothing you can do--that can make us stop loving you."

Jack looked out the window, shivering a little. He finally said, "I love you, too."

It wasn't a miracle, love. It wouldn't cure everything. But it got them through the ride home, and the rest of the day. Those three words--we love you--got the boys laughing and teasing one another again.

It got them all past the first week, and then the first month. And the next.

Tara was almost asleep when the phone rang. It took her a moment to identify the sound of it--it wasn't her cellphone, but the landline. The clock on the dresser read ten-thirty. Mike's side of the bed was empty. She remembered he was returning from a conference, and would be late getting in.

The house around her was still, except for the jangling phone. Boys asleep, Zandy asleep. Tara, almost asleep. She scrubbed her palms over her face, debating whether she should let it go to the machine

But she slipped off the bed and picked it up. Responsible. Adult-like. "Hello?"

An older voice said, "Tara? This is Veronica Heggins. I'm so sorry . . ."

Babbling. Heggins . . . did Tara know a Heggins? She racked her brain. Oh, yes, Veronica Heggins. Next door neighbor, had moved in a couple years ago after Angela Heggins's parents split. Angela, Tommy's gal pal; Veronica, her grandmother.

Veronica Heggins wasn't just babbling now, she was full on sobbing. Tara could hardly understand her. "Tara, I'm sorry to bother you so late, I know your husband works all hours, and you have your hands full, but . . . Oh, it's Angela, Tara, it's awful . . ."

Tara flipped on a light and tried to sort through the old woman's story. Usually, Veronica was prone to exaggeration--everything was the end of the world with Mrs. Heggins. Every small inconvenience was developed into proof-positive of a malicious, vindictive, bitter universe.

But as Tara listened, she thought that this once, Veronica Heggins might not be exaggerating. Angela had been out with some friends. They'd borrowed someone's pickup, stolen some liquor from a parent's stash, and managed to almost kill themselves on the back roads. One of the kids--Tara didn't recognize the name--was in the hospital. Angela and a couple others were at the police station, awaiting their parents.

Mike had come home by the time Tara got it all sorted out. She told him, "Mrs. Heggins can't drive at night, so I'm going to go get Angela out of holding and bring her home."

"You look exhausted," Mike said. "You want me to go?"

"No. I could use someone to yell at. Someone who won't remember I yelled at them in the morning."

"That's what Tommy's for," Mike said. "I'll wait up for you."

The streets were empty. Of course they were--ten thirty on a Thursday evening? Who went carousing on Thursday? No one . . . except Angela Heggins and her stupid teenage cronies. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Idiot children could have killed someone. Mike was driving the same roads--what if they'd rammed into him rather than some tree out in the boonies? Someone's husband, someone's child, someone's lover, gone because a bunch of thoughtless teenaged brats.

The police station was as empty as the streets. Angela sat alone on a metal bench in the holding cell, staring at her hands. A cut ran along her forehead; someone had plastered a couple strips of medical tape over it.

"Mrs. Howard," she said to Tara. "You're not Grandma."

Tara wanted to be angry with her. She struggled to keep the heat in her guts, the sharpness in her throat. Drunk driving on a Thursday night, a
school
night! But she could smell Angela from outside the cell, sour and sick. Her hair was matted with blood, grime, and vomit. The front of her shirt and her shorts were foul, too. Her eyes were puffy and red.

"Your grandmother asked me to pick you up."

"Real nice of you. Real
Christian
," Angela said, and giggled. The giggle turned into a guffaw, and she slapped the metal bench. "Tommy hates going to church, but I say, I say . . ."

She stopped, and dry heaved. When she finished, she wiped her nose and mouth on the back of her hand. She didn't finish her thought.

"Come on, Angela, honey," Tara said. Once upon a time, this shamble of vomit and stink had been a little girl who had played kickball with Tommy, who had babysat Zandy and Jack, who had given Tara ridiculous little presents for her birthdays and Christmas.

The officer on duty opened the cell door. Angela wobbled to her feet and walked with Tara to her car. Tara kept the windows down as they drove, and Angela leaned her head back against the seat. Her shoulders shook and her chin trembled but she didn't cry. Tara tried to think of something to say . . . an adult thing. Advice. Consolation. Criticism, even. When was the last time an adult had cared enough to say something of value to Angela Heggins?

Tara didn't think of anything until she pulled onto their street. "Angela, why don't you come over to my house? Let's get you cleaned up before you go home, okay?"

"I'm tired," Angela said. "I just want to sleep."

