Blue Water (24 page)

“
Eee
-gore,” Laurel moaned, dropping the cat with a thud. It rocketed back to the girls' room, shot beneath the bunk beds. I glanced at the kitchen clock. One-fifteen. I doubted my parents would arrive before two.

“Have you girls had lunch?” I asked.

“We're not hungry.”

“
I'm
hungry,” Monica said.

In the refrigerator, I found only soy milk, carrot juice, a few slices of veggie cheese. “It doesn't work,” Laurel said. “Not like we need a
refrigerator
in here.”

Funny girl. There was brown rice in the cupboard, along with dried beans, lentils, a braid of garlic hanging on the wall.

“What if we order a pizza?” I said, but at that moment, there was a noise on the landing. Footsteps. The door swung open and Toby
appeared, plastic bags of groceries dangling from each fist. When he saw me, his birthmark flushed dark, the way it did, blanching the other side of his face. “What the hell?” he began, but then he saw Monica, her bloodstained sweatshirt, her matted hair. In a flash, she was crying hysterically, as hard—if not harder—than when she'd first fallen. He dropped the groceries, vaulted the tree, scooped her up into his arms.

“What happened?” he said, glancing between Laurel and me. “What the hell did you do?”

The question could have been aimed at either one of us. A crafty look passed across Laurel's face, but before she could open her mouth to blame me, Monica was sobbing out the whole story: how she'd made a special decoration, how she'd tried to put it on the tree, how Laurel had pushed her and then the tree—

“The bleeding's stopped,” I told Toby, trying not to feel hurt that he'd suspect me, even fleetingly, of hurting this child. “I don't think she's going to need stitches. And the cut's up in her hairline where it isn't going to show.”

“You know what happens when you get stitches?” Laurel said.

“Laurel,” Toby said, wearily.

“They take this huge needle and they stick it in you.
Jah!
”

“Can we still have pizza?” Monica asked, sniffling.

“We were about to order one,” I explained, picking up the groceries, setting them on the counter, “but I can make something else, if you want. Burritos?”

I held up the box.

“Those suck,” Laurel said. “They're vegetarian.”

“Pizza,” Monica said, nodding.

I waited for Toby to agree, but instead he sank onto the couch, still holding Monica in his arms. She tucked herself tightly against
him; he rested his chin on the top of her head. It struck me, then. He loved this child. For all I knew, he loved them both.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came for the wedding,” I said.

“We invited you to join us aboard the
Jack,
not in our home.”

“Toby.”

“Considering the sort of litigation going on,
contrary
to what you told me in June—”

“I only told you what Rex told me. I thought I was telling the truth.”

“Funny, but your name's on the settlement, too.”

“Which I haven't signed.”

“So sign it. Get it over with. Anything's better than having it hanging over our heads like this.”

“I suppose you've seen the photographs,” I said.

He did not look away. “If you want me to admit that you told me so, okay. You told me so. You and Rex both said that she was still—”

Then he glanced down at Monica, who was staring up at him; suddenly, I felt ashamed.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This isn't what I'm here for. I'm going to order that pizza, okay? Besides, Mom and Dad will be here any minute.”

“What?”

“We just want to help, that's all,” I said. “We figured out why you were hiding from us.”

Toby closed his eyes, defeated. “You don't know the half of it, believe me.”

“So fill me in.”

He made a slight, negative motion with his head.

“He can't talk in front of the
baby,
” Lauren said. “And, besides,
you're
not
here to help. You're here to spy on us. You might fool him, but you can't fool me.”

“Should I call Pizza Haven?” I asked Toby, ignoring her, as if she were a tantruming two-year-old, kicking and screaming in the candy aisle.

“Out of business. There's Pizza Hut.”

“You're a spy,” Laurel shouted, “and he's a pervert!”

“Pizza Hut, then,” I said, sliding the phone book out from underneath the phone. “But can I order something with meat?”

Toby and Monica said, together, “No meat.”

Laurel kicked the Christmas tree. “Nobody ever listens to me! Maybe I should just run away!”

