The Wild Zone (27 page)

Welcome to the Wild Zone, Will thought.

Proceed at your own risk.

Which I did, he thought with a shake of his head. And was shot down in flames.

Will took a sip of coffee, felt it burn the tip of his tongue. Even that did nothing to diminish the taste of Kristin on his lips. He took another sip, letting it scald the entire cavity of his mouth. Served him right for being such a jerk, he thought, for thinking he could be a stand-in for his brother. His older,
better
brother, he thought bitterly. “What’s the matter with me?” he asked out loud.

What’s the matter with you?
his father had demanded when he’d been suspended from Princeton after the pathetic episode with Amy.

What’s the matter with you?
his mother had echoed.
Who do you think you are, acting like that—your brother?

No chance of that, Will thought now, returning to the living room and grabbing the TV’s remote control from the ottoman as he sank down on the sofa. Kristin’s rejection had proven to him once and for all that he was no substitute for the real thing.

The Chosen One, he scoffed, recalling Jeff and Tom’s derisive nickname for him as a child.

Except if he was truly the chosen one, why were women always choosing someone else?

Someone like Jeff.

He flipped through the channels until he came to a movie starring Clint Eastwood, one of those great old spaghetti westerns where Clint, the Man with No Name, prowled the barren terrain wearing a Mexican serape and a withering squint, not saying much, just shooting anything that got in his way. Will turned the volume down so that the sound of gunfire wouldn’t bother Kristin. No point in disturbing her any more than he had already. Seconds later he watched as Clint raised his gun into the air, smirking with satisfaction as he pointed it directly at his enemy’s head and calmly pulled the trigger.

He thought of Tom’s gun, wondered idly where Kristin had hidden it. He wondered what it would be like to shoot another human being. He fell asleep to the sound of bullets whizzing past his head.

TWENTY-SEVEN

J
EFF
WOKE UP TO
the sound of screaming outside his window.

“Quiet!” a woman yelled immediately. “Joey, stop hitting your sister!”

“She hit me first!”

“Did not. He’s lying.”

“Both of you, stop it. Be quiet. People are still sleeping. Now get in the car.”

The sound of car doors opening and slamming shut. Jeff propped himself up on one elbow and glanced at the clock radio beside his bed, noting that it was barely seven a.m. He sat up, pushing the bedsheets to the floor to join the quilted bedspread he’d kicked off sometime during the night and catching sight of his reflection in the shell-framed mirror over the dresser. I look awful, he thought, wiping the sweat from his bare chest. The heat of the approaching day was already combining with the leftover stuffiness of the night. It was going to be a real scorcher, he thought, climbing out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

He ran the shower, was disappointed to discover that the water pressure was flagging at best, dripping from the showerhead in an uninspired stream. Apparently the motel’s nautical theme didn’t extend to the plumbing, Jeff thought, trying to work some lather out of the thin, round bar of white soap. He positioned himself directly under the showerhead, letting the tepid water drip down his face and into his ears. In the distance, “The Star-Spangled Banner” began to play.

It took Jeff a few seconds to realize it was the sound of his ringtone. Shit, he thought, grabbing a thin white towel and wrapping it around his torso as he raced back into the main room, scrambling to recover his phone from the pocket of his black jeans. “Suzy?” he shouted into the receiver, even before the phone was fully opened.

But the call had already been transferred to voice mail. “Damn it,” he said, slapping his wet thigh with the palm of his hand, silently berating himself for not having taken the phone with him into the bathroom.

“You have one new message,” his voice mail informed him seconds later. “To listen to your message, press one-one.”

Jeff pressed in the numbers, waited for the sound of Suzy’s voice. “Jeff, it’s Ellie,” his sister said instead. “Please call me as soon as you can.”

“Shit.” Jeff threw the phone onto the bed, ran his hand through his wet hair. His stepmother had probably called Ellie to tell her of his surprising late-night visit.
You mean he didn’t call you to tell you he
was in town?
he could almost hear her say as he reached for the phone, his hand freezing in midair. He’d be seeing his sister soon enough, he decided. He’d explain everything then.

Half an hour later he was sitting in McDonald’s, sipping on his second cup of coffee and chewing unenthusiastically on an Egg McMuffin, wondering again what he was doing in Buffalo and repeatedly checking his phone for messages he knew weren’t there. He pushed aside his tray, then crumpled his paper napkin into a ball and let it drop from his fingers to the table, where he watched it unfold like a parachute and float to the floor. He bent over, scooped it up, then smoothed it out, wondering how much more time he could waste before going to the hospital to see his mother. She’s dying, for God’s sake, he told himself. What was he so afraid of? How much more damage could she possibly do?