Tara squeezed her hand. "You'll feel better after you get clean. I promise."

"Clean, clean," Angela repeated, singing a little. "All right."

Tara set her up in the kitchen, sitting on a low stool, leaning her head back into the sink as it filled with water.

"You used to give Tommy and Jack haircuts on this stool," Angela said. Too loud--her voice echoed in the kitchen.

"That's right. Let me go get some shampoo. Don't move," Tara said.

Mike met Tara in the hallway. "Uh . . . what?" he asked.

"She's a mess. I just . . . I just want to get her hair clean. That's the worst thing, to wake up with vomit in your hair."

"If you say so," Mike said. "See if you can convince her to keep it down."

But Angela didn't say anything else as Tara lathered up her hair. She was so quiet and still, Tara thought she must have fallen asleep. She glanced at her face--Angela's eyes were closed. But there were tracks of tears down her cheeks. Tara finished scrubbing and rinsed out her long hair with the sprayer. She draped a towel around Angela's shoulders, and then lifted her head so she sat up straight.

Angela caught her hand and pressed it to her cheek, "Thank you," she said. Her voice was soft, sober. "Thank you, Mrs. Howard, you don't know what . . . you don't know what you've done, but . . ." She kissed the back of Tara's hand, swiftly, clutching her fingers like a little child. Her eyes were still damp, still puffy, blinking back tears . . . and something more. Despondency, fear, anger . . .

She's as young as Tommy, Tara thought. She's as old as me. Older. Tara dabbed Angela's tears with the towel. "You're welcome, Angela."

"Mom?"

Jack's voice from the entry-way to the kitchen. Tara turned, fearing . . . fearing another midnight of blood and savagery. Another bout of insanity. But it was nothing like that--just her Jack. He was dressed down for bed, standing in his underwear and t-shirt, leaning against the wall, watching her.

"Little man Jack," Angela said. Her voice was drunken again. "Hey, little man."

Jack straightened. Tara had expected him to duck back into the den--what ten-year-old wants to be seen in his briefs? But Jack took a couple steps into the kitchen, blinking. "What are you doing here?" he asked Angela.

"Go back to bed, Jack," Tara said, shooing him out of the kitchen.

"Nighty night, little man Jack," Angela sang after them, as Tara guided Jack out of the kitchen and gave him a gentle push to get him going toward the stairs. "Sleepy tighty, don't let the bedbugs bitey-whitey. Tighty-whities . . ."

Something in her voice made Tara's stomach churn. Angela's eyes followed Jack's footsteps above them as he padded down the second-floor hallway to his room. A smile played over her lips.

Tara snapped her fingers in front of Angela's face. "Hey. Quiet down."

Angela's smile widened. "Sure," she said. Then whispered, "Sure. Wouldn't want to wake them. Wouldn't want to wake
him.
" She nodded like she'd revealed something profound.

Tara took the towel from around Angela's shoulders, "You're done. I'll walk you home."

The smile disappeared. "I'm tired. Can I sleep here? Grandma won't mind."

Tara minded. She minded quite a lot, now, after hearing the way Angela spoke to Jack, after watching her watch him. Something, something was wrong. Something as bad as scribbled ink on a burned sheet of paper. Seemingly innocent, secretly strange, and deeply
wrong.
"No," Tara said. She wrapped a hand around Angela's shoulders helped her stand.

Angela went, shuffling. Tara helped her to the door, and across their lawns, and waited with her until her grandmother opened the door. Now, Tara's anger was coming back; now, when it would do no good at all, when everything was finished, when the heat in her belly, and the scratching, terrible sharpness in her throat couldn't do anything.

Veronica Heggins smelled like gin and cigarette smoke. "Come inside, Angela," she said. "You've bothered poor Mrs. Howard enough tonight. Come on."

Angela teetered on the step up to the doorway. "I know something," she said to Tara, "about Jonathan Lorenzo Howard."

Mrs. Heggins put her hand around Angela's arm; Angela pulled out of her grasp with a snort. She smiled at Tara, that wide, drunken smile, showing all her teeth. "I know when a boy has seen a witch."

Tara started, unsure of what to say. She managed, "O-kay . . . what does that mean?"

Veronica pulled at Angela's arm, but Angela pushed her away. The old woman banged into a lamp by the door, toppling it. She squawked, righted herself, and slapped Angela across the face. The slap was loud enough to echo down the street, into the cul-de-sac and the woods beyond. Angela didn't scream, didn't yelp; her only reaction was to fall silent, and look away from Tara.