“Well, stick around for one more day, if you can stand it,” Toby said, calmly. “Your mother's coming home.”

In her astonishment, Laurel looked, abruptly, like the child she was. Monica, on the other hand, was suspicious.

“When?” she asked.

“Tonight, actually.”

“Is she better?”

Toby bit his lip. “We'll have to see.” He looked at me. “She just called Mal from the hospital. We don't have all the details, but the long and the short of it is, the insurance denied the claim. The hospital's kicking her out. They won't even let her spend the night.”

“But it's Christmas Eve,” I said.

“And Mal's got her hands full, getting her mother settled—did I mention they think Lena might have had a minor stroke?—which means I've got to drive to Twin Lakes to pick up Cindy Ann myself. That's three hours round-trip, and the truck doesn't have any heat right now and the guy I hired to fill in at the store hasn't shown up
for the past week. Oh, yeah, and Mal and I are getting married in forty-eight hours.”

“
And
the Christmas tree fell down,” Monica whispered, as if, once again, she might start to cry.

“Are you ever going to call for that pizza?” Laurel said.

I looked at her as if she were an alien. Then again, I was hungry, too. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

I called from the phone in the kitchen. When I returned to the living room, Toby was hauling the tree upright, and Laurel and Monica were settling down to watch a video. “It'll be thirty minutes,” I said, steadying the upper branches while he adjusted the stand.

“I still can't believe you're here,” he said.

“I can't quite believe it myself. I only got the invitation last week.”

“You said on your message. Actually, I'm surprised that it found you at all.”

We looked at each other.

“I really didn't know about the suit,” I said. “I've been sick about this, Toby, truly.”

He nodded toward the kitchen, and I followed him there, leaving the girls glued to the screen. I braced myself for his questions, his anger, but as soon as we were out of their sight, he merely knelt before the oven, lit the pilot, left the door open like a gaping mouth. The first faint breaths of warmth stirred the air; I put out my hands, rubbed them together. Even the oven racks, I noticed, had been cleaned.

“This is how we heat the place,” Toby said, leaning back against the counter. “But we can't let the girls light the pilot unless one of us
is here, and we just aren't prepared—we're simply not equipped—”

“It will be easier,” I said, “once Cindy Ann is back again.”

But Toby shook his head. “I can't believe they're sending her home,” he said. “She was practically catatonic, Meg. Her therapist told us about this place, it's for women who have survived some kind of—” He glanced toward the living room. “Trauma.”

I nodded. “I know. Mom told me.”

“How does Mom know about any of this?”

“We're in Fox Harbor, remember?”

He smiled, but only with his mouth. “The thing is,” he said, “Cindy Ann liked it there. She thought it was helping. I thought it was helping. I actually had a conversation with her, and she apologized for calling me—well, the things she calls me whenever she's been drinking.”

“Things like what?” I said.

Once again, he closed his eyes. I realized, with a start, that he was fighting tears. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never seen him cry, aside from Evan's funeral. And then, again, six months later, when Rex and I told him good-bye.

“Toby,” I said. “Jesus. How can I help?”

A full minute passed before he spoke. “You could open the fish store for a few hours. Check the stock, do feedings. There's instructions on the fridge. If Mom and Dad are coming anyway, maybe they'd keep an eye on the girls so I don't have to drag them up to Twin Lakes. Especially since I don't know what Cindy Ann's state of mind's going to be when I get there.”

But I had a better idea. “You go to the store,” I said. “I'll stay with the girls until Mom and Dad come, and then—”

“Mom and Dad can't drive to Twin Lakes. It's a long way, Meg,
and it's going to be late—”

“I know,” I said. “What I'm saying is, I'll do it. I'll pick up Cindy Ann.”

i
t was dark by the time I arrived at
Twin Lakes. The town itself was little more than a crossroads, extended by a strip mall, a minimart, a farm dealership. A single sign pointed me toward the hospital, which stood at the edge of a windswept field, light pouring out of every window as if a small, steady fire burned within. Perhaps, in summer, it could have been called pretty, with its fieldstone facade, all those shining panes of glass. Willow trees lined the long, winding drive that led to the parking lot. But now, in winter, the black sky wiped of stars, it looked exactly like what it was: a place for people who'd exhausted every other possibility. As I followed the salted walk toward the lobby, I could see the stripped-down furnishings of each second-story room: twin beds, open shelves, a desk, a chair, a lamp.