He glanced toward the window, saw a booth full of teenage girls eating French fries and giggling. One of the girls—curly brown hair, pink button lips, green and white checkered skirt hitched up around her thighs—kept looking his way. He watched as she extricated one of the fries from its red cardboard package and lifted it provocatively to her mouth, pushing it slowly between her lips. If Tom were here, he’d probably bet Jeff on how long it would take him to get his hand up that silly girl’s skirt. Does your mother know what you’re up to? Jeff wondered, staring at the girl until she blushed a deep, embarrassed crimson and turned away. He finished the last of his coffee and pushed himself to his feet. Ultimately, he thought, and almost laughed, it all came down to mothers.

It was after eight o’clock by the time he reached Mercy. The hospital had been constructed in 1911 and looked every one of its almost one hundred years. True, a glass and marble wing had been added to the mustard-yellow brick main building since Jeff had last seen it, but the cream-colored marble was already scarred with graffiti, and the glass was stained with soot and neglect. It looked as tired as he felt, Jeff thought, pushing his feet up the half-dozen front steps as if his legs were encased in cement.

“Can you tell me what room Diane Rydell is in?” Jeff asked the receptionist at the information desk in the middle of the front lobby.

“Room 314,” the woman said without looking up. “Third floor, east wing. Turn right when you get off the elevator.” Without raising her head, she pointed toward a bank of elevators next to a small gift shop down the hall.

“Thank you.” Jeff wondered if he should buy his mother some flowers or maybe a magazine and was glad the gift shop was still closed so he didn’t have to decide. He hadn’t bought her anything since he was a child, he remembered, picturing the bottle of perfume he’d purchased from the drugstore for her birthday one year. He’d saved up his allowance for months to buy the pretty star-shaped bottle, only to watch his mother sniff at it disdainfully, then push it aside. “His father probably helped him pick it out,” he’d heard her complain to one of her friends over the phone later that night. “Smells like one of his whores.”

“Okay, don’t do this,” he muttered into the collar of his black shirt. Not now, he continued silently. He hadn’t come all this way to reopen old wounds. There was nothing either of them could do about the past. It was what it was, and the good thing about the past was that it was over. Yes, his mother had made mistakes. Plenty of them. And maybe it had taken her all her life to realize how wrong she’d been, that it had been cruel and selfish to abandon him, but she realized it now, and she was truly sorry for everything she’d done.
Please forgive me,
he heard her beg, her dying eyes filling with tears of regret.
I love you. I’ve always loved you.

What would he do? Jeff wondered, proceeding cautiously down the hall as if navigating a dense fog. Would he be able to say it back? Would he be able to take her frail hand in his and look into those pleading eyes and lie to her, tell her that yes, despite everything, he loved her, too? Could he do that?

And would it really be a lie?

Jeff found himself holding his breath, as if trying to block out the unpleasant combination of hospital odors, the smell of antiseptic vying for control over the smell of the sick, he thought, as he stepped into a waiting elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. Before the doors could shut, four more people suddenly hurried inside, including a young man whose name tag on his white coat identified him as Dr. Wang. He looks barely out of his teens, Jeff thought, remembering that when he was a little boy, he’d had dreams of becoming a doctor. Maybe with a little encouragement . . . Or maybe not, he decided, remembering he’d also had dreams of becoming a fireman and an acrobat. He released the air in his lungs as the elevator opened onto the third floor, and he stepped out, turning right as he’d been directed and proceeding down the hall until he came to room 314.

He stopped in front of the closed door, trying to gather his thoughts as he looked up and down the empty hall. I should have called Ellie, he was thinking, made arrangements to meet her here. Then they could have gone in together. He wouldn’t have had to face his mother alone.

“Don’t be stupid,” he whispered under his breath. She’s dying, for God’s sake. She can’t hurt you anymore.

He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as he pushed open the door, trying to arrange his features into an impassive mask as he stepped inside the room. “She doesn’t look anything like you remember,” he recalled Ellie telling him during an earlier phone conversation. “You can hardly recognize her anymore. She’s lost so much weight, and her skin is almost transparent.”

Jeff braced himself for what he was about to see, concentrating on a square of vinyl flooring as he tried mustering his strength. Only after several seconds and a few more deep breaths was he able to raise his eyes from the floor.

The bed was empty.

Jeff stood there for a minute, not moving, not sure what to do.

Of course, there’d been a mistake. Either the woman at the front desk had given him the wrong room number, or he’d pushed open the wrong door. But even as he was returning to the hall to check on the room number, even as he was hurrying down the corridor to the nurses’ station, even as he was asking the pretty, dark-skinned nurse to tell him where he could find Diane Rydell, even as he was pondering the highly improbable possibility that Ellie might have registered their mother under another name or taken her to another hospital, he knew that the information he’d been given was correct, that no mistake had been made.