No pictures on the walls. No television. No personal effects.

The doors leading into the lobby were locked. I rang the after-hours bell, grateful for the warmth and weight of my own boots.
The cold seemed to be rising from the ground. Inside the waiting area, women in green scrubs were setting up folding cots, spreading them with sheets, their movements like a slow, choreographed dance. None of them looked up. I rang the bell again. Vinyl chairs were stacked against the thick, glass windows, and in one of those chairs, pulled away from the others, a woman sat in street clothes, a small, flowered suitcase beside her, staring out at the darkness. I walked over so I was standing in front of her; still, she didn't blink, didn't move. We were so close I might have touched her. I knocked, tentatively, on the glass.

The woman started. It was Cindy Ann Kreisler. Her features were swollen, as if shaped out of dough. For a moment, it seemed that she still didn't see me, but then she stood up, leaned forward. We studied each other's faces through the reflections of our own until, at last, we heard the rattle of keys, and I turned to greet the nurse who was unlocking the front door.

“You're late,” she said, not looking at me. She was young, thin, her cheeks pocked with old acne scars. “We close at six. Administration is waiting to see you.”

As soon as I'd stepped through the door, she locked it again, checked it twice.

The women setting up the beds had finally stopped what they were doing. They were, I realized, patients. One woman stepped toward me, smiling, but the young nurse put her body between us, motioning me forward.

“This way,” she said.

I glanced at Cindy Ann, but she'd settled back into the chair, resumed her contemplation of the darkness.

“Why are they sleeping in the lobby?” I said, following the nurse down a brightly lit hall. The walls seemed to reflect that
brightness, as if they'd been coated with high-gloss paint. “Don't you have enough beds?”

“Suicide watch,” she said, and she stopped walking, knocked on a door. “Administration will assist you.”

“With what?” I said.

“Paperwork.”

She knocked again, then glanced at me, her gaze sweeping upward from the floor to my face. “What happened to you?” she said.

I was getting awfully tired of that question. “It's a rash. It's getting better.”

“No,” she said. “Your coat.”

“My coat?” I repeated, staring down at myself. My mother, upon arriving at Toby's, had attempted to spot-clean Monica's blood from the cream-colored cashmere, but she'd merely succeeded in making it worse. Beneath the forgiving lamplight of Toby's living room, it hadn't seemed so bad; here, it looked as if I'd been involved in the sacrifice of a small animal. My mind leapt, unbidden, to Laurel, whose parting words to me had been “Don't get in an accident or anything.”

“Christmas punch,” I said.

The nurse narrowed her eyes, but then the door opened, and she turned away, hurrying into the blinding brilliance of the hall, as if she were afraid. Yet who or what was there to fear? Certainly not the plump, pretty woman who stood before me, smiling.

“Come in,” this woman said, pleasantly, and I stepped into the carpeted office, my eyes welcoming the potted plants, the gentle light, the framed landscapes. “Have a seat.” She gestured to one of two leather chairs across from a wide, modern desk. As I sat, I heard a strange, gurgling noise, like an old-fashioned percolator boiling on a stove. “I'm Joanna. I'm in charge of patient accounts.”

I glanced under the desk and saw a little white dog, slightly larger than a hand grenade, bristling on a nest of woolly blankets.

“That's Trixie. She won't hurt you,” Joanna said, laughing agreeably, but I tucked my feet under my chair. Now that I was sitting here, there was something about this office—indeed, something about Joanna herself—that put me on my guard. I thought of the nurse, how she'd scuttled away, a field mouse sensing the hawk.