“I’m so sorry,” the nurse was telling him. “Mrs. Rydell passed this morning.”

Passed? Jeff thought. What do you mean, she
passed
? Passed
what
? “What are you saying?” Jeff demanded impatiently, taking an involuntary step back as the true meaning of the euphemism sank in. “You’re saying she died?”

“At around five thirty this morning,” the nurse elaborated, a look of concern flashing through her deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry. You are . . . ?”

“Jeff Rydell.”

“You’re related?”

“I’m her son,” Jeff said quietly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she had a son,” the nurse said.

“I live in Florida,” Jeff told her. “I flew in last night.”

“I’ve met your sister, of course.”

“Ellie. Is she here?” Jeff’s eyes shot down the long corridor.

“She was here earlier. I believe she went home to make some arrangements.”

Jeff suddenly felt his knees buckle, and he grabbed for the counter to keep from falling down.

“Oh, dear,” the nurse said, running around to the front of the station. “Are you all right? Sandra, get me a cup of water. Right now. Here you go,” she said seconds later as she directed Jeff to the nearest chair and lifted a paper cup filled with water to his lips. “Just sip on this. Slowly. How’s that? Are you all right?”

Jeff nodded.

“I guess it’s always a shock,” the nurse was saying. “No matter how old our parents get or how sick they are. We still don’t expect them to die.”

So that’s why Ellie had called him this morning. Not because his stepmother had called her, but because their mother had died. Ellie didn’t even know he was in Buffalo. He jumped to his feet. He had to call her.

“Whoa, steady,” the nurse said, her hand on his elbow, guiding him back to his chair. “I think you should just sit here for a while. Why don’t you let me call your sister, tell her you’re here.”

It was more statement than request, and Jeff felt himself nod his agreement. From his seat against the wall in the hospital corridor, he heard the nurse talking to his sister. “Yes, of course I’m sure. He’s right here in front of me. He seems pretty shaken up,” he thought he heard her say. “Yes, I’ll keep him here until you get here.”

And then his mind went blank. Conscious thoughts were replaced by a series of pictures, as if he were watching a television with the sound turned off. He saw himself as a young boy, walking happily beside his mother, his hand tucked securely inside hers as they went from store to store in a large discount mall. That image was quickly supplanted by another—his mother tenderly combing his hair. And then another—his mother kissing the scrape on his knee after he fell off his new bicycle. One picture after another, cascading like discarded photographs across his line of vision: his mother, young and healthy, laughing and vibrant, loving and attentive.

And then more pictures, tumbling like cards from a well-worn deck: his mother pacing beside the phone and sobbing into her pillow, her hands shooing him away when he tried to comfort her; his mother’s swollen eyes and twisted, angry mouth, refusing the breakfast he’d brought to her bed; his mother, sad and defeated, crying and deflated, impatient and indifferent.

His mother packing his suitcase and sending him away.

“It’s just that he reminds me so much of his father,” Jeff heard her say, as if someone had suddenly turned on the sound of the imaginary TV. “I swear they have the same damn face.”

No, stop it. I’m not my father.

The volume getting louder. “And I can’t help it, but every time I look at him, I just want to strangle him. I know it’s irrational. I know it’s not his fault. But I just can’t stand looking at him.”

No. Please stop.

“I just need some time to myself, to figure out what’s best for me.”

What about what’s best for me?

“What about Ellie?” Jeff heard his younger self ask instead. “Is she going to Daddy’s?”

“No,” his mother replied flatly. “Ellie stays with me.”

“Jeff,” a voice was saying now. “Jeff? Are you all right?”

The TV set in Jeff’s head went suddenly blank.

“Jeff?” the voice said again. Gentle fingers touched his hand.

“Ellie,” Jeff said, his sister’s face coming into focus in front of him. She was crouching in front of him, her face older and fuller than he remembered it, her hair a less flattering shade of blond, her gray-green eyes ringed with red. She was wearing a light blue sleeveless blouse and Jeff noted the freckled flesh that hung loose on the undersides of her arms.

“You should do something about that,” he said absently. There were all sorts of exercises he could recommend.

“Do something about what?”

“What?” he asked, raising his eyes back to her face.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem okay.”

“Just tired.”

“When did you get here?” Ellie asked.

“Last night.”

“Last night! Why didn’t you call me?”

“It was late,” Jeff lied. In truth, he didn’t know why he hadn’t called her. “Maybe I wanted to surprise you.”