“I was told that I needed to sign some paperwork,” I said.

Joanna turned to her desktop, tapped in a password. “Let's just print up a hard copy, shall we?”

I was expecting some kind of release form. Instead, what Joanna handed me was a bill for nearly thirty thousand dollars. I stared at it, shocked into silence, my gaze moving over the various charges: room, board, group therapy sessions, individual psychiatric consultations. Charges for toothpaste, hand cream, shampoo. Linen charges. Processing fees.

“I need you to sign here,” Joanna said, “and initial here and here.”

“But this says that I agree to take responsibility for this bill.”

Joanna nodded calmly, reasonably. “Our policy does not permit the discharge of a resident before appropriate financial arrangements have been made.”

“So make appropriate financial arrangements with Cindy Ann,” I said. “I'm just here to pick her up.”

“Unfortunately,” Joanna said, smiling sympathetically, “Ms. Kreisler's state of mind does not allow us to discuss this with her in a rational manner.”

“If that's the case,” I said, “perhaps you shouldn't be releasing her.”

Joanna's smile remained unchanged. “She is being discharged at her own request.”

“That isn't my understanding.”

Joanna raised an eyebrow. “People in these situations can be—less than reliable.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “First, you kick her out without so much as twenty-four hours' notice. Now, you try to bully me into signing for a bill that isn't mine. Are you crazy?”

From underneath the desk came that low, percolating growl. Joanna looked at me mournfully. “Here at Twin Lakes,” she said, “we try to be sensitive about the way in which we use that particular word.”

I started to laugh, I couldn't help it. Trixie's growls erupted into a battery of short, shrill yaps.

“Now, Trixie.” Joanna directed that same sad expression toward her knees. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and then she bent forward, lifted the trembling white fur ball into her lap. “Animals,” she said, conversationally, “are remarkably tuned to human emotion.”

“I'm not paying you thirty thousand dollars,” I said. “I'm not signing anything. Now, if there's nothing else—”

Another paroxysm of barks, like a spasm. “Trixie, baby,
hush,
” Joanna said, then to me: “One moment, if you will.”

Already, I was at the door, my hand on the knob; it wouldn't turn. For the first time, I noticed the security panel beside it, the card swipe, the blinking infrared eye. Joanna had let me into this room. Could it be that she'd have to let me out, too? She waited, with a hunter's patience, letting me draw my own conclusions.

“Under the circumstances,” she said, “we might consider alternative arrangements.”

“Meaning what?” I said, leaning back against the door.

“In special cases, the hospital will agree to accept a ten percent deposit on the balance. That way, we can proceed with a legally
compliant discharge.”

“But it isn't my debt.”

“We accept all major credit cards, plus American Express.”

I opened my mouth to tell her where she could stick those credit cards, one by one, but then I remembered the card swipe beside me. The locked door at the front of the lobby. The frightened young nurse. My father had given me his cell phone to carry—perhaps I should call my brother? An attorney? But what, practically speaking, could Toby do? And Arnie would advise me to book a room as soon as I'd explained what I was doing there. Joanna was smiling pleasantly, the same pleasant smile she'd worn as I'd come in, and I realized she would sit here all night without hunger, without thirst, without so much as a wince of irritability or embarrassment. This was, indeed, crazy, in every sense of that word, and as I tried to imagine what Rex would advise, suddenly I knew.

“My wallet is outside,” I said. This, in fact, was true. It was in my backpack, still on the floor of the car.

“Very well,” Joanna said, and taking Trixie into her arms, she followed me out into the extraordinary yellow light of the corridor. As we approached the lobby, I could hear a series of muffled thuds, and I imagined some kind of therapeutic pillow fight, a soft exchange of blows. But, rounding the corner, I saw only the cots, each with its folded blanket, its obedient pillow, small and still. Women were sitting beside one another, lying on their backs, talking. A few were sitting apart from the others, writing in identical spiral-bound notebooks. When they saw us, the quiet conversation gave way to silence. Again, the same woman rose, came forward, smiling, as if she would speak; again, the young nurse stepped between us, hurrying over from the nurses' station. Joanna was still smiling her own unrelenting smile, though I noticed, perhaps, the
slightest hesitation when she saw Cindy Ann—who was no longer sitting, alone, in her chair, but standing in front of the lobby doors—swinging her suitcase, hard, against the glass.

Whump
.

Again, she took aim.

Whump
.

The other women watched expectantly. Without turning her head, Joanna called, “Key?” but the nurse already had them in hand. Cindy Ann, without actually seeming to notice her, stepped aside so she could fumble it, nervously, into the lock.

“Ms. Kreisler,” Joanna said, placing one manicured hand on the nurse's sleeve, “will remain here, where it's warm and dry and comfortable, while her companion retrieves her purse.”

The nurse glanced at Cindy Ann skeptically. “You hear that?” she said. “You
wait
for your friend. Right here.”

At the word
friend,
Cindy Ann lifted her head. Our gazes met. Held. I remembered the night of my sixteenth birthday, the styrofoam cup in my hand. I remembered watching, as if from far away, the madness taking place all around us.
This is fucked,
Cindy Ann had said. And so it was. I cut my eyes at the door, mouthed one word.

Run
.

We didn't run. But the moment the door swung open, we plowed through both Joanna and the nurse like a team of yoked oxen, intent on our purpose. With my shoulder, I steered Cindy Ann in the direction of my mother's car, the remote standing ready in my hand. Headlights flashed, doors unlocked. The engine purred to life. We tossed the suitcase into the back and peeled out of the parking lot without having heard so much as a cry from the shadows still standing in the entryway, dark arms waving like the arms of survivors emerging from an apocalyptic blaze.

“Put your seat belt on,” I said automatically, and as Cindy Ann turned to look at me, I realized what I had said. How ludicrous it was, the two of us, together, pulling onto the icy highway. Cindy Ann laughed, a rusty little sound; I started to laugh, too, then tried to disguise it as a cough. But now Cindy was laughing again, a deep belly laugh that went on and on until I realized that it wasn't laughter after all. She was crying. I was crying, too. At the Twin Lakes minimart, I turned off the road, and there was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. I forgot all about Cindy Ann. I forgot all about Joanna and Trixie, Toby and Mallory, my parents and the girls. I forgot about Rex and all he might have said if he'd ever, in his wildest imaginings, suspected that I might wind up here: alone in a car with this woman who I simply couldn't hate any longer, with this grief that I still didn't know how to face. Time passed. The heater hummed. A few cars pulled up beside the minimart; a few others pulled away. Eventually, I realized that Cindy Ann was silent, that the pressure against my knuckle was a plastic-coated tissue pack.

“At the beginning of every group session,” she said, “they'd distribute these from a basket. One pack per person. I never imagined they'd be
charging
us.”

The tissues felt as if they'd been made from recycled newspaper. “Six dollars,” I said, recalling the outrageous figures. “Fifty cents more than they charged you for toilet paper.”

“You saw the bill, then.”

“Joanna wanted me to pay it.”

“She's a psychopath, truly. Her and that dog. Everybody calls them Dr. Trixie and Mr. Hyde.”

I blew my nose, wiped my eyes. “How the hell did you end up in a place like that?”

When Cindy Ann didn't answer, I backed out of the parking space, crawled through the mess of slush and ice. The signal clicked, flashed green, and then we were back onto the highway.

“It was like I couldn't move anymore,” Cindy Ann said. “I couldn't
think
. The counselor I've been seeing recommended this place. Dr. Cantreau. The insurance was supposed to pay for six weeks.”

“So what happened?”

Cindy Ann shook her head. “I don't know. I guess they just changed their minds.”

“You paid the premium on time?”

“Of course, I did. I did! Mal gave me the money to do it.” Suddenly, Cindy Ann's voice reminded me of Monica's, stretched thin and high with urgency. “Oh, God, she probably thinks I spent it on, on—booze, or—”